The doctor's prescription

The board outside the doctor’s cabin read ‘A chocolate a day keeps pain away but brings the weighing machine closer’.  She smiled and entered in.  “How do you manage to do this all the time?” the doctor asked her. She said, “You’re a brat. You just want to do your thing. Remember what my friend said once? You did hear it. Your job is to just pump blood. Let the head do the rest.” “Then why do you give in to me?” the doctor asker her again. She fell silent. There was no answer. There was never an answer to that question. “Now that you’ve given in to me my dear, do as I say to get through this pain”, said the doctor commandingly. “Here’s my prescription for you, follow them for your good”, said the foolish but smart ‘heart-cum-doctor’. Smart because it knows to cover its arse well (ventricles and chambers in this case) for the foolish mistake it had committed. “2 doses of Old Monk minimum every evening for at least 2 months” it dictated. “Step two”, it said- “Listen to hard rock or metal or psychedelic trance or go another extreme; listen to hardcore melancholic Bollywood songs. Cry as much as possible. Now that you’ve cried enough, step three is to splurge on shopping for things that you would never need in future, but will give you temporary happiness. Step four: Party hard. Now come back and cry again. Step five is simple: You have to sleep. Kumbhkaran in our mythology books didn’t sleep eternally just like that. He was heartbroken. This is an inside story. So sleep like nobody is watching.” “Now, repeat these steps over a long period of time”. She stood up and banged the desk in distress. “Oh shut up. First of all you need to see a shrink”, she retorted aggressively. “You prescribe the same thing all the time, it never works”, she said with disgust. “Ha!” laughed the heart sarcastically. “My job is to make your head go bonkers. Now you know shrinks exist for whom” it said. She packed up her things hastily and said, “You’re impossible. I’m leaving”. “Hey, wait up. Where do you think you are going? Who’s going to pay my consultation fees?” it asked. With a tear down her eye, she said wryly, “I’m already paying a hefty price for your mistake, ain’t I you jerk? She wiped her tears and walked out of the heart’s chamber only to come back again someday.

What an idea, sirjee!

“Try crafting it differently”, a phrase most commonly heard in the creative dept. One would stumble upon it like a stone on the road. 22 lines, 7 hours and yet no conclusion. You cannot see breathtaking writing by simply picking up words from a sentence and rearranging it to form a sentence. This ain’t some jigsaw puzzle Mister! This is exactly why I am referring to them as ‘line options’ because they just remain lines at the end of the day. I remember a colleague of mine saying “the writer in me died the day I got into copywriting”.  The thought freaks me out more than a ghost. Yes, there are mind-blowing, hair raising long copy ads and then, there is scam.  Or they’re there on adsoftheworld. Because most great ideas are killed on the operation table like a dear friend rightly put it. It doesn’t take a minute to press the delete button on your keyboard, but it bloody takes hours of passion and love in crafting that line, which you call an ‘option’.  An idea is pure, raw, innocent, excited and needs some nurturing for it to grow. It’s just like a baby. Why use your ego to kill it before it takes shape? It didn’t do any harm to you. Maybe it doesn’t suit your taste, but you are not the Holy Lord of Creativity who is blessed with some divine creative intervention. Even a peon can be creative. Even the sweeper in your office can be creative. All it takes is just a simple thought. Ideally, there should be some public service ad for this theme- Don’t kill ideas with your ego. I don’t want to stick to A for Apple. I don’t want to read the 6ft rulebook. There is life beyond an e-mailer and a banner. Why do the biggies want to scrutinize a full stop, a comma and a font? Give us some space, give us some freedom, have faith in us even if we’re juniors.  Let us flow. Let us fly. We know where to restrict ourselves. On that note then, let me get back to rearranging words from a line and give you another ‘option’ that you will again delete. While you can go back to scam and win that Grand Prix, which I thought was just a formula one race so far. 

One flew over the cuckoo's nest.

