Domain Maximus

There is nothing that can knock the wind out of your literary sails like a “not as good as usual” comment. Or after everything someone leaves the comment “can do better”. Ugh. Thats an unbearable one.

So I do all I can to serve you the best most wholesome bits of written nonsense daily.

I have a friend here. I send her a copy of whatever I write as soon as I am done and ask her to tell me whether she likes it. (We have an internal instant messaging thing. Sometimes I think it is a little too instant for my liking…) Then I wait with bated breath till she replies with her feedback. Intense moments of tension. It takes the better part of a couple of hours to polish off a post. And all it takes for her is one word to put it all in disarray.

If she says “good” I know I am done for. That means its as funny as genital warts and needs a makeover immediately. I run away for introspection.

However if I get a smiley in return its paydirt time!!! It has tickled all the right spots. I know this one is going to be at least a ten-commenter.

The next question I always is if should I post it. The responses can mean many things:

1. “your wish”: Warning warning, refrain from publication. Will cause drastic loss of fan following.

2. “if it is ready”: Hmm… post is good in spirit… but sucks over all…

3. “post it”: Hit counter will keep turning but no book deal in sight yet…

4. “yeah yeah”: Magnum Opus. Staggering genius. Post it.

And I take whatever she says very seriously. If I post one thing without her approval rest assured the comments will be as cheerful as an overnight vigil. So if you ever think one of the posts is a little icky… well its cos I didn’t listen to her…

Talking of overnight vigils. We’re having our first all night dance party today. Loud music, many dancing people, extreme socializing. I do my bit to level the floor too whenever theres ones happening. Though I do have my cribs about some of the dance moves the public is expected to do.

Now I can do the arms in the air punjabi thing, and the sliding around with elbows stuck to side of body funk thing. But what really irks me is anything which involves moving up and down at the knees. You know that bending backwards, or that cossack type crouching up and down thing. Those I refuse to do whatsoever. Its not that I cant do them. No I can. No seriously I can. But not completely. I can wiggle and shake myself down till my tush is almost on the floor. Then I have a slight problem… I cant come back up again. My knees just can’t pull the rest of me up again. I try very hard… I grunt and pump and try to throw my arms in the air for leverage. (And make it look like some weird punju house fusion dance thing…) But nothing happens. So I give up.

“Moments before left foot of man on right makes curdrice out of the left man’s privates. Chilld looks on in anticipation.”

Its particularly irksome when your dancing with someone (I will not go so far as to say girl or woman. While I may make up facts and distort truth, I will not lie about getting a woman to dance with at IIMA. That remains a thing I hear about but have never seen. Like God. Or women who say “I like a man who can make me laugh” and mean it.) No last year there was a senior guy. We used to do swing a mean leg on weekends. Suddenly half way through the routine he’d start that ridiculous sit down and get up thing. I would just stand there. Waiting for him to be done with that part and then pick up from when he was back to his full length. Was most self-esteem depleting.

Anyone catch the Sweden Italy match yesterday? Italy was without Totti who was suspended for spitting. (In cricket they lick it, spit on it and rub it on their groins and then throw it at someone. But its cool and gentlemanly.) Well the moment of the match was when this happened:

No that is not a life-sized soft toy. That is a normal human being. Yes he can bend that much. Yes he can see the bottom of his foot. And yes he did a score goal.

These are the guys who give us part-time footer players a bad name. These are also the sort of guys who’re just dying to go to a disco and listen to some loud music. So then they can promptly do that ridiculous sit down and stand up thing. While we fat funny people stand around making women laugh for nothing. Dammit.

Okay now if only she would read this and approve this post… Fingers crossed…

Yawn. Have one class today at 4:25 in the evening. So I slept like a log till mid-day, lunched, ran a virus check and here I am. Sorry for not having anything up by morning. There is only so much I will do for no money. (Though I must admit it has been hot in the comments sections… Ladies ladies… one by one…)

Finally got a Dave Barry compendium. The one with him sitting in a pool wearing a suit. And it dissapointed me. Not his writing. The guy is fantabulous. He is my third favorite role model. (After Peter North and Mohanlal…) No what upset me was this blurb from the NY Times on the cover. “Mr. Barry is the funniest man in America and we should encourage him. Buy this book.”

Dammit. If the funniest man in America needs that sort of support, I dont even want to contemplate writing a book. Even if I was the funniest man. I think it just proves the point. People love comedy but wont buy it. I can see someone reading my book at one of those big bookstores and thinking…”Haha.. this guy is funny… how much is this book.. whoa… now where was that “Cannibal Co-eds in Hotpants”..?”

