The Cute Guys of Supernatural

WARNING: Intensely drooly post ahead, make sure to wipe your screen after reading. If you are into cute guys, you should probably wipe your keyboard too.

Have you seen Supernatural? Have you? HAVE YOU?

NO?!

Then please go jump off the nearest available cliff/building after reading this post.

Anyhoo. Supernatural is a TV series about two brothers who hunt ghosts, demons & their ilk. Shut up, that’s not stupid. If you want believable entertainment, go watch BBC World. And don’t come back here again.

One of the taglines of the series is- “Scary just got sexy.” Why? Well, this is what the brothers look like:

Oh yeah.

Of course, the guys have been cute since the first season, which aired on Star World quite some time ago. So why this post now? Because, this cute silliness is what happened on my TV screen yesterday:

Yes girls, he’s just adorable. And guys, this is what you should look like if you want hot girls clamoring over you, a la the Axe commercials. Yup, those cans of compressed aerosols won’t work, run along and get a plastic surgery done now.

Tintin Tarantino

Hehe. I guess the only reason his mother didn’t name him Tintin, is because Tintin Tarantino sounds a lot more awesome than Quentin Tarantino. And that would have added to the already latent awesomeness in her son, to produce over-awesomeness not suitable for human consumption.

Anywho, it’s this muchacho’s birthday today! Different people watch Tarantino flicks for different reasons. I watch them for the quirky soundtracks. My absolute favorite is Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood, used to VERY good effect here:

Of course, many watch his films for his so-cool-you-don’t-even-understand-it style.

Happy bardday Quentin! Hope those kids behave and stop censoring your movies for screening them on TV, they can just put them at a late-night slot, duh.

Universal Brotherhood of Road Rage

So I recently got a learner's license for driving a car. And dad's car already has wounds to show for it. I mean, if somebody looked at the car, they'd look at the god-awful dent in the side, then at the L board in front, and nod silently, either in empathy or marvelling at their Sherlockian powers of deduction.

It was not my mistake. Of course, that's what every car-trasher probably says, but even dad agrees with me on this, the dent was caused by that stupid $#^%& 's impatience. Probably to keep his appointment with the President of Seychelles, I guess.

But the knowledge that it wasn't my mistake doesn't ease my guilt. My guts still shrink a little looking at that lone dent, on a car which dad has managed to keep spot-free since forever.

And so today I found this forward in my mail:

FW: Road Rage affects us all

These photos are from Thursday, Feb. 17 by someone from Centurion in Pilanesberg game reserve, South Africa The guy in the white Volkswagen was trying to get past the elephant. Sent by dad. Yes, he can be really sweet, when he's not waxing eloquent about my ability to knock down all knock-down-able things in the vicinity.

Poem To A Man

(Picture from ~llparazitell )

I’m not “asking for it”.

I’m a 21 year old single girl,

A child of no more than 10 years,

A middle-aged mother of two.

I like to party sometimes,

Or attend the evening classes

for my professional course,

Or just play in the sun & sand,

ribbons in my hair blowing in the wind.

It’s me, living my life

one step at a time,

Trying to make sense of the world-

Just like you do too.

But life in this world-

In your world?-

often seems like a game

the rules of which

apply only to me.

These rules are not written anywhere.

I come to know of them

only when I break them.

Don’t go out in the dark.

Look sharp, everyone likes a pretty face.

Don’t look “too pretty”.

Don’t smile too much.

Ignore the stares. And the whistles.

Lose weight, no one likes fat women.

And hide that slim figure when you go out.

Don’t get in crowded buses.

Don’t get in a taxi alone at night.

All of this,

just so that you

will not turn around & say,

“She was asking for it.”

I understand these rules

only when I break them.

Or do they break me?

Because none of them apply to YOU.

I have to change my habits,

My likes, my dislikes, my life-

Just because you can’t be responsible

for what you think?

You cannot “man up”

and control your head?

(And you call me the “weaker sex”.)

Keep this up,

And soon I-

Your wife, your colleague,

Your mother, your niece,

Your sister, your best buddy-

Will have a smile

that no longer reaches my eyes.

