Day 1

Day 1, June 23, 2015

By 3am we had successfully failed for 4 straight hours at booking a trip to the concrete jungles of India- Bombay, Delhi and Bangalore.

Anyone who’s ever lived in small town will tell you how suffocating clean air and a peacful life can be.

Bring on the crowd and chaos.

It now reminds me of Balram Halvai’s dream of moving to the big city and wearing a uniform and blowing a silver whistle, the protaganist of a fictional novel The White Tiger, which I began to read on the flight later during the day.

[Wait, I forgot to elucidate the ‘we’ up there.]

Frustrated, we took a bite out of the salami sandwhich my sister had prepared for us.

[That makes it three people. Unless, otherwise specified.]

She was amused by our prdicament. Every now and then she’d walk by the table, pause, look over our shoulders and see the booking page screen stuck in a time warp.

If Nippun had had his way, we’d be trekking in the Himalayas or what people refer to as the outdoors. I, on the other hand, feel otherwise. No cell connectivity, no go.

A compromise has been drawn.

Relieved, we (Nippun, a friend who happens to be a musician and teacher) punched in our itinerary short of 2 weeks. After much deliberation, the flighst were booked, added to Passbook on our iPhones and tucked neatly away under “Trips” in my Cleartrip travel app.


That morning, I not only had to pack my bags but go for my workout and before returning home make a pit stop at the office to pickup the Macbook Pro charger.

Luckily, on my way back home, I recieved a text from GoAir informing me of a 50 minute flight delay due to heavy rains and wind.

With that text, I now had the luxury of covering a few more errands and feeling impressed by GoAir’s courtious service.

No. They don’t pay me to write good shit about them.

You know what, little things make me happy. I think it’s meticulous attention to details that catches my fancy everytime.

Design. Design. Design the tiny experiences. Someone’s got to give a shit and really care. It shows. Trust me.

Tyres inflated, check. Toenails clipped, check.

Nippun arrives in an Uber and we’re off to the airport. Not having to print out a ticket seems so obvious now when only a few years ago, it couldn’t have been imagined.

We’re checked-in (not on Facebook and Foursquare) and waiting for a boarding announcement.

In other news, Nippun hasn’t slept or had anything to eat this morning while adding another absent to his workout calendar. He makes a beeline for the coffee and sandwhich stall.

Spotify numbs me from crying babies and the loud chatter of passengers. I keep telling myself, this moment is not a rehersal to a kindergarten school play.

I love kids in adult bodies only.

I turn to page 46, pull out my left ear piece to make sense of the announcement and look out towards the tarmac. At first, I see grey tones but as I adjust my lense and earpiece, the romantic downpour appears to be trees in the depths waving their arms up in the air like they just don’t care.

The smell of rain, cheap coffee, a pair naked toes and the sight of an aircraft, in the longest time, appear in slow motion towards boarding gate 2 is bliss.

Allow me to better describe “bliss” here.

As the plane made it’s way towards the gate, my chin raised itself by an inch, back straightened to get a better glimpse of the fuselage of this Airbus 320. Only women do this chest out, back straight, flirt-body-innuendo better.

A feeling of awe.

Even upon landing, on the shuttle bus towards the terminal, I’m consumed with plane livery, picking my favourites and drawing mental sketches of how’d they could be designed better.

Turns out the first Uber I book out of the gate belongs to an American-English-accent speaking driver. He requests me to rebook as he’s about to end his shift. Something about white people language… I let him off the hook.

The next Uber took us via SeaLink and Haji Ali, as requested. We arrive opposite to a minimal sign labled ‘Abode’. I striked off the hotel from my “places to visit” mental Foursquare checklist.

We’re greeted to a beautiful lobby…

Guy finds girlfriend’s Backpage post

Rested my laptop, walked out of Starbucks on the corner of Fifth Ave & 49th Street and to my shock/surprise, in the middle of the chaos that is Manhattan -at 6pm- a hot girl (possible part-time model) jumps out of an Uber cab and bolts for the next one.

