Pigeons Tale

This is a confession, an apology and a eulogy. About one week ago, i moved into my new apartment on the first floor and spent the afternoon doing one of my favourite things - watching Hollywood movies dubbed in Hindi. It's an experience as bizarre as watching Alfred Hitchcock in a dress. It's amazing how a bad Hindi dub can completely change the genre of the movie. Titanic becomes a comedy; Transformers becomes a tear-jerker; and Godzilla becomes semi-porn.

As i was enjoying this mind-molesting cinematic experience, i noticed that there were a couple of uninvited guests looking on from their balcony seats. We all know this inappropriate habit of uninvited guests where they make themselves a little too comfortable. Well, these two guests took inappropriateness to a whole new level. They sat in my balcony and engaged in what can only be called an extremely extravagant excretory endeavour. Before you concoct some grotesque imagery, let me clarify that i'm talking about the envy of every crow - pigeons.

Instead of welcoming me to the neighbourhood with cheerful chirps and convivial coos, these pigeons decided to beautify my balcony with such an enormous quantity of faeces that i was fully convinced they had had some Mughlai food for lunch. Enraged by this exhibition of impropriety, i headed towards them like a PMS-ing Chulbul Pandey and shooed them away. By then the pigeons had left their mark. I went back to watching the romantic comedy Schindler's List.

Hardly five minutes had passed when one member of the disgusting duo reappeared. I kept my temper in check believing that he couldn't do further damage since he and his buddy had just taken the dump of the decade. But i learned you should never pigeonhole a pigeon. He started his second innings. I ran towards him armed with a shoo so terrifying a normal bird would've required a trauma counsellor after that.

I headed back inside with the same thought i had during the recent fasting-against-corruption competition: when is this going to end? I took a few deep breaths and tried calming myself down. I had barely touched my chair when the pigeon returned a third time and began round three. If i had a pair of wings and that pigeon's nest address i would have personally gone there and returned the favour. I flailed my limbs at him while summoning all the invectives i knew, prefixing and suffixing them with the word 'pigeon'. But this time i decided i would send the pigeon a message.

I left the balcony fan on.

Let me just start with a solid strong fact
This is not one of those stolid wrong stats
At least twelve times a day they say I’m just too fat
What the hell am I to do? Even my pals shout out ‘Who’s that?’
I’ve tried it all, all the books and the fast diets,
It’s all lies and now it looks like I’m past light,
I’m the heaviest thing and when I worry I get doubly hungry,
I’ll drink the gravy or curry or my tongue just runs dry,
The other day I almost swallowed a plastic orange,
My brother, Jay, stopped me with a drastic low punch,
People find it funny they laugh at my ecstatic slow munch,
Call me names when I’m consuming my fantastic-four lunch,
Burgers, Pizzas, Sandwiches and hot dogs with extra cheese,
These four items I cannot hog but with textbook ease,
Next one please, it’s all I can ever think of, I want to eat it all up,
But in the process I’ve messed it all up,
My friends, they don’t even meet or call up,
They think I’m happier to eat meat or a dollop
Of cream, I just want to scream, trapped in a bad dream,
I thought that they were always in my team,
But it seems like they feel I lack self-esteem,
Please help me, send me at least a single light beam,
Is it such a nasty black spot to be too obese?
Why are they swarming on me like a pack o’ bees?
It’s not my fault that I’ll die for a Mac n Cheese,
I cannot vault my feelings; they come back n tease,
So what do you suggest? Any exercise or diet plans?
Anyway I need some rest, all this text and cries, now I have tight hands,
Hope you reply me by post as soon as possible,
Right now there’s a lamb roast on which I must nibble.

