Romantic or retard


You are heartbroken. Again! Like seriously? Again? How can one person get his heart broken so many times? How is that even statistically possible? And yet here we are! You convinced yourself it was different this time. You were sure you had found your soulmate. You were going to make it work this time, you were sure of it! It just felt perfect, different, like it was meant to be. And you ran with it. Of course you did. Like  you have a hundred times before. And it was glorious. It was beautiful. It was passionate, all-consuming. It hurt, but it hurt so good. It had to be true, because it can hurt so much only when it is true, right ? right! Continue reading

Imran and his internet friends

internet friends.jpg

Imran ordered his coffee. He watched as the barista topped it with hazelnut crème and Irish liquer and chocolate chips and cookie crumbs and whole oreo biscuits, until it was no longer a coffee but a dessert. He sighed and wondered since when coffee had become a part of a seven course meal. “Would you like some marshmallows with that?” the barista asked him with fake enthusiasm. Imran politely declined, paid for it and sat down at his favorite table facing the door of the overpriced café.

Imran opened his laptop and pretended to be working on his term paper. But he knew that was not why he was really here. He kept glancing up at the clock once in a while. At exactly the right time, like clockwork she entered the café. Imran’s heart began to race. She ordered her usual hot coffee with mint liquer and chocolate sauce. Its unique aroma wafted through the café and Imran heard violins playing in the air. She took her coffee and sat at a table that afforded Imran a clear view of her sunlit face.  If this were a fairytale she would be his princess. And he had spent a lot of time gathering intel on the operation. Now it was time to act.

I am going to talk to her today! Imran thought to himself, I just need some courage. And so Imran turned to his internet friends. He first spoke to the book of a thousand faces. He asked the book if it knew anything about her. Continue reading

Happy Birthday Old Chum


Henry is rudely awakened from a wonderful dream. He was just about to score with the hot new web page designer, in the boss’s office too, when his mobile phone rang unceremoniously. He can tell by the ring tone, the theme song of Darth Vader from Star wars, that it is his father calling him. He cracks open a bleary eye and stares at his phone, it is 5 am in the morning, and his father is calling him from the next room. Henry cuts the call and rolls over in his blanket. This he thinks is exactly why I hate the holidays. Continue reading

Passive Aggression for Dummies

  1. It’s not a request but a demand – no matter how warmly the oppressor smiles or how often he says ‘Please’ – it’s always a demand. A pressing demand on your precious time, a demand on your peace of mind, a demand to allow yourself to be oppressed and dominated.
  2. A demand, by definition, demands an oblique denial. There’s no such thing as a straight ‘No’. It is always a ‘No’ masquerading as a bold ‘Yes’.
  3. A demand must be dealt with strategic delay. Take all your time, and then some more. Meanwhile, watch cat videos. Continue reading

Teen bloodsucker and her mother

“Om Shanti”, my forty something mother stared down at me, daring me to respond to her in like. I cleared my throat and spoke, deliberately disobeying her, “ya…see you later.”

“Kahan jaa rahee hai, itni raat me? (Where are you going, this late in the night?)” she asked, suspicion marring her, unusually high-pitched voice.

“Khana khaa ne (To eat something)…mom.” Well, of course I could have made another bunch of thousand excuses, to save my mother the trouble of imagining my meal, and more importantly the acquisition of it. But then again, where was the fun in that? Continue reading

“Everyone farts – even the best of us. All farts are unsavoury but each unsavory fart is unsavory in its own sway. Each fart is sui generis – it’s the most telling, most exquisite release of your being at a moment of poignant vulnerability.

At, we let you share your farts with your family, friends and frenemies. With our state of the fart technology, you can capture the essence of your fart for posterity. A fart is never just an olfactory experience. In its splendid entirety, a fart is visual (a fart-face being just as baffling as a cum-face), tactile (as an imperceptible draft of wind on your face), gustatory (a synesthetic surprise on your tongue) and of course, auditory (a cathartic release is an avant-garde music). It’s also a visceral experience whereupon you sense a universe expanding in your rump. Continue reading

Of escalations and pink slips…

I scanned through the email, for the third time. If anything, upon the third read my stomach sank further into unimaginable pits of fear. Wow, I wished I could die, right about then. Get swallowed by the 13th floor of my building, and be pulled into the bottomless pits of hell.

