Such a Roach

Home

I feel the disgust rise within me.
When I see the Roach.
It’s there everywhere.
This insect.
Work, Play, everywhere.
The Roach.

He looks like me, sometimes.
He wants to be like me, I think.
He’s trying, it seems,
To make something good,
For a while.

But then I see,
He’s a Roach.
He prefers to feed
On what I leave behind.
Its just the noise he makes,
Its not a question he asks.
Its not in earnest he sees.
This Roach.

He wants what I have, Okay.
He wants just a piece, I think.
But he wants it all, in time.
Then he wants to stand with his shaking belly in the air.
He’s mastered it all, he says,
He’s got his crown on his weird head,
But dude, we all see you,
Such a Roach.

View original post

Advertisements

AI for the Indian Girl

Home

Screen Shot 2018-01-28 at 8.50.36 PM

The wedding was loud, just like the bride’s makeup, with one too many relatives to avoid.  What Sowyma needed was a blocker, that would automatically seal the mouth of any woman greater than 45 as they approached her, especially with questions of her own mariagge, and why it had no signs of materializing.  But Sowmya would have to make do with what she had.  She adjusted her glasses, and whispered as if to herself, “Anjali, can you tell me the list of hot non-losers at this wedding?” The voice cackled at her ear piece, before Anjali’s sweet Mallu accent flooded her ears “16 long-term possibilities, 4 possible flings, and seven to keep away from.  All seven in the custody of Priya auntie. Safe distance from auntie recommened.” Sowmya grinned. That accent could keep her rolling through this day.

“Ok, show me the nearest Nair available that has something more than…

View original post 595 more words

Why that Bimbo Smart

Home

Bimbo sits a few cubicles away from me at work.  Of course, she’s Indian, probably Punjabi, I dunno, long black locks of hair, luscious lips, and white skin, the works.  The kind of girl who is pretty because she firmly believes and takes enough selfies to prove it.  Obviously, she’s no friend of mine.  Brrr…..I strictly avoid eye contact when she crosses me in the office walkways, my lips lined with barely concealed disgust.  Why?  Because she is shallow, has no ambition beyond her clothes and netting a fancy husband, makes as much noise at the workplace as ten pigeons in heat, and seems to be living it up despite my obvious disgust (which she is clearly not registering).   Meanwhile, I am dying of an occupational ailment, resulting from chronic insecurity and a need to take work till I get my ass-fucked, and then some more.

So recently, I…

View original post 859 more words

Why Hell is an Alumni Group

Home

So some lame-ass in my college gang of 2004 has suddenly decided that it would be an awesome idea to find the phone numbers of 57 other class mates (two dead, may their souls rest in peace away from all social media) and form a whatsapp group. The poor dear has convinced some of his other friends to go through the painful task of collecting all the phone numbers, with the sole intention of forming another whatsapp group that we could all rudely exit from.

But this time, I’m pressing pause on that exit button. And I’m watching the damn ball game. Or very soon, this will escalate into a full blown cocktail party invitation.

There’s the usual two-person conversations that happen with a 58-strong audience.

“Hey Mark. How’s Oregon?”

“Hey Jude. Oregon is amazing. But tell me about Portland. Because I’m sure that the 50 member audience mostly stuck…

View original post 574 more words

An Empty Goan Tale

I had wished they would all go away….and they had.  Every last one of them.

My over-talkative colleagues, my clingy boss, my non-existent boyfriend, my ever-questioning maid, the ever ringing phone, the overflowing mailbox.

And then, with a snap of a finger, someone’s cruel idea of a joke, I was there. I was away. On this island, with not a single human in sight. And a very very hungry stomach.

If I were in a finer mood, I would have seen things differently. I would perhaps have seen the waves thrash on a bed of rocks, spraying fountains of glistening green and frothy white. I would have imagined the sand lying beside it like a well-oiled woman because, in my brighter moods, I pretend I have an imaginative mind.  But the sand did bask in its watery glow, reflecting the silver of the rising sun, the palm trees and the rocks galore. I knew this because I saw it later in the photographs.

pic1

 

For now, my eyes were fixated on a dog. A big scrawny one, with a pink patch on its belly that reminded me of diseases I could catch that would have me barking as wildly as that mad dog. Continue reading

The Public Rape of Salman Khan, and related rape humor

be91d1e7153a2b0791b1fbea1fe3fb2acd1e440d8bdbce43518db4ba5d049d98.jpg

Let me begin with another inappropriate quote from George Carlin “People say you can’t joke about rape.  That rape is not funny.  I say, fuck you….I think it’s hilarious. I can prove it. Picture Porky Pig raping Daisy duck. See? And I know what men are gonna say…Daisy was asking for it.  She was coming onto Porky.  She had tight feathers.  Porky got horny and lost control.  A lot of men talk like that.”

So Salman felt like a raped woman. He feels empathy. Ten points right there.

He got ripped in the boxing ring, his body ached in places he didn’t know could ever feel pain, sobbed like a two-year-old for his mommy as some nonamer Fight-Clubbed him.

He tries to imagine, as per the drug addled capacity of his room-temperate IQ brain….that this was perhaps how a raped woman felt. Continue reading

My Envy – In All Honesty

You know what I can’t stand? Insufferable prick-writers who are probably describing say….an action scene…the two-faced son-of-a-gun who raped your wife and stole your life’s belongings while pretending to be your best friend is on the loose, and you chase him on one of those fancy-named sports cars, with a nine-inch revolver and a backup butcher knife just in case, and suddenly, just as you almost nailed the line-of-sight to shoot the motherfucker’s tires like a piñata annihilated at a five-year-old’s birthday bash, you stop. You gear down your story to screech-halt, no not because you want an urgent pee so that you don’t have to halt in between the brutal head smash that you have planned. But because there is a sunflower field, in full bloom, and you’d probably be OK with it if it was a tear-jerker scene, holding the hands of your dead wife, while the wind blew through her hair, and the salt of your tears mixed with the sweat of your palms, adding further adrenaline to your enraged screams for later, but no…you are just admiring the sunflower field….the hue of the falling sun warms your hardened heart, the dew drops on the leaves are your uncried tears, the fucking cat in the corner is your listlessness personified, everything is oh so sad and whimsical.

And what’s worse, while you, the semi-turned-on reader is now cursing the inappropriately timed tease of the writer, you suddenly notice a few other readers gliding to a gentle pause as they step out of their own literary rides, totally entranced by the copulating sunflower bees as if they were on psychedelic vines dished out by shamans in Peru. You know…. the manicured reader, stepping out of her ride with the refinement of Convent English, her husband is a ‘dear’ even after the three no-good brats masquerading as the ‘Saints’ in hill station-schools, and in every flower that stand together, they see the nuances of writing, the finesse of the technique that awakens the fellowship that drives the bravery of the protagonist, right before he beats the pulp of the bored-to-coma villain who is probably contemplating suicide by ingesting a pound of sunflower seeds than listening to the drivel slushed around.