Seconds later, as the camera pans back to the street, out comes a brownish guy, from the same vehicle. He’s chasing that girl. From the looks of it, his body language tied to a foul mouth, you’d assume they’re fighting over his tiny penis.

Don’t ask me how the tiny penis got into all this. Stay with me, it gets better. I’m back onto my iPhone 5s (Gold) and searching for the closest Fedex Office, as I need to send a pair of shoes to a close friend back home.

Alright, I don’t know how but somehow the generic street noise numbs and I begin to hear the couple yelling foul and, my curious bitch instincts act up, strategically placing me yards away from the aforesaid relationship debacle.

I’m enjoying the yelling and public scene. It’s net neutrality free drama. Here’s where the conversation takes a whole new dimension.

The guy yells out, “I know about your back page listing BITCH!!!”.

*Gulp. A shiver runs down my rectum.

For those who’re naive and innocent unless proven in court, Backpage is where men go to find whores. Most of these girls are foreigners trying to make it into NYC by soliciting their genitals for rent money. Or in other words, these are your conventional strippers/prostitutes gone tech savvy. They are currently developing an app for the Apple watch- abled to send vibrations directly to your cock (fuck the cute hearts).

I can only imagine. Wait. Actually. I can’t imagine what’s going on in this guy’s head on finding the love of his life (who probably slept with him once- minus the head or anal) is fucking Manhattan for cash.

*Here’s a billion dollar idea. Feel free to develop it and send me equity. Paypal/Uber for whores. Fuck you if it exists.

Here’s the thing. NYC is a bit crazy like that. Men and women are casually dating 3-4 people at a time. Imagine the STDs going around. Phew! Phew!

I’m not taking sides here but that dude got fucked over. The moral of the story. If you think you’re getting serious over a chick, search for the brunette with a dimple on her lower abdomen on Backpage.

By the way, shipping a pair of shoes through Fedex is three times the cost of the merchandise. Fuck, right?

How I was caught shoplifting

With nothing on the cards for a sunny Sunday afternoon, my mother announced a trip to the local mall. I was in the 3rd grade that year. A few Nintendo games aside, a toboggan [a long, light, narrow vehicle, typically on runners, used for sliding downhill over snow or ice] sitting beneath boxes of unused stuff in the attic, there wasn’t much I had on my to-do list.

*At the time, internet was in it’s nascent stages. Selfie, Facebook, Twitter and the term “social-media” didn’t exist. Neither did girls-gone-wild.

Within minutes, my mom had my sister and me in the backseat. Window-shopping, eating a Double Big Mac at McDonald’s or the skin-covered chicken at Swiss Chalet and loitering around between toy and sports aisles made for an adventurous evening with my sister and mother.

Post Sears, Wal-Mart and Loblaws, we’d head to Toy’r’us on pleading and begging [which my mom would try and avoid knowing I’d create a scene and embarrass her for not letting me have either Batman figurines or Nintendo games].

For your information, I had, in class one stolen my classmate’s pencil and on my mother’s knowledge of such behaviour received a massive thrashing. Earlier that evening, on interrogation, I had turned blue and come short of an alibi.

*Quick tip if you’re going to attempt and lie through your teeth- mother’s parental instincts can look into the depths of your soul. Tread carefully if you may.

I felt guilty and ashamed that night as if it was the end of me. The next day, I returned the stolen pencil, promising myself to never ever steal or lie again.

But today [the 5th grade], a few years later from the rare-pencil incident, I was at the mall, forgotten of any such behaviour, standing eye-to-eye with a pack of baseball cards. I wanted them so badly [in my defence, all the kids at school were showing off their collection and I badly needed to feel “in” or cool or accepted, I guess].

I had wiped the slate clean only to have it re-written this day. I inched closer towards the rack, eliminating any distance between my chest and the set of cards. I pulled a few packs down in each hand and made a b-line for the bathroom. Clearly, I hadn’t thought this through as I wasn’t a thief or a shoplifter by profession.

I closed the bathroom booth door behind me. As I sat there, with my pants down, staring back at the pack of cards, a trickle of sweat ran down my back.