Is that what you want?

Is that what will make you happy?

Will you stop this game then?

So the next time you see me

Out on the town

having fun with my friends,

Or walking back home at night

hugging my books,

Or swinging on a swing

in a frock and two pigtails,

Or just living my life,

It’s because I hope

and I trust

that you’re not a weak wuss,

that you’re as strong

as they say you are.

I’m not “asking for it”.

Never have, never will.

*Happy Women's Day!*

Song, fast!

Lyrics for a song of mine which I (surprise surprise!) like and finished in (surprise surprise surprise!) a week or two..

You came

I didn't ask

from the blue

in my past

Just like heaven

but for a day or two

I had lost

what you found

in me, without doubt

and your laughter

while the clown looked on.

I choose to lose my mind to what you could have been

Ain't your fault for what I will not see

I could never keep you far

from my thoughts, my heart

I am in the dark

but thanks to you

it doesn't scare me now.

I can now believe in me

scars are there for all to see

I am on my way

not afraid

to feel what I feel.

Wide eyes

your words

maybe, it's a curse to not understand

the truth till it's past me.

I'm scared

no more

you shook the core

of what I hadn't ever believed in.

I'll choose to lose my mind to what you could have been

Ain't your fault for what I will not see

I could never keep you far

from my thoughts, my heart

I am in the dark

but thanks to you

it doesn't scare me now.

I can now believe in me

scars are there for all to see

I am on my way

not afraid

to feel what I feel.

Didn't know the words to this song till you came along

Everything is right in all ways wrong.

A billion hopes..

Wrote this a long time ago, a friend needed help with lyrics for his song..

I hear them all
Deciding where I’m gonna go
Nobody knows it yet
But I’ve made my own road
I’ve heard this world is not
The best place to dream
But I’ll go right ahead
And make them all see.

A billion hopes and
A billion dreams
Everyday I wanna see
How far I can reach.

When the nights are so dark
You don’t know what to do
I can still see the stars
And know I’ll see it through
I won’t close my eyes
To what I can really be
Just ‘cause it’s a high climb
And the fall is really deep
‘Cause when I dream, I dream
It’s the best time of my life
No one to hold me back
I can just soar and fly.

*Picture from baloch1 on pixdaus

*Happy* New Year.

People of Chennai, there's news for you!

Good news: you get a hell of a long weekend for new year's!
Bad news: you see there's this *stormy* little thing called Thane...

:\

Humour & I...

...go back a long way. We are the long-lost siblings, separated at a Kumbh mela many years ago. That's why the first song that I am really proud of (meaning I don't wince when someone listens to it in my presence) is this:

This has nothing to do with the current state of my hair. I have had no problem in that department thanks to my parents' genes. The only care I take for my hair is letting them be, with just a trim here & there. They flourish best when no hair products are hoisted on to them.

But recently, this indifference was broken by a slyly crafted shampoo/conditioner ad (I don't know what it was), which convinced me that my hair wasn't "long, beautiful, shiny" enough, and the only way I could get the said attributes was by buying the product.

This song came to me while I was standing in the mall, staring at rows upon rows of "hair stuff", wondering what exactly I was doing there.

And I didn't buy anything.

Fuel-proof Senility

"..And let's look at the headlines this morning once again : the government has decided to raise the price of petrol by Rs.20 and that of.. "

Mr. Kantilal shut off the TV in disgust, wishing he could jump to his feet and stomp off on a protest on the street, as in the days of yore. Instead, he slowly stretched his feet, grabbed hold of his walking stick and crawled off the sofa.

“Where do they think the money is going to come from… do we all have trees shedding money in our backyards?.. when will they ever…”

Mrs. Kantilal tried to ignore the grumblings as long as she could. These days, there was no telling what could set him off.

“… hell with all the administration!... every time they find some or the other excuse to munch on my pension…”

Finally, when even the traffic on the road could not drown his voice, she came to the drawing room to find him shuffling up and down, muttering to himself (but loud enough to wake Moti downstairs, the poor animal.)

“What happened? Don’t get excited, you’ll only aggravate your knees.”