So long I had heard of a nail biting finish, never a nail biting start. I don’t know how the end will be. The morning tea tasted different today. The voices around weren’t the usual ones. I wasn’t on the side where I was asked to produce daily job status reports and to do lists. I didn’t have anything on the ‘checklist’. There were cold stares, hesitant smiles and mixed vibrations from all around.  The workstation had posters of some semi nude women and I badly wanted to tell the world I’m straight. The million dollar question, ‘Art or Copy?’ determines your identity. I knew that instant, that I was standing at the entrance of a new world, a new battlefield and the battle is dirty. After a point, my vision does not consider the countless number of people fighting here daily. Some are dead, some are semi dead and some are alive and kicking ass. I would be considered a part of my army only if I killed a few egos, shed some blood and proved my worth.  I still cannot fathom how I landed up here, but this is where I wanted to belong always. There are a zillion questions that are unanswered. It’s day one in the ‘creative’ side. It’s day one at reality.  I don’t know what questions to ask during briefing sessions, because I’ve been the poor good old servicing fella till just a few days back. What would  my first thought be?  I’m still trembling at the thought of thinking. I have to learn to live the superficial life. Gold, silver and bronze are beyond metals now. Butterflies seemed to have made a home for themselves in my tummy over the past couple of days. New faces. Roads that do not lead me to the yellow and white walls anymore.  I feel like a cuckoo’s young one, who has been abandoned by her mother and asked to fend for herself in the real bad world. So here I go, all set in my new shining armour , with a strong shield and a sharp sword and with a hope that my pen turns out to be mightier than the sword. 

The visibly invisible roommate

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a friend who lends its shoulder when you're low
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can cradle you to sleep like a mother's lap
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a tissue paper which soaks up your tears
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
To be a granny who reads out bedtime stories

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be your punching bag when you fight with your folks
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be your audience when you head bang to loud music
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be your rough sheet where you can scribble your math problems on

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can bloom like a flower garden when you romance with your beloved
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be an admirer when you pose for your own photos on your camera phone
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a bar table or your discotheque when you're 3 pegs down with your friends

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a stranger silently listening to you when you're deeply engrossed in your thoughts
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a ring where you have pillow fights with your sibling.

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a cooler when your body is burning 104
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a time machine which takes you back in time when you dig up your vintage photographs n reminisce abt old times
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a 'betting table' where you place high stakes on the Indian cricket team, that sees you cuss at them or sulk in disappointment when Sachin gets out.

Sometimes all you really really need is a bed
That can silently take it all without saying a word
That watches you grow up
That knows you inside out
That is friends with your friends
That is home for your soft toys
That never asks for your attention
A quiet roommate whom we all take for granted.

I'm a bathroom singer.. taintaintadaan!

It’s 12 am and I’m locked in a bathroom.
I ain’t yelling for help, but weaving a song. 
Ooo ooo don’t sing with me, yeah.
I’m a babe on play mode, buttoned my heart on my sleeve.
My hair is messed up, my lipstick’s smudged.
I’m on rock and roll mode, yeah.


I don’t have a guitar or a microphone
Yet I’ve set this stage on fire.
In the mosh pit, is my reflection on the mirror
Hooting, swaying and singing along with me.
The flickering tube light brings blitz to the show.
Splash goes the percussionist.


I’m a singer, dreamer, lover, rebel out on a rage.
It’s a song from one of those photographic memories.
An old classic that is dark, groovy and trippy.
Ooo ooo oo, don’t sing with me, yeah.
I know you’re swaying to my song on the other end of the door.
But it’s an exclusive show and it must go on.


Dance, hum, sing, scream, headbang.
Quiet, There’s a knock on the door.
The concert’s over. Go home fellas.
It’s morning and I come back to this empty stage.
I’ve left behind some tunes & I can still hear them


Today is gonna be a new track.
Come over for the gig, sing along.
You don’t need to be a rockstar to be a singer.
All you need to be is a bathroom singer
On  rock and roll play mode.
Ooo oo, rock and roll, rock and roll..