This was it. The moment of truth. I was going to shoplift these packs of cards. My brain began to work in overdrive, shelling thoughts of getting caught or walking away from the whole episode scot free.

I made up my mind. On quickly unwrapping all the packs, I disposed of the covers in the bin and shoved a fist-full of cards down my underwear. On pulling my pants back on, I could feel the stiff cards poking up against my crotch.

No pain no gain, right.

With all the courage left in me, I walked out of the booth and then the bathroom. I could feel the sweat on my palms as well as an accelerated heart-beat between my chest.

By now, some sweat off my crotch had rubbed up against the cards making them soggy. I suppose a few cards were going to be sacrificed in the process but I didn’t let that worry me then.

On strolling around for a bit, I fixed my stride and found my mother between an aisle for cushion covers and sheers. I made my move and began to walk over towards her, thinking I had successfully gotten away with shoplifting baseball cards. Only a few strides later, two elderly men, in their mid-thirties, cut me off by the perfume section.

I looked up in utter dismay and shock. Fuck. I was caught. Now what? They told me they had been watching me from CCTV cameras. They requested for my parents, and upon seeing unidentified men crossing paths between her son, my mother walked over and listened to the entire episode patiently.

Disappointed by her son’s stupidity, my mom began to apologise and begged the undercover mall security personal to forgive me. She reiterated this was my first time.

*We all know how true that was.

As I watched the sequence of events unfold in dismay, I slowly pulled out the baseball cards from my underwear and handed them over to one of the men without ever raising my head once.

One of the men, closer towards me, got down on a knee, while the other continued to talk to my mom, and with one hand around my elbow told me of the consequences and the fact that I was in so-much trouble. But he was going to let me off this once because he could see that I had been humiliated and shattered forever.

Once the men were gone, my mom looked at me in a way I had never experienced before. It’s a look that I will never forget. It was of momentary-lost-faith and forgiveness and paternal-instincts factor [unable to describe exact emotions].

That evening, we had McDonald’s for dinner and the incident has never been brought up in the last 25 years.

Why smokers have great ideas

albert einstein

First thing first. Yes, I’ve smoked cigarettes. Benson Lights. India Kings. Classic Milds. Gudang Garam. Marlboro Lights. I wasn’t exactly loyal to any one brand or the taste [as compulsive and habitual smokers would have amateurs believe].

Labelled -to my convenience- a social smoker, I would light one after having a couple of drinks (at a party) or at work during “creative brainstorming” sessions, held between floor 16 and 17 -out on the stairs- at the agency.

This, ability to smoke at will, gave me the reassuring feeling of being in control of my sick habit, leaving little room for feelings of addiction creeping up my throat.

It’s safe to assume that almost anyone in advertising, smokes. A sweeping generalised statement would have been “everyone in advertising smokes” but that’s clearly not the case.

Don’t believe me? Go watch an episode of Mad Men. Captured between dialogues is the foreplay of cigarettes. A smoking protagonist is so much better in dialogue delivery than a non-smoker. I bet the director agrees with my angle on the matter.

Look, all I’m saying is that people smoke. You can like it or hate it but it’s happening right now, as we speak- someone out there, working in the creative department of an advertising agency- put a lighter to a cigarette and inhaled every bit of the cancer-inducing smoke.

That said, I’ve come clean now. *Takes a deep breadth. That habit is well behind me, like bell-bottoms or a head full of hair. I’ve been shaving my head for a decade now. You do the maths. It’s my way of combing with stress [pun intended]. *Exhales.

Curious to understand how ideas and smoking work together, I chartered upon a search for answers. That said, non-smokers are also idea-capable people. Sure, they get ideas [which are not as good as the ideas people have who smoke or drink] but, hey, where credit is due, we must oblige.

Hell, I believe geniuses of tremendous creative potential such as Edisson, Picasso, Bethoven, Einstein, Jobs, Ogilvy, Landor & Morisson were all possible smokers and drinkers. They’ve ruled and led the world over decades with world-changing-ideas.

Now, let’s examine this closely. The length and breadth of a cigarette is armoured with the single most powerful concept- a bridge between your inner and outer conscious.