“How is one supposed to sit still? That’s what they want- that we sit in our chairs and quietly take whatever nonsense they dole out! But not me- I have to do something.. I will do something about it.. you just wait and see..”

He started limping towards their backyard, with the garage keys in his hand. Mrs. Kantilal was not worried- even if he started day-dreaming again, he could not open the big metal shutter. He would probably sit there till his temper cooled down.

“Madam, where do we keep our buckets?...”

Mrs. Kantilal sighed. Of course the painters had to come today, when the hubby was throwing a tantrum and she was the only one left to supervise.

“Yes.. you over there- don’t touch that corner until I tell… and these buckets need to be moved…”

The painters, like all thoroughly professional contractors, had a thousand requirements and a million questions. Mrs. Kantilal’s day was spent running around the house, attending to their queries about the colors and supervising their work. She hardly noticed the time till her daughter came home.

“Ma, I’m home!”

“Swati, don’t stand in the hall, go and change quickly… Mrs. Reddy brought some dhoklas today.. they are in the kitchen if you want, but I suggest you taste some before helping yourself..”

“Ma, where is dad? I don’t see him anywhere?..”

Mrs. Kantilal groaned. She had been blissfully ignorant for a few hours that there was a child in the house, who had again missed his 4.15 medicine dose.

“He’s there in the garage… must have fallen asleep… wait, let me come wake up the old man…”

As she was nearing the backyard door, she thought she heard someone neigh, like a horse. “Oh God! Has he started talking in his sleep again? I’ll have to ask Bhola to get some cotton wool for my ears…”

She opened the door and screamed. Swati came running, “What happened, ma? I thought I heard you- What’s this?!”

Mrs. Kantilal had not heard a horse neigh. It was a bleat. The bleating of two goats. Pristine white goats. Standing in their backyard, munching on the pride of her garden, the sweet peas.

“What in God’s name happened here? How did these two goats come into our house? Since when have you been sleeping? What’s with all this rope? And this… isn’t this Swati’s toy car? The one she rode when she was little? All these half-eaten carrots.. did the goats do this?? I wanted to make Gajar ka Halwa for Swati.. I told you your father is going senile… look at all this mess!”

Mr. Kantilal sat up blinking, looking thoroughly confused. He had been working on a prototype for a car that would not need any petrol… Yes, that was what he was doing… before he fell asleep… “Where’s the cart I had designed? And the automatically-driven engines? There were two of them, white in color… all they needed for fuel was carrots.. I don’t know where these goats came from!.. who took my engines?.. ”

I wrote this as an entry for the Fiat Indiblogger contest.

ANOTHER bus ride

One would think govt buses are the most entertaining places in the world, considering that I am inspired to write another post about bus rides. Maybe it is the Mother Nature's way of propagating Her agenda to reduce pollution and get everyone to catch a bus... So here are a few more regulars I notice among my co-passengers, apart from my last post:

-   The avid music buff who HAS to display his impeccable taste by playing Reshammiya's latest hits on his      mobile phone armed with impossibly loud amplifiers

- The lady armed with what looks like two truckloads of vegetables. Any whisper of a sign from the conductor about paying extra for luggage will promptly be stopped in its tracks by a basilisk stare worthy of making Rajnikanth suffer from self-esteem issues

- The Spitter : Look left, look right, aim, shoot!

- Man Sitting Behind The Spitter : The expression he gives to The Spitter is worthy of putting him in serious contention for the Award for Best Villain (what else is the Filmfare award for "Best Actor in a Negative Role"?)


- The Marwadi businessman on phone, who happens to cause great chagrin to all owners of ears within an approximate 50-mile radius from him

The list could go on and on, but I need to record this incident that happened today for posterity purposes, lest it gets lost in the distant recesses (and nooks and crannies and lofts etc) of my mind. The bus I rode today happened to host an almost-pass-out-drunkard (this in the high and dry Gujarat), which, when brought to his notice, did not go down very well with the conductor, because as  he had accurately deduced, the man had spent his last paisa on liquor and was trying to ride for free. After telling the drunk man exactly what he thought of his entire khandaan, the conductor stopped the bus and started to kick him out. The drunkard probably realised he was too drunk to give a fitting reply, and instead nicked the conductor's ticket punching machine and ran off with him in hot pursuit. The conductor didn't take long to come back with his machine, which was probably as well, for people were starting to sprain their necks and fall off their seats in their attempt to follow the proceedings to the last gaali.