Bucket of Lard, Ohio



Pachas Paisa Replies

At first I was a bit confused what you wanted my help for,
What your bemused friends taunted you to hell for?
Then I saw your concern for your obesity,
Do you take long walks or is it only sitting?
I can understand why you act like a mad-eater,
All the pressure circles you in a yard with no diameter,
Soon I got to know that the matter was a tad serious,
Eating plastic is no better than drinking things bad and spurious,
The solution is not reading books or watching diet programs,
Take a resolution to cut down on your batch of nighttime hams,
Walk everyday for an hour or so, it helps you from head to toe,
You can do it fast or slow, be dedicated and you need to do no more,
Do it now, for long you’ve already waited, no more of woes,
You say you’ll die for a Mac n Cheese, good to see some passion,
Seems to me like you’ll die of a Mac n Cheese, sorry for that slashing,
Losing weight is no magic trick; the excess weight will end you up aging sick,
You’ll always be paging shrinks, paying bills, envisaging greener hills,
And it’ll be harder to stop your friends repeating all the meaner things,
So get it clear that it doesn’t help to eat relentlessly,
You need to sweat it here; you mustn’t accept defeat endlessly,
Keep your mind on it, reduce your grub and stop being a lazy bum,
Don’t just smile this off, Go use a health club or join a gymnasium,
Give it some time, don’t agonize or you’ll be in some coma,
Don’t lose sleep and get bags under eyes like the Simpsons’ Homer,
Remember that the people who hurt are not your friends,
They’re just a worthless bunch who blots your sense,
A friend is one who sees in you the sage and dunce,
A friend is one who stays and not one who runs,
I think you’ll be fine and that’s not a mere hunch,
If all this doesn’t work then I’ll buy you a year’s lunch

Dilemma or Emma..Aak Pachas Paisa #1

I’m faced with what you can call a pet quandary,

Let me also mention that my house is not the best sanctuary,
I saw in a pet shop a cute bird that sang to me,
It repeated a few words then turned its back to me,
I’m confused as to what pet I wish to own,
I need something for company when I’m bushed and alone,
I would buy a puppy but I find dogs a little too bumpy,
Once he grows up he will get all clumpy,
And that is something that gets me all jumpy,
More preference I’d attach to owning some kittens,
But they’ll attack with claws leave me running for mittens,
I even know cases where cat lovers have been cunningly bitten,
I still possess those letters that they have in running hand written,
My pet should be cuddly so I can give it hugs,
Should be clean too, free of fleas and bugs,
I would like to know if I could buy a panda cub,
Will it grab your hand away when you hand the grub?
Fishes are too tiny to be hugged and played with,
I once bought some which my pocket money I paid with,
Soon they kicked the bucket; I sold them to a guy named David,
He was this blind boy that my gay neighbor stayed with,
Are there any other choices that I can fix my focus on?
Perhaps I should search for the joys of a locust zone,
One of my friends suggested I get a plump snake,
I’m afraid I’ll get digested by it like a plum cake,
Another woe if I get pets is all the pee and poop,
I want to hug my pet I don’t want to kneel and scoop,
That’s a level to which I don’t need to stoop,
Maybe I should get some chicks and make me some chicken soup,
Help me fix this; I know this whole thing sounds flaky like chicken poop.


Total Loser, New Delhi.



Pachas Paisa Says


Had to read your letter twice, your dilemma is unique,
I got melted by your cries so I’mma tell you what you need,
If you didn’t fear dogs I’d have suggested getting a pup,
When you sleep off it’ll even help in getting you up,
Size of the dogs seems to bother you,
You despise the fact that they may be all over you,
That’s the price you pay if you want to hug,
Hugs should be given and taken, the dogs don’t intend to bug,
Let’s let the dogs lie, let’s talk now of cats,
You seem to think they are like ghoulish bats,
Waiting for the moment to wave its claws at you,
Hiding in your home so it can closet you,
Most of the cats I’ve seen are harmless creatures,
But the ones you’ve described have some harmful features,
That could very well end you up armless in wheelchairs,
Forget them too if they make you nervous,
Pets are to love us and not to unnerve us,
It won’t work if we feel they don’t deserve us,
Also unlike dogs cats do nothing to serve us,
I’m not sure if you can keep as a pet a panda,
The animal control may suspect a scandal,
And accuse you of being a wildlife vandal,
Totally avoid as pets snakes and insects,
They are things that tend to infect and infest,
Besides I gather you’re looking for something cuddly,
Not something that moves as fast as Jet Li,
Something you can hug but won’t be dying of caresses,
I’m not talking about a group of rhinoceroses,
What you’re missing in your life is a girlfriend,
Assuming it’s not for David that your heart bends,
A sweet girl who’s all fun and party-brained,
And hopefully she’ll be entirely potty-trained