Hear me out. On examining creative folk closely I stumbled upon this powerful idea. During the process of discovery [the constant failures/trials before the eureka] frustration levels climb on failing [before succeeding and changing the world] and can prove difficult leading to stress.

It is during these difficult times great minds would take a timeout by either smoking a cigarette or nursing a glass of hooch. During solitude, they’re not focused on the problem but shutting off. This bridging of their subconscious and conscious mind, unleashes the most powerful answers to problems that have riddled their minds forever.

Eckhart Tole suggests a similar concept. To be enlightened, one must switch off. To shut the process of thinking entirely. To harness the power of the mind. Smoking and drinking did just that for all the great thinkers of the world. It opened the doorway of possibilities and great potential.

For a moment, let’s set aside the common variables- lung cancer, heart problems, bad breadth and the “till-death-do-us-apart” brandished on every box. Draw a comparative of these with the remarkable gifts left behind because of them aiding great men and women.

By that token, I’m not championing ideas being born from smoking or drinking are better. Their noteworthy contribution is in no way palpable to the amount of damage they may have caused over the years. But at the same time, we cannot but ignore the fact that smoking or drinking have contributed, in some ironic way, to the betterment of this world.

The Potty Fountain


Besides death, hunger, poverty, depression, work-related-stress, marriage, monthly instalments and other harsh realities [add any type of ill-activity here] of being alive, everyone must go poop.

What goes in must come out someday, somehow. That said, the form, shape, size, odour and content of poop are subject to the sole proprietor’s gastronomic indulgence.

Brad Pitt poops. Nargis Fakhri poops. Obama poops. Sonam Kapoor poops. She farts too. We all poop. We all fart or have farted once [suggesting you stopped farting and pooping due to your death in which case you’re a ghost reading my blog].

Holy shit balls Batman!

If taken in great stride, pooping can easily dethrone the most pleasurable experience including acts of sex, masturbation and other possible acts of joy [add such acts of “joy” here] on any mantle.

Don’t believe me? Try and recollect memories of rushing back home after a longish journey to shoot a monster load [this means girls too]. Without flinching, it beats the high induced from any substance known to mankind. As per the doctor, nerve endings -in millions- lead to sensation of calm and relief post stages of extreme stress and pressure.

I’m sure you’re nodding, as well as making a mental note, but wondering as to where am I going with all this. Agreeing and accepting to the most natural processes of the human body openly takes guts.

Congratulations. You have aplenty, of gas.

Although, I have you thinking about poop and it’s various faucets, I wish to draw your attention towards one tiny instrument, neglected over the years, hidden beneath the seat.

The water jet

The little water-hose has been washing shit-stained assholes around the globe for over decades. As per experts and findings of various studies conducted around the world, water jets are the “hygienic” alternative to your regular tear and swipe toilet-paper model or the odd bottle and finger. I probably made up the experts and studies bit.

And nobody wants to talk about the water jet. No one. Anyone drawing out plans for a toilet pay all the attention to the seat, it’s size, shape, colour, brand and comfort but the water jet is unable to earn the badge of a supporting actor/actress.

Considering the shape, technically speaking, water jets are actors. Period.

In remote parts of India, even today, pooping means crouching on two [usually out in the open or on a desi-Indian-seat also known as “tatt-ee-yaan” or “leh-tturr-eene” ] and cleaning up involves a single hand stretched behind your back, acting as a lever, pouring water from a bottle or [smaller vessel capable of holding a litre of water] over the butt crack and swiping clean with the fingers of the other hand.

It’s the equivalent of fingering your butt-hole while pouring water over it. Probably best suited to Mexican porn flicks. Remember two girls and a cup?

Eek! Yup, THAT.

Which brings us back to the innumerable advantages of using the water-jet. Hands-fucking-free. For the sake of argument, I’ve divided water-jets in a few broad categories- using functionality, type and after-feeling as my illustrative prerogative.