Because, seriously, hell was way better than working for Dell.

I stood up, with my head reeling over the enormity of the escalation, just as “Priya – the bitch” aka “My manager” walked up to me and spat, “Anu, we need to have a talk, meet me in my cabin, NOW!” Continue reading

Because We Ban

ban the ban


Mahavir suppressed a yawn as he hurried towards the minister’s office. Being called in this early in the morning was never a good sign.It could mean only one of two things, either the minister had said something incredibly stupid at some public conference. Like last time he had said having too many windmills was not a good idea as it would slow down the wind. The media had gone berserk about it like an infant having its first case of protracted diarrhea and mahavir had been left to deal with the mess. Continue reading

Life after Chintu!

Can a dead person come back as a ghost and a zombie, both?

I wandered listlessly up and down my suburban, two floored home. Mum had been crying constantly since five days now. Occasionally she would, and I believe it was on purpose, bring out discussions on how I farted so loud last Diwali, that my fart could be heard above all the fireworks.  And how I had the most heinous singing voice, especially when I tried singing Yo Yo Honey Singh.

I was sick of people discussing me, and especially sick of seeing mum, dad and , my little brother, cry over and over again. Seriously people, I was right there.

And guess what, for once why couldn’t they discuss good stuff, like when I was the school prefect or the college journal editor? Was it so hard to say nice things about me? Continue reading

(Mallu) Bachelors in Bangalore

Nair wasn’t happy that particular day.

Today was Vishu, the traditional Kerala new year, and had he been at his home in Kerala today, with his dear mother, he would have been awakened early in the morning and taken to the Puja room, his eyes gently shut by his mother’s loving hands. The aroma of incense would waft to his nose, and the strains of a melodious bhajan would croon at his ears, and his mother would release his eyes to let him view the gloriously decorated deity, surrounded by vibrant yellow flowers, fruits and lamps. This would have been his first sight that year, or his Vishukanni, and that would have determined the fate of his entire year. Continue reading

Princy’s Private Journal

 ( Image Source:

I have not visited my private journal for a long time. Now that I have, I don’t know where to begin. The week has been horrendously taxing. I wouldn’t call it happening although that appears to be the right word for it. I’ve lived a life too long and too rich to be bedazzled by the antics of two immature colleagues. They’re far from colleagues, really. It’s a travesty that I’m required to spend as much time as I do in their unflattering presence. Research, or rather popular wisdom, says that you become the average of the five people that you spend most time with. I shudder at the thought of what I could become in a few years. Excuse my vanity as I say this (although it’s more of a refined and reasonable self-awareness) but, truly, I really just want to become more of myself. Continue reading

Of Condoms and Conformity


“Aaaaaaaaa….ayoo…Shiva,Shiva!” a loud scream echoed from the bathroom. Srinivas was there in a second, worried that his mother had slipped and hurt herself. But she looked fine, she was standing there, grimacing in  disgust and pointing at the toilet bowl. Srinivas was confused,”are you alright, amma?” She just shook her head and pointed at the toilet bowl again and then Srinivas saw it and froze in fear. There, wildly bobbing in the flushed water, like a dead body crashing among the waves, was a used condom! Continue reading

The Crucification of Jack Sparrow


It was when Jack found his hands and legs tied unceremoniously to the gigantic cross, crumbling under its damned weight, sweating in the harsh June sun, that he realized something. He was in trouble, big time. The sentry nearby threw the whip again his sweating body.

“Ok, Ok. I’m hoisting up. It ain’t gonna happen if you keep slapping that damnation on my back. And, you don’t have all day, mate.”

He managed to stand up, his leg wavering like a ship on a stormy sea.