Duration : Approx. 8 minutes.
Entertainment value : About 1200% paisa vasool on the Rs.5 bus ticket.

Re-public Day

Today, while riding on the bus back home (in a state of deep shallow stupor) I suddenly remembered: Holy schmoly, it’s Republic Day tomorrow (yes, I think in terms of holy-schmoly too). Immensely satisfied with this piece of remembrance (not totally unaffected by the fact that it meant a holiday), my eyes, for some unfathomable reason, began a scrutiny of all my co-passengers.

-         The (probably) newlywed Marathi couple, with the man pointing out landmarks  from the bus window to his wife.

-         The 3 college girls sitting on a seat meant for two, chattering away to eternity,

-         The poor labourer-couple, for some reason swathed in clothes exceeding the demands of the climate, quiet throughout the journey

-         The conductor, seemingly suffering from a split personality disorder- he kept oscillating from a jovial “chalo tikkat - lal-peeli-khatti-meethi” (he equates the tickets with children’s candies) to an angry/aggressive “Agad khasso ne!” (Keep moving forward, people!)

-         The twin girls hanging on to their mom’s dupatta- the mom is super-vexed she can’t find a place to sit, while the twins are clearly enjoying dancing all over the place every time the bus stops or starts

-         No old people were standing today- had people been offering seats while I was- er- catching my forty winks? (I mean to imply nothing, but every time I’ve seen someone offering a seat to an elderly person, it has always been a girl, myself included)

-         The Gujarati mega-clan- some sitting and some standing- cracking jokes with each other and smiling at everyone in general

-         The gaggle of school kids, trying to confuse the conductor and trick him into taking less money from them.

Yes, I’d rather take a bus than hire a rick or *shudder* ride a vehicle any day. It saves the environment too.

Still can’t think how the above observations are related to Republic Day.

Whatever.

Happy Republic Day!

Boo hoo!

It's that time of the year again.. people mind their own business with a somber face, the air reeks of failed expectations.. CA results. This poem is dedicated to all my student-friends who, at some point, have encountered results blasphemously against their expectations (and that, if you notice, makes pretty much all of us).

Disappointment is…

Bitter tears in your eyes,
not easy to walk by.
That sinking feeling in you,
the heralder of the blues.
The time when you doubt
if dreams are things
you should live without.
It shows you
forks in roads
where there are none.

Disappointment is what you gotta earn
if you want to pay the price to learn.

Contract for Inspiration

Our experience with contractors hasn't been a very nice affair. Especially those hired to do our house for us. Especially the first contractor to do our Mumbai home. In fact, it is a taboo to mention him at our home- mom would wince at anything to do with him. The reason, of course, is age-old. Inferior quality of work, bad materials used, zero reliability.. meh, you don't need to hear it from me. What you do need to read, however, is this poem I had written at that extremely testing time, inspired by the extremely testing situation of living in a house that wasn't holding up too well against the monsoons. Yes, you do need to see this. Or maybe not.

Polly, Polly, what have you done,
You made a house of wood & gum!
You plugged the holes with cork & slime,
And covered it up with paper that shined.
It is all fine if it’s made for you,
But alas! That is not quite true.
You are much too smart for things like that,
So instead of using your bat
To break it all up after the game,
You kept it all, just the same.

So when a gentleman came to you once,
To fix his home, mend his fence,
You said, “Why, I can do better,
I’ll show what will make you happier!”
And with all the smartness of a mouse,
With a flourish you showed him the house.
It was covered all over with paper that shines,
So he couldn’t see the cork & the slime.
His downfall came when he believed
The house was just the perfect dream,
That, for him, had come true.