The prick

On a recent trip to Delhi, I happened to sleep over at a friend’s house [considering hotels are clearly out of the budget for a penny-less blogger like myself], which is where I discovered the prick-like water jet. As I sat there, shooting-the-shit, reading tweets of my iPad [well beyond emptying my load], I realised it was time to swipe the slate clean. With one hand, I carefully placed the iPad on the bathroom sink, balancing the device between a group of toothbrushes and a soap dispenser. With the other hand, I reached for the tap [tucked away towards the back of the seat, in a cubby hole, causing me to shift my balance on one cheek]. To my shock, on loosening the tap, all hell broke lose, as piercing sharp water shot directly at my asshole. For a second, I felt as if I had punctured my asshole beyond repair. In shock and with loss of balance, I panicked and sunk half way into the pot and toppled my iPad, in hope of balancing myself. Luckily, the leather case sustained the iPad’s crash landing on the bathroom floor. By now, water had deflected off my lower back and shot up to the back of my bald head. Luckily, no causalities. Clouded by thoughts of wide-spread embarrassment, I decided to act upon my not-so-routine-pooping incident and pledged to inform my readers.

The balls washer

Commonly found hanging for life in public bathrooms. This water jet has been at the receiving end of various dumb-fucking-asses or it’s a fitting mismatch of water-jet and seat- a lot like marriage. Badly bruised and bent out of shape, and whatever has been left of the poor actor, it sprays 2 inches below your asshole. At this precise angle, only your balls get a washing causing them to shrivel up and you to sink -that wee bit further- into the seat [in hopes to align such water and shit-stained-butt-hole]. This may cause you to get stuck and humiliate yourself as office building security staff pull your ass out as others watch over from behind them with their camera phones. Selfie, anyone?

The cannon

The exact opposite of the prick. The cannon is probably anyone’s worst nightmare. You loosen the tap and there is only one adjustment- super fucking full blast. Water [approximately 6 inches thick] unleashes it’s wrath and obliterates anything in it’s track, including your asshole- eroding any uneven spots [leaving you with a Ken-Barbie-doll butt, no asshole]. Most incidents go unreported due to the sheer embarrassment any individual would be subjected to for losing one’s asshole. The cannon is best equipped to handle a violent riot across the Middle East, possible Godzilla attack or an alien outbreak.

The trickle

As the name suggests, the trickle is typically your perfectly sound water-jet gone dry. What you’re left with is traces of water invisible to the naked eye. You probably forgot to switch on the booster pump [as your parents had instructed you to while they were away on holidays to the Bahamas and didn’t take you along because you failed your board exams] leaving your overhead tank dry and lo behold shit stained asshole. Your only hope for redemption is either having someone from the outside [with the help of Twitter or Facebook or WhatsApp] come to your rescue or gathering the balls to penguin out of the toilet with your pants hanging between your ankles and grab a bottle of water or toilet paper roll. Use your imagination. Amen.

The demon

It’s your average water-jet gone demonic bat-shit crazy. You’re chilling at home with the air-condition set to full blast and a load comes knocking at your rear door. You head to your throne to answer the call of nature and right after letting the tap loose, a gash of boiling water burns your asshole. Bruised, burnt and scarred for life, you are left to live the remainder of your living adult life having to apply ointments up the pooper shoot. Herpes. Fissures. FOREVER. The demon is born by connecting one end of the over-head water tank with the water supply of the jet. During Indian summers, overhead tanks, usually painted black, end up crossing boiling temperature turning God-fearing -Catholic- water jets into the devil’s dick.

The next time you’re in a toilet, lift the seat and pay respect to the water-jet because you never know what evils await your asshole. And if you’ve discovered any unique type of water-jet not mentioned above, please do share it with me and the rest of us glued to our phones while women flash us.

Merry pooping.

Driving without pants

With an arm stretched over and around her head, I was steering my car safely between a lot of parked cars. You can’t help but blame narrow suburban neighbourhood lanes when the other hand has a girl’s ponytail tightly fisted- assisting her stroke your tool like a bionic arm.

*Only hours before, I had picked her up from the hotel, not knowing where the night would lead that evening. Dinner was sharing a bottle of wine and Italian hand made pasta. Three glasses down and I was begging her to let me cup her round butt to which she only blushed and squirmed.