Here’s my Idli dabba

“6 idlis” for lunch on Tuesday after a peaceful long weekend. It definitely doesn’t sound great for a Tam brahm youngster who’s born and brought up in a cosmopolitan city and is stuck in this identity crisis of ‘being non-tam’  with colleagues and friends, yet forced to be one in her community.  It’s high time Tam moms realize that even if they put custard on it, it will not go down our throats. Every third day is a festival. Every fourth day some prayers and offerings have to be done.  

If the crow is not fed before we sit down to eat, our forefathers souls will be disheartened.  I remember one of my aunt’s pointing out to a crow that sat on our parapet wall daily and saying, ‘This is your grandfather. That’s why he sits here daily”. I don’t remember the expression I gave to that and choose not to.  Life is meticulously planned by them. Day starts at 5.30 am for which they will keep a 5.20 alarm. Read ‘alarum’ (that’s how they pronounce it). 

They won’t touch food before having a bath and reciting ‘gayatri mantras, shiva chants, ganpati’s wife’s prayers (they will create an idol even if there is none like that)’.  If you live in a South Indian co-operative housing society, you have to chant these prayers, because only ‘gods’ can help you. There are social gatherings in the typical ganpati temple, where there are ‘ayappa bhajan groups’, ‘sathya sai baba groups’, ‘bhajanotsavam groups’ (I myself don’t know about this group), ‘shiv parvati bhajan groups’ and many more that cannot be found on facebook.  They do not believe in zodiac birthdays, only ‘star birthdays’.  Typically, your grandparents or mother will ask the temple pandit to do some ‘archana’ (again prayers, offerings, aarti ) for you on your star birthday and what you get in return as ‘prasaad’ is a weird camphor smelling small plastic container having this sweet submerged in oil.  

Everyone is your maternal uncle or maternal aunt, since we address them as ‘maama’ and ‘maami’. Someone in their family has to be a banker. IIM or IIT passed, yet an accountant or a general manager. Every festival begins at 4 am. I remember one such festival, where we are supposed to look at only gold and other riches as soon as we get up, nothing else. Not even your own face. So my mother drags me by my arm from the bed and makes me sit in front of the valuables. What sort of a festival is this?  

Every culture definitely has its pros and cons, but not such mentally harassing ones.  If Tam brahms would rule the world, I’m sure monuments like Leaning Tower of Pisa would be called ‘Shiva Tandavam’ and there would be stories about lord shiva performing one of his dances here and hence the tower stoops. Even if you go to Goa for a vacation, they will hunt for a temple. If you talk to these tamilian oldies their breath will smell of filter coffee.  As much as the non-tam brahm folks love it, I find it unbearable. 

The lungi is not just a lungi. It’s also their towel, their hanky, their tissue and hence it’s pale yellow.  All said and done Idlis cannot be consumed for lunch or dinner. It is a breakfast dish and cannot be an omnipresent one. So, there I donate my idli dabba gleefully to my colleagues as I relish the Gujarati dal bhaati. 

Rafi Vs. Rihanna

 It’s a grey and lazy Sunday morning.  The right side of the room plays ‘Khoya Khoya Chand’ in Mohd. Rafi’s ever melodious and nostalgic voice and the left side of the room plays the same Khoya Khoya Chand in an unknown young female voice with trippy beats. Let’s call it the Rafi room and the trippy room.  The Rafi room folks still listen to ‘cassettes’ (yes they still exist) on a 1988 Sansui player which has a separate A side and a B side. The trippy room person listens to it on a laptop and facebooks on another window. The Rafi room folks sing along with Rafi, while the trippy room person surfs for the lyrics. The Rafi room folks discuss the next investment plan over a cup of tea or jot down their expenses, while the trippy roomer is looking at the next big smart phone over a cup of cappuccino. Mommy dearest is lost in transition and tries hard to grasp a few words from the Rihanna number. Gives up and goes back to the right side of the room, her side. An hour later, she switches on Sun TV, where the VO guys or hosts sound like they can jump out of the TV any moment and gobble us up and the actors look they’ve been carved straight out of charcoal.  The trippy roomer meanwhile downloads ‘Cowboys and Aliens’ even before the film hits the movie screens or buffers a movie on youtube. But the trippy roomer does relish mom’s south Indian delicacies because they’re too lazy to cook for themselves. Their lives are sorted because the ‘Rafi-ans’ had once discussed the trippy roomer’s savings over the same Rafi songs even before Rihanna started singing. So, this is an endless debate.  The trippy roomer does get swayed away sometimes by Rafi’s high notes, the submerged and grainy feel of the 60’s music; however still comes back to Tiesto and Rihanna. Man, the Rafi-ans have 10 more such cassettes to go while the Rihanna playlist is almost over. So, the trippy roomer quietly shuts her door with a smile and comes back to her ‘Rehab’ while Rafi continues to sing ‘Ek Rasta, Do Rahi’ (For those who don't know this song, click on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQBZsY7SJP4  or go to the Rafian side of the room ;-))