But never after that, was a moment for him,
When he could just sit all day & dream.
The house leaked, the house burnt,
It did everything a house shouldn’t.
All the time, the man rushed around,
Cause in this house that seemed so sound,
There was much to fix, much to build again.

So then he looked all over for Polly,
To return the house, fix his folly.
But you were nowhere to be found,
Along with his hundred thousand pounds!

World's gonna end? Hope so.

It's amazing how cavalier our reaction is to something so immediate and damning as environmental destruction. And as much as 2012 might be.. urr.. ahem.. a little over the top, it is again a reminder of what awaits us (sort of). And since nothing is going to stop that from happenning to us (unless Obama, Wen and others get a true brainwave), I did some thinking around as to how the world might end..

Whispers had abounded far and wide
For years about an impending divide,
That’ll end the world as we knew,
And pave way for a dawn new.
That we were greedy beyond our means,
Was a given fact, to all it seemed,
But while some hurried to right the wrongs,
Others grimaced, and carried on.

It was exactly this, that became our undoing.

For the wrongs were too many,
Efforts too less,
To stop Nature’s fury,
And clear the mess.
The judgment came in the tiniest way-
A virus which was starting to make
Millions everywhere morose and weak,
Whether woman or man, poor or rich.
It struck anyone, without reason or rhyme,
Choosing its victims scores at a time.
Scientists were baffled, confused, defeated,
“It is invincible!”- they all conceded.
For the virus was, our own creation,
Born from our filth and our pollution.
This phantom, leaving no trace behind,
Delivered the blow of the worst kind,
People fell at its feet by thousands,
Those left behind prayed to the heavens.
Yet in all this confusion and melee,
Some enlightened souls could see,
We had no choice, it was too late-
Disregard for nature had sealed our fate.
Now, in this quiet, as God’s creatures
Live together in peace under the sun,
He revels in the peace and calm,
Relieved, justice is finally done.

Haven't named it yet. But 2012 sounds good, if not hopeful.

Poor Humpty.

Uhh, okay. One of those days when I log in unthinkingly and what follows is.. *shifts feet and looks around, not knowing what to do*
So I ruminate a lot, and throw up whatever I can.

Humpty Dumpty sat on wall,
He wanted to see the world,
His wish that was all.
In the big wide world
he could see beyond,
He wanted to make something
and call it his own.
But all the King's horsemen
would not let this be,
In a kingdom like this
nobody should dream.
They tugged him and pulled him,
down the wall, through the dirt,
His head started to swim
they gave a nod curt.
Poor Humpty was dismayed-
he was broken into pieces!
He raised his head to wail,
But suddenly he could see clear,
Through his tears-
The horsemen were broken too!
And so in his 'pieceful' kingdom
forever the King ruled.

Rahman, Slumdog & Co

Slumdog Millionaire has won 8 Oscars. Reams of articles have been written about it. And I feel obliged to join the bandwagon, especially since I am an Indian. So here's what I feel about this phenomenon that has flooded at least 4 full pages of my newspaper today (and that's just the main section.)

1) Seriously overhyped. It's an English movie directed by a British director, that has won recognition at an awards ceremony meant for English movies. But the people behind Oscars should be giving out marketing lessons on how to convert such a niche award (globally speaking) to something which has captivated the hearts of people worldover, more so in India.

2) It is NOT an Indian movie. Yet the media here seems to be touting it as such. True, the cast and the technical crew might be made up of Indians, but it is strictly a foreign production.

3) I, as an Indian, am not offended by the content shown in the film. Everything shown in it does exist, from poverty, to filth, to communal riots, yes- it's all true. In fact, an Indian film, Traffic Signal, too had a similar subject central to it's plot (No wonders that didn't have full frontpages dedicated to it). The one-sided depiction of India might be criticized, but there is something called creative liberty.

4) I will not point fingers at our film industry, to ask how come a foreign director made a film on our country and won Oscars for it while none of the people here could. Firstly, the credentials of the Oscars as the ultimate recognition for any movie in the world is questionable. Also, it seems since the film was made through a Westerner's perspective, it appealed to the Western audiences. It is something like a war movie made on the middle Eastern countries, or a human rights movies made in Africa- it caters to the Western cliches. Personally, for me the film didn't work, nor does it seem to have set the box offices on fire here.