You’re a tool, I told myself. But, it was her idea to taste me even when I had politely refused on her initial request [but at the same time hoped she’d insist and I’d give in looking all cocky]. Something about having a super horny girl give you the I-will-rape-your-dick look that makes your boner go into IRONMAN mode.

It worked. She insisted and, without flinching and while behind the wheel, I was helping her unzip my pants. The feeling of cold leather below my butt only made it harder to focus on the road. I had read and heard stories, but boy does the real thing make everything else seem pedestrian.

Each stroke was of an experienced woman. No teeth. Well, except when she would gently bite the tip. As she sucked, kissed and deep throated my shaft, I couldn’t help but ponder- would she, could she swallow?

I figured since this was my lucky day, why not push my luck? I used the horny-sweet-nothing-sexy-whispering-in-her-ear technique and she only moaned in submission.

Upon reaching a junction near her hotel, I announced my arrival with which she championed my load without leaving a single drop on my pants or her chin. I pulled over, zipped up and dropped her to the hotel. I drove off -elated- in disbelief.

Recalling that night


There I was, nursing a glass of hooch. The batch of cougars by the bar were eyeing my squats-induced-butt. I would, however, partly blame their horny consumption on snooty liquor being had bottomless. I concluded my butt was to women what boobs are to men.

That evening saw sexual innuendos disguised as informal greetings.  Alcohol-excused foreplay become the norm to everyone’s tickle. In other words, boobs and butts were pressed, groped, squished, squashed, pinched and pulled to the fancy of chance. Deprived mates squandered over shorter and younger skirts. In this riot, moral policing meant slipping condoms into the jackets of unidentified folks.

I was busy eyeing this yuppie juggling between cougars and the younger pool- minus the hunter, real lions and a cage. I was craving for his attention all evening. How do I get noticed? Perhaps I could offer him a drink? Nah! Too lame. Armed with the old point-my-butt in direct view I pivoted and reached for the smudge on my shoe.

Harmless flirting ensued as my butt had rescued me from any awkward social banter or having to make the first move and being labelled a slut. We danced, flirted and kissed. We had flown past first-base with remote intentions of slowing down. And before you know it we were back at the hotel, naked under the sheets, finger-feather-fucking, breathing alcohol on each other.

He was able concatenate my fruition using only sexy-soft-nothing-whispers and his index finger. Only if I could have returned the favour that night. Wherever you are, and if you’re reading this, a wet one awaits.

-Anonymous woman.

Dear Reliance Mobile

hello mr. customer care executive.

i’m sure you’re sitting in your happy place, behind a desk, at one of your company’s south end office- possibly lower parel, mumbai -sipping on pedestrian tea made in the pantry on a machine that’s not been cleaned from the time your office was inaugurated.


i wish to thank you and your superb support staff (who you’re working alongside, possibly even poking elbows with one of them right now, unless you’re a senior person throned with a shoe box cubicle. it’s mumbai, even cabins are not the way they used to be) who’ve offered me a trip to your town- mumbai. or atleast a chance to travel to the home circle (mumbai) from where i issued a sim.

let me tell you how i won this amazing opportunity in detail.

so it all began when i was scheduled to travel abroad (dubai) for work and requested your team to activate international roaming.

in the time taken to boil water for a cup of cutting chai your team came back with “there are possible issues with your sim card therefore it will not work in dubai” to which i had little choice and time in reacting sitting at the airport lounge.

on i went to dubai hoping for a resolution on my return.

i’m back in town and take the opportunity to make a b-line for the reliance web world store.

i request your courteous staff for a sim replacement citing obvious issues with it’s connectivity and international disabilities. your man pops the sim, staples it to the sim replacement form and thereby ends the life of that poor old sim.

now, mr. customer care executive, we are in a situation most commonly known as holy-smoking-stink-balls.