Game Review: Resident Evil 5

Voice acting can decide whether or not a fantasy game-universe can be made believable to the incredulous kind of person who is not so inclined to dive face first into a japanese color-orgy filled to the brim with over-exaggerated dialogue and gay retards with stupid hair. For example, Blood Omen: Legacy of Kain has a great story, we all know it does. But the game play can be pretty frustratingly bad at times, and I some times felt like I was aching my self through a never-ending series of slaughters, just to see some progression in the storyline. But every so often, Kain would give me a smart remark, an item description of an exceptionally vivid nature, or a comment on the foul stench that surrounded him in every city. Had this not been delivered in a good way, I would probably not have immersed myself as much in the story and potentially not realized how fucking awesome it was.

Then you get games like Baten Kaitos, which for the 15 minutes I played it, was like drilling a hole in my ears and then putting it next to a sandblaster, and then having Alanis Morisette do any of her songs on SUNN O)))’s stage sound gear. It was fucking horrendous. I don’t know how else to describe the voices, but they were really. fucking. bad.

There’s also the entire Resident Evil series, suspending that everything about it screams “you’re either a 12 year old girl or a fucking retard if you like this”, and also the fact that I love Yahtzee Croshaw, I was very disappointed by the fact that he never once mentioned how fucking bad the voice acting is in those games. Except maybe with the Villain-With-Throat-Cancer bit. I some times wake up in a cold sweat, the sounds still ringing in my ears, the flat and monotonous “cry” for help: “Leon!” It might as well have been performed by text-to-speech software from the late 90′s.

“Zombies.” She said, as if she was ordering them from a fucking drive through. And I’ve heard more convincing grunts of agony on 8mm amateur pornographic movies. That were fake.

Though I’m pretty sure everything will still suck about Resident Evil, they could at least make the actors sound like they didn’t have to pay to have their names billed on the fucking thing.

Voice acting can mean everything for a cynical realist bastard like me, because I don’t care about flashy swords that much, or the camera angle swooping in to catch a close-up of a particularly sneaky or bloody murder, or the way the bodies drop to the ground after running penis first into hail of birdshot. And I especially don’t give a shit about the fake tension between

teenage-protagonist-with-gay-hair #1 and
teenage-protagonist-named-after-a-German-Nazi-Philosopher-to-better-feign-pseudo-intellectualism-
but-ultimately-just-look-infantile-and-fucking-retarded.

I really don’t care about anything other than PLOT, CHARACTERS AND THEIR DEVELOPMENT, NARRATIVE AND DIALOGUE, unless the game is Crysis or COD4, in which case it might be worth catching that the first looks better than real life and the latter is written by a cynical bastard like myself, and in any case both Crysis and COD4 look great, and have redeeming features beyond eye-candy. And because the narrative and the dialogue should really make up a pretty big bulk of any modern video-game, it’s all the more important that it’s not done by flatulent egos and failed porn actresses who couldn’t make ends meet (harr) just being a fluffer.