You don’t see “please buy this” blurbs on Penthouse Letters do you?

Talking of blurbs, have you read the ones on any of those Dan Brown books. Good god. It must be an art form in itself. I’m sure there are these entire departments in book companies writing them. And they can make anything sound supercool. Hmm.. lets say they were going to reprint something boring and slow. Like any prescribed textbook at IIMA. Suppose they had to sell telephone directories. The blurbs:

“Staggering character detail. Breathtaking scope and breadth. A magnum opus. Two Thumbs Up…”

“If you like numbers The Chennai Yellowpages is the perfect book for you. Its got millions and more. An all night page-turning addiction. I wont be surprised if this flies off the shelf…”

“Finally the natural successor to the Western Railway Timetable. An inescapable work of research and complexity. Pathbreaking in detail, gut-wrenching in relentless, brilliant suspense…”

“If theres a better work in alphabetic name ordering BUY IT!!!”

“From the best-selling author of the Pharmacies Almanac of India, another formidable work of scholarship. Go on vacation just to read it on the plane…”

Where do I apply to be a blurb writer…?

The idea of being a superhero really tickled my fancy. (Horrid term that, “tickle my fancy”. I can’t think of one part of my body I would call fancy. Well crafted maybe, but not fancy.) But then I sat and thought about various aspects of a superhero’s life. And guess what. I dont think its a bed of roses as it is made out to be.

No I think the superhero would have a pretty ordinary life. In as much as he would hate going to work everyday, and even if he liked it he would have to cope with the wife and family. (For the purpose of analysis let us make up a superhero. Lets call him “Fantabulous MBA-man”.)

Fantabulous MBA-man (FM): Honey, I’m leaving. Will be a little late tonight.

Wife: You listen to me Mr. Fantabulous MBA-man. You promised we’ll go for the childrens’ school play. You better be here by 7.

FM: But theres a meteor heading for earth as we speak. I have to save the world.

Wife: Why cant you save the world tomorrow?

FM: Darling you know as well as I do that Superman is down with the flu and Mega-Nri Mallu-man is gone to native place for his vacation. There is noone else.

Wife: What about Ultra-quick Digestion Man?

FM: He did badly on his last quarter evaluation. HR has transferred him to back office for two months.

Wife: And I bet you’ll be flying around with that scantily clad “ThunderThighsWoman” fighting your pesky meteor…

FM: Darling we have a professional relationship. And besides she doesnt like wearing that but thats all the uniform allowance she gets. Next year I swear she’ll get something better ok…

Wife: Sob sob… you dont care for us anymore. You beat that “Zero Libido Man”, “Mr. Vegetarian” and “Professor Halitosis”… But you dont even once ask whats happening at home and to the children…

FM: Baby, you know I love you. Its the hours and the work. I just dont have energy for anything else. Darling you dont love me anymore?

Wife: I love you. But I need you at home. My man has to be at home…

FM: I swear as soon as I make it to a Grade 2 Superhero I’ll be home a lot more ok. I’ll spend quality time with the children…

Wife: Everyday I look at “Time and Space Distorter Man” and his family and wonder why we cant have the same…

FM: But he can… never mind baby… It’ll all change soon.

Wife: Sob sob… ok…

FM: Babydoll as soon as I get “Horrible Gult Accent Man” trained and ready I should really have a shot at the top. Someday I will be up there with “Perfumed Flatulence Man” and the supreme council. With my own super car, super jet and comic book series.

Wife: bye love and take care…

Evening…

FM: Hello, darling, I have to stay back for a while. HR wants us to fill in our “Weekly Lives Saved” report and budget “Lives saved after unforseen tragedies” for next year.

Wife: That was the last straw Fantabulous MBA-man. If you want me I will be having a few drinks with “Increase Organ Sizes At Will Man”‘s place.

FM: Dammit she cut the phone… Wait a minute… “Increase Organ Size at will Man????!!!”…

See suddenly I dont want that life anymore… I think I’ll just seduce a rich single dowager types with my physique (read body hair) and live for ever in peace and her-money.

P.S. That superhero thing would make a killer sitcom no???

P.P.S. I started Business French classes today. In three months I should have an accent, lose weight and have a goatee. Then I will call myself Pierre… then the comments on the blog should really get wild…

P.P.P.S Days after I get a 1 GB Gmail account, now I have a 1 GB Rediffmail account. What the f@#$ is wrong with the world? What the hell am I? Customer Complaints at ICICI bank???