Screen Shot 2013-11-01 at 9.50.01 pm

i have no sim which means no longer am i the social princess and all chances of connecting with the world are over. had this been 1936 or possibly had i been the resident of a remote town in himachal pradesh, this wouldn’t have the least bit bothered my health. (reliance nor any other operator apart from bsnl have presence there).

there i was standing at your reliance web world in chandigarh- amputated from my corporate and social commitments. it was sad, really sad. a shooting star might have died. i could smell the stink in the air or it could have been your outlet which hadn’t been invaded by a broom for eons.

however, that’s none of my darn business of what you do with your branded environment. *loud claps to your brand manager.

the solution offered/handed over to me: sir, please fly to mumbai from chandigarh for a sim replacement and that is by the stretch of luck your only solution.

it’s take it or leave it. fly to mumbai or leave reliance services all together.

☛can i pay for you to courier a sim to my home? my billing address is listed under chandigarh? nope. we can’t do that.

☛can i have a friend pickup my sim in mumbai? nope. no no no. you have to go to mumbai and only in person be eligible for a sim replacement.


that sure is an intelligent way of shoveling down my throat a trip to mumbai. now that is my only solution, would you be kind enough to solicit an airline which holds stakes in your company?

kindly also recommend options for sight-seeing and a perhaps we can set a time to meet in person. i’m sure we’ll have a great laugh about all this.

some of us find humour in the pain of others. but maybe i’m over ambitious.

☛let’s do a quick translation:

a) sim replacement should cost in chandigarh: inr.20/-

b) with my situation: cost of tickets to and back from mumbai from chandigarh, local travel, lunch, possible stay if i can’t make it back the same day, a hotel and dinner. (estimated inr.50,000/-)

i wish to thank you once again for taking the time from your excruciatingly busy schedule to enjoy the pain of your loyal customer.

this episode raises a very simple argument:- what is roaming then? how does it benefit a customer if all Reliance Mobile outlets work in isolation within their respective state circles. had the brand manager designed an integrated model this situation would have never arisen.

as a customer travelling to a different state, reliance should be able to offer me a sim card and if they are out of stock, be responsible for arranging one. and the sheer lack of taking responsibility to help a loyal customer is quite a disappointment.

this sim fail also points to how on a larger macro level companies are not at all focused on after-sales and customer retention programs. a brand’s customer experience journey has been left to a bunch of nincompoops as the key focus is, for now and till the time change happens, to sell and only sell.


signing off 9321000044

Dear Indian Women


I wish to congratulate you from the bottom of my heart for your new found self-image. The new Indian woman is liberated, powerful, ballsy, daring, commanding, in-charge, leader of the wolf-pack and most importantly driven by this inner radiance of rebel (so so sexy).

The submarine of sexual revolution under the sea of society has it’s snout peaking out for a glimpse of the sun from deep below. It’s empowering, goose-bump-inducing and down-right the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

Let’s spit into the palm of our hands and shake on it. Gross? How about we squeeze in a tiny hug (a pat on the back, if you may) or a peck on the cheek?

Gross. Weird. No-fucking-way. No strangers please! Indian men are fucking horny perverts. All they can think of is a “chance” [ludicrous assumptions, right fellas?]. I don’t blame your narrow ways ladies. We’ve earned ourselves a notorious reputation of horny apes with dicks for brains.

Hey hey hey. The generalization bandwagon is over here by the flags of male chauvinism. Guys, fellow brothers, come on. We haven’t – exactly – built bridges or even shown remote signs of growing up.

Our past record -together- reflects only super shiny shit stains.

Too many bad things have happened and women have had to resort to the lowest common denominator- a-deep-seated-generalized-view-of-all-men. We’re screwed. Yep. Rock bottom bitches, is where we’re at.

Now what? Ladies, you’ve lost faith. But, as a humble request, don’t lose hope. Hold onto that for the few out here ready to lay down their “Louis Vuitton” shirt on a puddle so you can stride over or take a bullet of calories on the dessert table [whatever rocks your boat].

It’s hot when you play coy.

There. That’s got one eyebrow kissing your forehead and the other locked square with your cheek-bones. For a few, the one’s I’ve congratulated, kissed and hugged, on you go. The rest, sporting crooked facial expressions, stay behind. Have a drink. Relax. You don’t drink? Ok, take a glass of lemonade. There we go. Much better?