Basically what I’m trying to say is, unless Capcom has found a way to perform a miracle, I’ll still hate the Resident Evil Franchise (can anyone say EA strategy) after 5 is released. Even if the voice acting has improved, which I doubt it will have

Fables from Underground

Sensas De Funct, the French (who else would have a two-letter middle name? ) serial killer caught the local bus home and returned to his comparatively (compared to the others who did not cut off people’s heads for the heck of it) cleaner single apartment. He was not empty-handed. But this time it was just the grocery.                 
                 He was a tenant under a landlord who did not tolerate his tenants keeping pets in their apartments. Sensas De Funct, who was not as keen on following the laws as some other people (ones who did not, on Christmas Eve, make Snowmen with actual heads), did more than be insolent to these rigid directives of the landlord. He kept a cat, a salamander and a platypus in his apartment. These animals, much like the heads De Funct collected (he lost interest in stamps very early in his life) and stuffed inside his refrigerator, stayed close to each other (but the animals had better eye contact). But the two groups never met. What Sensas De Funct meant when he said he was having a tête-à-tête or what did he did for divertissement was kept very discreet from his quadrupedal roommates. They were unaware of the fact that their master was a man who did not put roofs over heads but rather heads under their roof.
                 A momentous day arrived when Sensas De Funct’s refrigerator couldn’t accommodate any more heads (be it of humans or cabbage). He decided to proceed and do what any ordinary serial killer faced with such a situation would normally do. He went out shopping for a new refrigerator.
                 Granted a cat, a salamander and a platypus, by no means, made a formidable intelligentsia but inquisitive nature was given by the almighty to all things breathing. Nevertheless, the need for a second refrigerator in the same apartment would awaken the interest of almost anything and anybody. The cat talked to the salamander who talked to the platypus who concurred with the cat’s idea of opening the refrigerator and taking a peep inside.
               After minutes of speculation, calculation and determination (which would bring pride to any creature who defecates in public) the trio joined paws, claws and what else and advanced with their plan. With a degree of teamwork that would put international sportsmen to shame, the odd trinity accomplished their objective. And when they saw what they saw they were shocked out of their furs, scales and everything else. However, very little time did they have to let this “heady” sight sink in as the shock of the quadrupeds were quadrupled on seeing their master stand in front of the door alongside a tall box. He looked at his pets with a wry smile and said, ‘Bonjour Mes amis’. The new refrigerator was very quickly inaugurated.

Moral:¾Curiosity killed the cat and also the salamander and the platypus.

Yea Right :P

Lately I've been wondering what is going go wrong in my life, because everything has just been too fucking perfect. It's not supposed to be like this. If it was, things would be even better. But lately, they have been remarkably above average, and this is more than enough to set off warning signals in my head.

Things are progressing smoothly, I have a new computer, prospects of my own internet connection, a girl I love who understands without saying, money to buy all the necessities and still have enough for a weekend alcohol binge. I don't know, that pretty much covers all the things I need to lead a perfect life. Maybe others see it differently.

Nevertheless, this has been going on for... well too long now, and I'm starting to build up some sensation of suspence as I wait for the inevitable collapse of perfect state. It is bound to happen. Everyone knows this. Perfection can and will collapse on itself, from its inability to evolve. We'll see. When it happens though, I don't want to be around.

Winsome Losesome

“Sin some, win some,
Use some, lose some,
Bet some, get some,
But never let an ad-bum
End up so bent-some.”
                      -Popular Jojo4 song-
 
People often ask me if I know the saga of the old bent man that roams the streets of our historical city, each as decrepit as the other, each retaining vestiges of the imposing figures they once had been. IM Singh was how he introduced himself; ‘I am King’ was what he meant. Perhaps the best few words to describe him would be “Much Admired” despite it being light years away from the truth. That’s because no matter which way you examined him, he had been much mired in the field of advertising for decades, and that’s all that mattered to him.
 