6 days before 25.

It’s only when I took a second look at the Pond’s Age Miracle ad on T.V. that I realized and accepted the fact that 25 is not just a whole number. Honestly, so long I’ve never felt it was a big deal to turn 25. Being in advertising, most of the briefs are written for the 18-25 olds. That hit hard. I do not belong the ‘cool’ generation anymore.  You can hide as many of your friends’ marriage posts on facebook, but you can’t escape the fact that you’re just about to enter the danger zone too. The weekend topics start with ‘when do you plan to settle down in life?’ and end with ‘so, when do you plan to settle down in life?’ The marriage proposals happen to be that of Shyamala aunty’s neighbour’s sister in laws’ younger son’s son.  For god’s sake, I cannot think of settling down in life in the next 144 hours. Friends of your age face similar problems too and that’s the topic of discussion over a cup of coffee these days, which seem to have moved from ‘ex boyfriends’ or ‘whom they spent the night with’.  Life Insurance Policies, real estate investments, easy car loan options seem to interest you.  Birthday parties are about quietly enjoying a few drinks and not dancing to head banging music in a disc. Oh yes, you might have graduated to scotch from vodka (mostly in case of men) by now too. If you’re single at 25, it sucks even more. It’s almost like a board that reads ‘DEAD END’. In my case, I’ve to imagine getting married to a healthy, dark, lungi clad, rice gobbler.  You’re supposed to call the plumber or electrician now, while your dad appears engrossed in the newspaper and gives a wry smile as if to say, “It’s your turn now”.  And if you don’t do it, there will be a voice behind you which would say ‘You’re 25. Till when are we supposed to manage things for you?’ You’re supposed to talk about international politics like a student asked to give extempore speech on a podium in front of a huge audience. Move on from T-shirts and torn jeans to something more 25ish. Social functions are a must to attend. Everyone must know how you look, how much you’ve grown, how much you earn, do you even earn, where you work and the priceless look of ‘you’re in advertising because you couldn’t do anything better’ and why their sons or daughters are engineers or doctors drawing this much salary. So, here I am, standing on the edge of 24,scared to bid goodbye to my naïve –ness, my fantasies, my language, my ‘irresponsibilities’ and put an end to the ‘first cut’ of life.  

The blue eyed beauty

I want to lie as still as an unperturbed sea.

Throw a pebble at her from a distance and she’ll strain her eyebrows for a second and compose herself again.

Humans love to cause chaos there like naughty obnoxious kids, yet the sea maintains her cool.

She’s colossal yet can disappear into her own self deep within.

She’s her own music; her tunes might be the same everyday, yet she dances to it without a complaint.

She moves on, comes back and then moves on again.

She’s Brahma, her own creator; she’s Shiva, her own destroyer.

She has so much love that she can pull you in and cradle you in her arms and put you to sleep.

She’ll be your bed when you sleep on her and cover you with her waves, like a cozy blanket.

You can leave your fears, worries and confessions with her; she’ll swallow it down her throat smoothly.

She’s the same today, tomorrow and day after unless you provoke her.