Here’s my plea.

If men compliment your eyes, your new shoes, your hair or the fact that you can make us laugh or go weak in the knees or your round-round bum or your athletic body or a beautiful painting you might have made or something you might have written or cooked or built with your very muscular hands and calf-muscles- please don’t take us the wrong way.

We don’t like sandpaper either unless used to smoothen out the rough surfaces. *Genius line. I’m amazing. Alright. Back to the sexist-like rant.

I feel, some of you get way to serious about that stuff in your head. Frankly, we’ve got the attention spans of a kuala bear [or perhaps a bag of Cheetos] and before you calculate the repercussions of our comments, we’re thinking about that slice of pizza on our plate.

Grow up? Why? Do it when you die. Think young.

Consider our cheap, perverse humour spontaneous, in the moment and please [for-God-sake] don’t take it personally. We’re not rapists or certified by the Institute of Molester Fucks. It’s sick. Trust us. We’re disgusted by distasteful acts of persuasion or any forms of illicit humour ourselves.

At the same time, I will say this. Once you ladies get to know us a little bit. The rickshaw of emotions charter directly in sync with the chain and pedals. You begin to get our silly ways, our non-discreet humour, or our love for porn and most of all- the fact that some of us treat you like humans first and women after.

Call it a truce. We’re hear to cheer you up and not get into your pants. Frankly, your pants are way too tight anyways. Peace.

All meaningful relationships begin by letting go


Drop your stinking preachy socks in the laundry, walk the bitch of society in a park of could-care-less [no leashes, please.], sip on a hot cup of calm-the-fuck-down and drop the burden of the bubble-wrap-world off your shoulders.

In other words, free your mind of any preconceived animations of what “are” and “could” be ten-on-ten relationships. No one is perfect. No relationship is perfect.

“Imperfections are the pieces of art you want hanging on the wall of life.”

[The judgemental ship of anal-retentive diaspora sailed and sunk. Gold fishes. No connection. Focus only on your breathing. Watch out for a possible step in the pavement if walking and reading is your swag.]

Perhaps, deep-down-there, we’re looking for bordering romanticism. A companion for life’s free-fall. Is it because we’re afraid of sagging alone, wrinkled in a bedroom of loneliness?

The counter of “better-options” is a wise-crack huddle. Its the longer one of the two, with people waiting to find the right one and are ignorant of what lies before them.

[Refer to section:- One night stands. Masturbation and possible withdrawal symptoms. Would 25 pet camels, a giraffe, a fleet of Porsches, lifetime access to the Playboy mansion (+viagra) and a private suite on the top of Burj Khalifa help?]

*Possible connections may vary in your contract. Porn-stars are exempted.

Fundamentals of existence. Purpose. To be desired and loved. To not die alone. The burning desire of conquering fizzling into a lamp of let-me-live-happy. Agreed, all random and puzzling thoughts. But I promise the dots connect.

[Hey! Look. A giraffe.]

The obvious truth- life is short. What are you going to do? Spend every minute pondering or living? Dreaming helps. Getting married, kids and the innuendo of THAT marathon. Sigh.

What’s real then? Work is a mere part of who we are. Balancing life between those little moments of joy and utter boredom or sadness. Contemplative exile from this over-tuned-media engine reflects blips of truth.


While attention spans are… Facebook poke.

We’re looking for someone to share this incredible journey. The ability of that person in letting go, to cultivate, to raise and to not contain a partner’s passion and dreams.

Playing the role of a canon and pivot leading to empowerment. Additionally. An ocean of breathing space would be pushing your luck but perhaps a sea could be the model for a fine tight rope balance.

Letting the other person be. Loving them for who they are. No manipulation. No terms and conditions. No fine print. In case of fire grab the hose below. The bare and raw truth of your naked thoughts maturing like fine wine.

Take a sip.

[This blog’s origin is an evening of dribbling ideas with an old pal, his take on being married and why one should pursue dreams of becoming a porn-star based in SFO.]

Let's keep it platonic