“How many leagues from here, matey?”, he asked the sentry. Continue reading

Jane Austen goes speed dating in ‘Douches and Datability’

Having waited more than a century for the perfect gentleman who would compliment her beauty and wit, and having failed miserably in that endeavor, our dear author Jane Austen finally decided to give into the conventions of our uncivilized times and entered a speed dating program at the local pub.

Jane Austen Continue reading

Alcohol – The social Glue

One wears super hero T-shirts, the other one drools when he talks — and he talks a lot, often yaps for hours, almost as if, he has never seen his frothy lips in the mirror, and as if, no one has ever told him, that it is almost impossible to draw logic, if surprisingly there is one, coming out of his disfigured skeletal jaws.

This first one goes by the name Sam, he wears floral knickers — mostly an inch or two above his pencil jeans, and has cravings for Fattoush, Pistachio and other pretentiously unutterable garbage.Litlatte_Wannabes

The second one is…well he is not Sam for all I care. He talks and chews gums at the same time. It never helps an unendingly drooling face. Does it? It never has, and one should tell him that. He judges moms who smoke and dads who don’t. Continue reading

Woes of motherhood

So, recently, I started chatting up with this young mother I just met. A consultant, like me; and as usual, we moms started discussing what a challenge it is to work and manage kids.

As the discussion went on, I had this sudden epiphany that she was nothing like me.

It started with her gushing on about her four and two yearolds, and how she could never forget the beauty of giving birth. I pretended, genuinely pretended, to “Awwww” at that remark. Instead my treacherous mouth lined into a snigger; birthing, beautiful! Continue reading

Nursery Rhymes and their Hidden Meanings

Did you kHumpty_Dumpty(TTLG)now that Humpty Dumpty, who sat on a wall, was not a person, or even a genetically modified gigantic egg, but a very large canon!

Looking into the history of nursery rhymes that bring cherished memories of innocent childhood can be quite shocking. Many rhymes had cleverly disguised lyrics to parody royal and political events, especially in times when direct dissent was often punishable by death.

Humpty Dumpty was strategically placed on a wall during the English Civil war and managed to wreak much havoc to the advancing enemy forces, until an enemy Continue reading

Black cat- A witch’s familiar and her revenge

I see her from the corner of my cornea. I see her devour a plate full of fresh lamb meat. I see her wipe the drool off her face, one fat-cheek at a time. She has unbuttoned her top from the top. Her cleavage, I bet, smells of sweat and metals. Her cone-hat has rolled away on the other side of the table and she burps, and farts, carelessly, way too many times in her house it’s annoying.

I look at my bowl; I am being fed hash. That’s what I am usually served. I look at the other inmates; the owl, the rabbit and the pup. We all are being ill-treated. But surprisingly, they seem okay with all that. The owl, never really talks, he blinks Pic Credit: Stumbling OverChaosand sleeps. He is just old, but not quite wise. The rabbit is too quick for his own good and the pup…well he is…just dumb. Obviously they all have issues. Continue reading

Twenty-Five is a very attractive age

Lady Bracknell, Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde

Twenty-five is a very attractive age. Bangalore Society is full of women, who of their own free choice, remained twenty-five for years. Take me for instance. I have been twenty-five ever since I arrived at the age of thirty, which was many years ago now. Frankly, this whole practice of age and its every increasing nature, is quite a vexing social malady, and in my opinion best done away with altogether. Osteoporosis, Alzheimer’s, Arthritis, such unpronounceable ailments it brings with it. As a society, as a collective conscience, it is time we seriously considered obliterating the problem of age.

Depression, I can personally ascertain, is the singular consequence of increasing age. Here I am working, nine to five, twenty days a month, exhausted, with a boss with a mind of a fluttering butterfly and a client with a cactus chair, and I come home tired, late, to a high-strung two-year old who wants dinner at two, and an irate husband who wants dinner for two, and I catch a quick shut-eye between it all.

The clock chimes. Twelve. And the phone rings…a hundred different times.

Continue reading