You can be startled at her striking beauty and grace and she’ll blush.

Her soul is so clear and pure that you can look into her right till the end.

She’s random and nobody can own her, so she can sway where she wants to and you can’t question her.

However, you can’t letch at her or try to catch her; she’ll give you a taste of her true anger.

She’s a seductress, a lover, a sinner, a saint and she’s just not ashamed of being naked.

I wish I could lie unperturbed like the sea.

So long then, dear friend.

There’s no god damn doorbell here.

It is cold, dark and hell I’m freezing.

Will you just wake up for god’s sake and let me in?

Damn it! You’ve never left me so cold, numb and in the middle of nowhere.

Ok “I’m sorry”. I know I’ve let you down, so give me one chance to cheer you up.

Remember those good ol’ times when we used to drown ourselves in rum and forget the world?

We stayed in a cozy, bright, innocent and warm place called ‘home’.

We woke up to the sound of rains, smile at the sun and have pillow fights that you always won.

We carried happiness in our purse and never fall short of it now matter how much we spent it.

Our lives were lit up with simple pleasures like colors, the smell of wet mud, the taste of chocolate and by bringing a smile on anyone’s face.

We’ve always enjoyed being on the rollercoaster ride that life put us on.

We rated men in decimals and fractions, never in whole numbers.  Yeah, we were so mad!

Like two peas in a pod, we were inseparable and colorful together.

Then one day, we had this huge spat and you shut the door on me so hard.

I’m so grey without you.  Come back into me. Fill me up with love, color and peace.

Dear soul, you can't be lying dead here in this coffin. 

Don’t leave me here at your door, the name plate reads ‘graveyard’.

Look I’ve bought you your favorite lavender orchids.

There’s no god damn doorbell here.

It is cold, dark and hell I’m freezing. 

Rain, rum and the other side of the world

It’s June and the city has played enough like a bad boy in mud and dirt all through the summer. Mother Nature is annoyed and instructs her son to go take a bath immediately. She turns on the shower and the city bathes in glory like a piece of dirty linen soaked completely in water and taken out. And look how he’s bathing; he’s dancing, singing, jumping in joy like a 2 yr old who is given a good scrub by his mother who also happens to play along with him in the bath tub.

Zooming in to one corner of the city, where everyone is looking up at the photoshoped clouds that have been touched up with a color of grey.  They all know what’s coming and like curious kids running around setting up their stockings for Santa Claus to arrive, they are all ready to welcome the rain with arms wide open.

The wind chimes clanking to the tunes of wind, the sound of sea waves hitting the shores and the cupid-like weather has made alcohol official. So here comes Mr.Old Monk ; a philosopher and one of the best conversationalists ever who has this uncanny ability to make everyone talk.  There’s one more guest for the evening to enhance the celebrations for homecoming of rains-Mr. Neel Dhurendar, the Hookah.  He’s a silent listener, someone who gives slight kicks between intense conversations as if to say, “Hey, I need attention too.”  But he’s a sober, non-interfering, nonchalant guy who likes to be a part of celebrations.

After 3 rounds of talk and party with Mr.Old Monk and Mr.Dhurendar and the rains serving like a perfect background for a still picture, the celebrations get merrier.  People start to sing old hindi songs in a Lata-like or a toad like voice and nobody minds. Everybody sings and hums along.

Well, the alien world can keep calling or fretting like disturbed neighbours yelling at the top of their voices. Because for today, they are the other side of the world that is parchy ; where rum and rain don’t exist to bring back nostalgia, peace, love and togetherness. 

Between the Sunday evening and Monday morning

Your head feels like a cassette on rewind mode. Flashbacks of the 48 good hours play repeatedly like a film that you would love to watch back to back. Procrastination takes over and the film ends abruptly.  Your thoughts swing like a pendulum from yesterday to tomorrow.

There is some part of the Sunday left to make merry, but you suddenly feel like a soldier who is restricted by the boundaries of a Monday.  It’s a war against Monday to guard your Sunday.