Just back from my first class… and for the next I have to read a paper called “Differentiating antecedents of organizational commitment”.

Two minutes into the paper I come across this staggering bit of prose:

“The purpose of this paper is to examine the value of March and Simon’s motivational framework in clarifying the relationships between commitment antecedents and the two commitment dimensions. This framework is then used for construct validation of the two-dimensional organizational commitment measure.”

I am sure the author must have cracked his “Written Analysis and Communication” course out of shape. There is no justice in this world.

However I thank god I don’t have to read any of these.

Yesterday while crossing a road in front of the dorm the thought suddenly struck me. Suppose I could control nature. Stop traffic when i wanted to. Life as a super hero would be nice wouldn’t it?

Rest assured as the thoughts develop you all will know first. The next post is either that or a piece called “Brilliant Russian Football”. Both complete fiction of course.

Had brought a few bags of chocolates for the guys here from the gelf… Since all of you guys deserve a little something. Here, have your fill…

Let the good times roll with some Hershey’s Kisses…

Aaaah. I love that song Bin Tere Sanam. When it pumps out of my speakers, as it is now, pure ecstacy. And much nostalgia about my internships in Mumbai. Tremendous track that should be the rage in all our parties this year.

(I have to force myself to sit down and type. My fingers want to snap, my feet want to dance…)

I dance a mean jig for a fat guy. If it wasn’t for the one busted knee I could be in the movies now you know. My busted knee. It was right after CAT. And all for a good cause.

Me and my roomie decided to join a gym. Both of us had to lose weight. We were growing out of pants faster than a P4 hyperthread processor in a jet fighter. (Today is a day for both bad poetry and analogies.) So we joined a gym ten minutes away from home on our Bajaj Sunny.

The first thing I noticed was that not one guy in the gym needed to be there. Lithe bodies pumped iron all around us. I was not one to be humiliated easily. I pushed out my chest, sucked my belly in and warmed up on the cycling machine. I popped one button on my shirt, but the pride was worth it.

I could see myself in the mirror in front. I soon had a fine sweaty sheen on me. I looked down and read off the distance covered. 200 meters. And some 25 calories or some such ridiculous number. I could get my tonsils removed and lose more weight. This was going to be a long day.

Things got awry when I was told to sit down on the floor mat for some hideous abdomen thingies. As I lowered myself down (at my weight words like “quickly squatted” or “nimbly sat” lose meaning) my right knee buckled in a tiny fraction of a centimeter.

Two days later I was at home in a plaster with a medial meniscus tear. While the entire incident was the source of much mirth at the office, the comment that took the cake was the doctor’s. After listening to my story and checking my weight, he pondered for a sec. And said: “You are too heavy to do gym type exercises. You should only visit a gym after you lose weight…” Now I knew where those thin types came from…

That Axe deo thing works by the way. We had to form groups for one of our courses. And I am in a group with four other women. Last time something like that happened was when I ran into a train at Grant Road. And in a hasty rush got into the ladies’ compartment. (A group like that was suicide back in engineering college. You carried all the heavy stuff and handled all the dangerous chemicals.)

Now I have atleast three hours of work to do for class tomorrow. And a football match to watch.

Which reminds me. Greece drew with Spain today. I am surprised Spain didnt lose though. Check out what they had to cope with:

The guy on the left. Won’t launch a thousand ships will he…

(To be sung to the tune of the Byrds classic… from the Forrest Gump soundtrack…)

An Ode to Second Year:

To everything – snore, snore, snore

There is a season – yawn, yawn, yawn

And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to be drunk, a time to pass out

A time to grass, a time to sleep

A time to proxy, a time to heal

A time to laugh, a time to weep

To everything – flirt, flirt, flirt

There is a season – ramp, ramp, ramp

And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to build CV, a time to break down

A time to dance, a time to oops out

A time to cast away clothes

A time to gather (NID) women around

To everything – snore, snore, snore

There is a season – yawn, yawn, yawn

And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time of rum, a time of gin

A time of porn, a time to grin

A time you may bump

A time to not mug

To everything – snore, snore, snore

There is a season – yawn, yawn, yawn

And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to gain weight, a time to lose breath

A time to bunk, a time to screw (facchas)

A time to love, a time to hate

A time of peace, I swear it’s not too late!