IM  truly epitomized the front page solus ad; stand alone, unarguable, persuasive, assertive. Any lesser being was considered no more than a four page pullout or feature, neither controlling nor intrinsically part of the main stream, but merely a parasitic addenda sharing the same media vehicle. In his mind he was second to none, uninvincible, irrefutably supreme and unparalleled. Unquestionably not only was his word law, he also took vicarious pleasure in coming up with unpopular decisions and rulings in establishing them. He could retain usable information for years on someone without using it. Additionally, he had no qualms about manouvering other people to achieve his objectives; to wit, he was an opportunist, not an impulsive but a calculated one.
 
While on wit, he was rich and well endowed in that department. He could endear himself to the most suspecting and be a  popular epicenter at any gathering with the greatest of ease. He could influence people to go out of their way to prove their loyalty, allegiance and gratitude to him, however hesitantly, just for having touched their lives. A masterful manipulator, a tactical planner and adept executor, he was happiest and most secure in his opulent trappings both at home and away, surrounded by his familiar transparent sycophants and opaque critics. When the time came for him to seriously consider starting his own family, IM had planned his gambit many squares earlier.
 
He had an industrialist friend RRM with a massive budget (organized, people say, by the father-in-law ) that IM did not initially pursue to enhance his social image. What the industrialist did not know was that the adman was in on his gaining sexual favours from the his plain jane’s wife’s sister (who was fed up of RRMs flaccid advances in any ‘case’). The socialite adman harboured no more delays, dropped anchor, distributed the ornate cards and, using his newly found wife Kiran’s influence waltzed off with the account as a bonus. For a while, Kiran was the light of his life, a popular hostess and an able supporter of his schemes. Alas, she was able to bear him just one son Jojo though one dare says IK’s overbearing personality hoped to be borne more !  
 
Over the years, his interest in Kiran waned, overtaken by his resolve to make Jojo an echo of his own personality. Not much was heard of Kiran thereafter, though one is sure she continued to lurk in IM’s shadows. Perhaps she was relegated to the “womb-to-tomb” syndrome adopted by any vibrant society to anyone that does not contribute sizeably to its activities. What misadventure it was for the adman to realize that Jojo could never be as malleable and ductile (like mallards and ducks !?!) as his adheart desired ? IM spared no funds or efforts to afford Jojo the best of education and exposure, but could not shake the romantic core off the latter.  Naturally endowed with good looks, Jojo was infinitely more comfortable with literature, poetry, art and music than IM’s commercial world of punch-lines, adfilms, catchy jingles and misleading statistics; more at home with the occasional pink champagne than a seasonal print campaign. Despite threatening strictures from his father, Jojo’s passion honed in on being quite an accomplished lead guitarist who wrote his own songs, even more so when he organized (reminiscent of his father’s skill) a young group of talented musicians to complete his quartet. Their aspirations to be a successful rock group continued to meet IM’s stony disapproval, but there was scant little the father could do about it. Social pressure detracted him from outright disowning Jojo or evicting him from his house without further provocation; Jojo soft exterior as a contrast to his father enjoyed a more acceptable public persona.
 
Meanwhile, Jojo4 music gained rapid popularity in the city, playing live at many leading watering holes and gaining commercial success that IM tried fervently to distance himself from. Unpreturbed, Jojo soon inducted Nisha, an intelligent, attractive young dancer as part of his music act. The young musician had known her family from earlier days; Nisha’s mother began her secretarial career at IM’s adshop. Jojo and Nisha’s combination on stage was so electric that they brought down the house (IM’s included !) wherever and whenever they performed. After this there was no looking back for Jojo4 – though as time had it, there was not too much to look ahead for, either. The affinity between Jojo and Nisha cemented, nay, became concrete. Sadly, IM viewed this constant albeit melodic display of union of minds and body on a daily basis as a veritable spurning of his ‘superior’ values by his son. Unwittingly goaded to a fitting reaction, he publicly  joshed Jojo to join him in a debate on the morality of  latter day art at the local Country Club, of which he was secretary. Equally fed up of the scathing asides delivered directly at home everyday, Jojo readily agreed. Its often said, in matters of the court, its not the mover or the defendant but only the lawyers that benefit. Setting up this bout was pre-destined, therefore, to entertain society at large rather than settle any issues per se. An evening of interesting banter of great minds therefore ended up as a landmark battle that spawned only losers.
 