The ammunitions that it has are worry bombs, Boss 247, anti-chill mines, tear gas and the aptly put ‘dead-lines’. The commander of Monday, the client, clad in a grungy green terrorizing outfit asks you to show him what you got. You combat it with the best of your Sunday weapons like booze bombs, musical mines and flashy weapons. 

There are cheer missiles from Sunday and tedium missiles from Monday colliding with each other. Your friends give you covering fire to escape thoughts of Monday, by supplying you with alcohol shots.  

After a night long battle, Monday blues take over the Sunday reds.  The Sunday, like a defeated hero, comes back to its territory and prepares itself for another battle coming up next week. 

2 Tiers and 2 Tears

What is wrong if you have two layers of extra skin? Why does the world go berserk about the flab which does not belong to them? What immense pleasure do they derive out of socially commenting on somebody’s double chin or 3 tiers? Even if I had an hourglass figure, the social commenter would anyway keep warning me about not including an extra teaspoon of oil or to take an irresistible second bite of a second sugar coated doughnut.  I don’t want to diet. I don’t want to do those daily morning weird yoga-aasans to get into a svelte shape.

I’m happy with those chubby arms which serve as a pillow to my loved ones, or that double chin that kids love to play with. People forget that if you’re fat, yes fat is the word, you’re also huggable, adorable and more lovable. With that extra cushion comes an extra layer of love which people fail to notice. So what if I’ve grown fat? Will the world collapse with an extra weight of 800 grams? Am I occupying their office chair and making them stand? I’m a harmless, happy-go-lucky, cute lady walking around the office and I’m certainly not throwing that weight around. So as I come back to my workstation, shedding two tears about those two tiers that a jerk heartlessly commented on, I wonder why is it a sin to be fat? Does it make me less competitive? Does it make me less beautiful? Does it make me less athletic? NO.  Then why do such comments matter to me? The truth is, it does. It somewhere hits my self confidence and the way I carry myself.

Yes, I too would like to fit into a Small or a Medium T-shirt. Every time I see ‘Large’ written on my t-shirt, it hurts.  I feel ridiculed. Probably, that’s the time I feel really ‘Small’.  It’s like an arranged marriage, where you’re asked to fall in love with that flab.  As a kid, when I ate all those mom-made delicacies, I didn’t realize that every milligram of sugar I consumed is not adding to just those tiers, but also to my tears.  So all those people with stick figure, you can rave about yourselves; but you will have to live with other shortcomings like- less adorable, less cute, less huggable, and less playable. I’m fat because I have a spare flab made of all your shortcomings.

Canteen wala, please take my order for one cheese toast sandwich, minus the cheese. 

There's still sand on my shoes..

There’s still sand on my shoes and I don’t want to dust it off.

They aren’t fine granules of silica as most of ya’ll see it. They’re memories of togetherness, drunken times, dim orange lights, soft instrumental living room music, times when I had to be shaken out of my thoughts; that are hidden between my toes. It’s like taking home these good times that have added magnificence to life. 

The sand is a vast oversized bed which guarantees peaceful sleep without a pillow. It probably soaks in my worries, fears and negativities as I lay on it. Those thoughts about conquering the world or uncertainties of life are sucked up and every time I get up, I’m a content, light hearted, transformed person. 

I’m either too quiet or too ecstatic on the sand. Mostly quiet, no ecstatic, no quiet. It’s a world of my own where I can be what I want to be. There are no boundaries, no one to watch, no one to direct. I can control the compass or be my own anchor. I can be in love with myself, think I can fly, roll over in the sand, scream my lungs out and the sand just quietly takes it all. It’s a listener, can make you a dreamer and can be your best friend.

As I come back to the hustle bustle of the city life, the mad rush, witness almost-a-stampede to be one step ahead of the other, concrete jungles everywhere, I look at my shoes and see the sand that has calmly nestled itself in the sole of my footwear and probably, my soul as well.

So, there’s still sand on my shoes and I don’t want to dust it off.