Dammit. What a way to start a post. But seldom have I come so close to pulling out all the hair in my head. Everything that could go wrong did. Except for Nistelrooy’s goal. What a beauty I say. One second he is rushing towards goal, and the next moment he is a flaming orange ball of arms and legs. Oh yes and nose and hair. And suddenly its one goal each.

But apart from that contortionist treat my day sucked big time. I am a heavy sleeper. When I was a child my dad used to douse me in cold water to get me to wake up. Thus began a lifelong aversion to water. At that age things get internalised. Cemetaries horrify some people. Some people get freaked by tall places. For me it was aquariums.

Nothing short of “Banshee Screamer” can wake me up in the morning. Now most software thingies dont live upto their name. (Like Sylvia Saint..) My pet peeve being anything that has the words “Easy” or “Simple” in its name. I had Easy CD Creator on my laptop once and tried making copies of music and movies. Got dad to buy me a box of blank CDs from the office. After two days of zealous “Easy CD Creation” I had two small wall mirrors and a car ornament with ribbons through the hole in the centre.

“Banshee Screamer” takes two seconds on average to wake me up. Three if I’d passed out the night before. It emits this shrieking screaming gut-wrenching noise that immediately permeates whetever dream I am seeing then. For instance suddenly Pam Anderson starts singing the Opera. Or it replaces all the creaking noises in my dreams. I wake up in a flash. Cold sweat and all.

But today I woke up before my alarm. Which is possibly the worst thing that can happen to you. You wake up, look around. Thrilled you made it without Banshee. Its lovely to sit in bed with that drowsy just-up feeling isnt it? Not if banshee has a thing or two to shriek about that. One minute I can hear the birds outside, the staccato of the fan, the light flapping of my bed sheet in the fan draft. “Its a wonderful life I think…”

And the suddenly, like a roast chicken flying into a Pure Veg. Saravan Bhavan, Banshee hit the speakers. The shriek ripped through my tranquility. In one fell swoop I leaped across the bed, severely shoved away the phone with the bridge of my nose, catapulted off the table top on my left cheek and thumped the keyboard. The roast chicken made a deft exit. Nistelrooy would have been proud.

And after all that I missed my first class. Six minutes late. Dammit.

I was max peeved. Had breakfast and trundled back to my room.

But the worst was yet to come. My video card device drivers crashed. That too when people had just started sharing stuff on the lan. I spent four hours sitting and reloading everything.

Of course why I lost the drivers was because my smartass antivirus thought one of the dll files was an antivirus. And what does it do after that? Does it tell me, the owner, about it? Does it quarantine the file? Give a test report? No no a million times no. The bloody idiot thing deletes it. Wipes it right off the hard drive. So much for “Simple AntiVirus 6.3″ or some such thing.

All these terminator movies and AI conspiracy theories are crap. Which reminds me of an interesting thing that happened to a roomie in Chennai many moons and one venus transition ago.

It was the month end and we were playing that game again. “Has it been credited in the bank or not” game. I wait outside while he confidently walks up to the local HDFC atm. Roomie was not a man for subtle moves. He bursts into the ATM room, flashes a pearly white one at the lady diligently working at the counter top next to the machine and slips his card in.

The machine whirred once and beeped thrice. Universal machine language for “Time to make expensive repairs. Please call service centre.”

Roomie runs to guard and informs him of the predicament. From outside I can see all three of them through the glass door. They are looking at the machine now. The guard is tugging and pulling at the card slot. Do I see a fist or two raised at my roomie? Is that a sheepish look on his face?

Outside he quietly mounted our Bajaj Sunny.

“Put the card in the wrong way eh?” I ask. My roomie was not the type to give up on a slot just cause it pushed back.

“No no I used it right side up.”

“Then?”

“Nothing yaar leave it…”

“You were inside for fifteen minutes…”

“Leave that. Did you know that the slot can actually take two cards? One over the other..?

“What the ???!!!”

The lady had been writing her account balance down in some book. Roomie shoved in his card with all might. The slot cried foul play. Roomie would stand for no such thing. He was persuasive. He did not notice the utter lack of vacancy in the slot.

Oh and his salary hadnt been credited either.

P.S. I wrote this late night in a daze. And almost missed class again. You guys owe me big time. If I dont see atleast a dozen comments with credit card numbers the refuse will impact the ventilation device.

P.P.S. I got my third term grades today. Despicable. But I think there is a message in it. A subliminal one. I got lowest in “Written Analysis and Communication 2″. Dammit.