IM opened the debate with describing Jojo’s passions as wasteful pursuits encouraging wayward youth to more wayward ways; Jojo countered with accusing his father of befooling consumers and overcharging clients for years, gathering the wrong kind of notes. What’s more, Jojo divulged instances of rip-offs architected by IM. Visibly embarrassed, the adman became excessively personal, straying from the issue, bringing out details of his son’s more laid back life style and lecherous skits of the guitarist’s amorous tryst with Nisha. Inevitably, the atmosphere became explosive with Jojo crucifying IM’s personal and commercial morals, and his shameless misuse and disuse of people. The crowd cheered silently in their heart of hearts, but the die had been cast; IM announced Jojo’s expulsion from his house, the club and resolve to have his contracts stricken from whatever bars and restaurants under IM’s influence. His ire enveloped Nisha whose dancing licence he vowed to revoke with the administration’s collusion. With an illogical vendetta yet unslaked, the rumour spread like wildfire that the adman may well have his son bumped off  - he couldn’t afford to have such a strident voice of dissension in circulation, even if it was a son. Another die was cast – Debt Wish 1. Society remained mute in their disapproval, even though they had secretly admired the fearlessness with which Jojo had lampooned his father. It was unfortunate that many were slated to lose much.
 
Nisha was no less resolute than Jojo, on hearing the rumour she boldly quick-stepped to her beau’s ad-dad with as fearless a Debt Wish 2 alternative; “kill me if you will, I love him still, but won’t love him more, if you let him go” ( a Jojo4 number). Nisha’s mother took up the chorus with “you-owe-me-one” from her halcyon days at the ad-venture, and beseeched the boss she once had beached to spare the lass; she may well be his “Sin some, win some”.Now IM was an astute man not wanting blood on his hands; he was more than familiar with most publications and their owners. Knowing the owner of Walled City News in the next town for being the perverse (and worse) martinet he was, IM made Nisha take a pledge never to contact Jojo or be seen dancing in exchange for a hellish life and employment under the WCN management.
 
Meanwhile, Jojo4 lost music contracts in the city, and considered migrating elsewhere. His pecuniary reserves dwindled. Gyrating Nisha was nowhere to be (scene) located, dyeing his music to a deeper shade of blue. He often sought comfort in the company of his mother, herself a flickering flame, confused twixt the morals and morales of her life. “Use some, lose some”. Branding his father as Nisha’s assassin, he voodoo-dolled the adman, pricking him with needles of barbed lyrics at every chance. He can still be seen love lorn at seedy bars, now reduced to a trio, bleary eyed as a man denied, a single that never cut a single, a living slipped disc. “Bet some, get some, kiss some, miss some”. He lives in a seedy shack and feeds at seedy snacks, hoping to meet Nisha again. Debt Wish 3.
 
And there’s IM. Debt Wish 4. Now a bit bent and gnarled, too aware of his exposure in the War of Words many years ago, but stiffened with ages of self-deception, ages of grandeur – some deserved – some not. A body reinforced with promises, but a mind deflowered – a fervour displayed but an audience unswayed , a wife dismayed and later mislaid and a son more bound with musical chords than familial cords, festooned with notes of wispy melody rather than crispy currency. An iron ad-venturer that went out to conquer and control what ihe could not control, an “event sum that ended up so bent some”. Had he not tried to control destiny, destiny would not have controlled him. Burdened by the debt of a royal spouse for whom he scarcely cared; stooped by the debt of a dancer whose life he snared; smitten by a son he never spared and weighed down by animosities he himself had reared, he continues a broken man – an adman so bentsome.