5) What it has done, is given recognition to people outside Hollywood, which I think is commendable.

6) Finally, I don't think Jai Ho! is Rahman's finest song. There are scores of songs he has made, which are much better than this. Of course, I am happy for the international recognition he is getting now, but we've been calling him the Mozart of Madras much before Jai Ho went from being political party workers' favorite words to a mainstream refrain. Some of my favourites are Azeemoshaan Shahenshah (Jodha Akbar), Jungle mein bole (Taal) and Yun hi chalaa (Swades). My current fav, of course, is from Ghajini:

Your little christmas thriller..

Guess what I came across as I flipped through channels on a particularly boring Sunday evening? 1920- that flick made by someone, starring someone, which was screened in only a few some-some theatres, resulting in me never having heard of it. But surprise surprise!


The film is the same old thriller- a newly wed couple comes to a palatial home, to live in it and eventually break it and build a hotel. But there is something very strange and mysterious about the place- two previous owners have died under questionable circumstances (plus, it gives you the creeps!).


The movie gets its name from the fact that it is set in India during that period. Nice camera-work on present-day England to pass it off as India of that time. The film has everything that a film of this genre should have- sprawling and lonely mansion, isolation, bleak surroundings, maximum night-time scenes, (a weakish plot), but also something more. Granted that the exorcism part may hint it's a rip-off from the many Hollywood flicks of the genre, but what the heck, its a good watch, and WILL give you the goosebumps when you got to bed after watching it.

Merry Christmas folks!

Toothpaste Gyaan

Here's some highly classified info, capable of changing the very essence of your mornings..

Research has shown that buying a smaller sized toothpaste tube might be more feasible than the normal family-sized packs we usually buy. A big tube also has a bigger opening, which means more toothpaste comes out in each squeeze, as compared to smaller packs with smaller openings. Thus, while it might seem you are saving by buying double the quantity at a discounted amount, in reality it might not be worth it.

Awesome, eh?

Jamshedpur Chainsaw Massacre

Wow. There is market for slasher flicks in India.

And I don't mean Bollywood b-graders which show the killer's hand with a knife in the foreground and a whimpering victim in focus, and then cut to the killer's face sprayed with blood. I mean hardcore, gut-wrenching movies, showing beyond multiplex theatres filled with teenagers.

Manish suddenly announced today at lunchtime in the office that he had loaded a really cool movie in his N73, and I had to check it out. Of course it was called Wrong Turn 2. I sensed the obvious and declined the chance to throw up my dal-roti. But my warnings to the others only made them more curious. Fools, I thought.

But no, no one insisted on the movie being stopped- within 5 minutes Manish's phone was the cynosure of all eyes, including our Marathi-speaking peon. Only yours truly was trying hard to ignore the splash-gush-splurge sounds from the phone by turning her i-Pod the loudest she could.

No after-effects or curdpools after half an hour of the film. Only this from the peon: " Chi-chi.. as if Bush wasn't enough, they have such freaks in Amreeca. "

Moving on

Ugghh. We are shifting house again. And as bohemian as I might be in my dressing sense, moving to another place still sucks. Even after I've been through it so many times. There was when I left Delhi- my classmates gave me a huge handmade farewell card with all their names in it (I couldn't bear throwing it away even after it was yellowing and all torn up, sob). Then I moved from Patna, where I promised to mail my best friend- a promise made by the laziest kid in the world.
And now this. Gosh, the things I'm gonna miss... coming back to lush green gardens after spending the whole day in the grime outside and travelling in trains, hearing the neighbour's kid go Moooommm when her brother teases her (so that it can be heard till 3 floors down), watching the lady living in the topmost floor walk her adorable dog in a banarasi saree and full make-up, joking about the kid MF Hussain of our colony (he hates wearing his slippers), meeting one of the baby sisters living on first floor and wondering if she's Golu or Molu...
It's amazing how suddenly I can't see anything bad about this place ;)