Monthly Archives: May 2011

Dear Captain Jack Sparrow

You had me at “Savvy?”
Today I saw your latest movie, On Stranger Tides. Technically, someone else paid for my ticket, so I didn’t pay in money. But I spent 3 hours watching. And time is money right?

Penelope Cruz, the Pirates Soundtrack, the green hills and azure waters of Hawaii, mermaids, almost-scary made-up mermaid mythology, dirty pirates, Geoffrey Rush, the snarling monkey, shots of the Black Pearl – and most importantly, you, the awesome Jack Sparrow (aka Johnny Depp). This movie is like Aishwarya Rai. It’s got EVERYTHING. Looks, talent, costumes, great PR. Technically, the audience should be clapping.

Instead, even before the interval, I caught myself napping like a geriatric 70-year-old. Or my I-really-hate-movies-so-I’m-sleeping-in-revenge father. I’m so sorry Jack. About the napping, not my father. And overall, my reaction to your latest outing was “Meh”.

I’ll admit, this was partly my fault. Eating an excellent, slightly-on-the-heavier-side lunch before a matinée is stupid. And I came with health conscious people who claim popcorn is the food of the devil. I should just have starved. I might have chomped on the chair but at least I’d be awake to see your every twitch and parry.

I would like to ask two separate entities two separate questions. Question one is to you, Jack, Disney and whoever else made this film: Why was this in 3D? Seeing a few swords stand out like cheap cut-outs from the screen is not going to make my jizz in my pants. Really. You can, Jack. But 3D? And the glasses? Nope. All the jizz gets sucked back into some secret place, only to be seen again when the first Pirates movie is re-watched. Which doesn’t look likely tonight, Jack, honey, I now have a headache.

The second question is to cinema theatres and movie-makers jointly. Do you not realise that 3D glasses are tinted? And therefore the entire movie looks like Batman Begins? Even the parts shot in bloody broad bloody daylight? Whose fuck-up is this? The idiot movie makers who’re shooting in 3D (a fuck-up on its own) and forgetting to adjust brightness (whatever the terms are) for tinted 3D glasses? Or cinema theatres, who’re giving us tinted glasses without THINKING? Someone has blundered.

And the glasses give almost everyone I know a headache. And me too. So we’re sleepy, missing the plot and getting headaches. It’s like being drunk without the fun of drinking.

Jack, me hearty, I love you. I shall re-watch your three earlier oeuvres with glee, love, a little bit of lust and jizz. But I can’t watch any more new Pirates movies, that too in 3D. Savvy?


Posted by on May 21, 2011 in Rants



ADventures 10 – Meet the Bosses.

First Advertising Interview:
Some Creative Director: I don’t like the 3 ads in your book. They’re too college-y.
You (fresh out of college): Okay. (vigorously nodding) That’s why I want to join here. For kick ass work. I would work really hard.
Interview after 2 years of late nights, slogging, proof-checking till your eyes bleed, doing the shit work and then seeing bigger campaigns go to seniors:
Another Creative Director: I like the first three campaigns. But not the others.
You: (Nodding) Yes, that’s why I want to join here. For kick ass work. I would work really hard.
(at the same time)
Yet another CD: I like the last three campaigns. But not the others.
You: (Nodding) Yes, that’s why I want to join here. For kick ass work. I would work really hard.
Interview at 5 years knowing that CDs are too human, taste is subjective, hell, creativity is subjective.
ECD: I like the first four campaigns only. But you don’t have enough released work.
You: (Nod) Okay, that’s why I want to join here.
(at the same time)
Another ECD: I like the last five campaigns, not the first four. But you don’t have enough scam work.
You: (Nod) Okay, that’s why I want to join here.
Interview at 7 years
ECD/Regional CD/NCD: I love your work! But we have a head count issue.
You: Okay. Um. (not sure if I want to join here)
At the same time:
ECD/Regional CD/NCD: So, I can’t say I like your work. Frankly, I can’t afford you. (These sentences should have been in reverse order.)
You: Okay. Um. (not sure if I want to join here)
The one thing all these guys have in common is that they all made me wait at least 20 minutes.
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Posted by on May 17, 2011 in Advertising




Flash Fiction 12 – Word Prompt – Scratch

She sat waiting for her name to be called. She hated interviews. But given how much she hated working, changing jobs frequently was imperative.
She pulled the lapels of her jacket straight, clutched her bag to her. And shifted on the uncomfortable seat.
She hated waiting.
She started to make lists of all the things she hated.
Gooseberries. Interviews. Prickly jackets. Round bar stools meant for dwarfs. People who admonished you to “don’t be late please” and made you wait after.
The door opened. Her head snapped to the right, thinking this was it.
It wasn’t.
It was an office peon. A dark, small-statured man with a shaggy haircut.
He walked in. And handed an envelope to the secretary sitting there with his arm. His only arm.
Her eyes locked on to the stump of his left hand. It looked like a camel’s hump turned upside down. In dark brown skin.
Two little hillocks.
She wondered if it was racist or something else-ist. Thinking like this.
Furtively, she stared as the peon flirted with the secretary.
Gesturing with his right hand as he talked, he raised his hand to push back his hair. And then reaching over to his stump, he squeezed. Hard.
She winced. Involuntarily. Wondered if it hurt. Or if like an old injury, it provided a comforting twinge. Sort of the coward’s way of cutting yourself to feel something.
She grimaced as he squeezed really hard.
The room felt very hot. Her lunch seemed to be making insistent forays at coming back out the way it had gone in.
Swallowing, she tried to focus on her interview. What questions she would be asked, what questions she could ask.
Unwillingly, her eyes were dragged back.
Just as the peon began to noisily scratch his right hand with his left stump.
Krr krrr krr.
She stared ahead at a crack in the wall. Breathe in, breathe out.
krr krrr krrr.
Her eyes were on his stump.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Krrr krrr.

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Posted by on May 14, 2011 in Fiction




Creepy Colleague: You’ll totally drool over me now.
Me: What?
Creepy Colleague: You’re gonna be so turned on.
Me: (Words fail me but vomit raises its hand)
Creepy Colleague: I painted something.
Me: (waiting. Surely there must be more. For me to be turned on by this fellow, he must have discovered the cure for cancer. And even that might not be enough.)
(Realising that’s it.) Okay. What did you paint?

He unfurls a T-shirt: I painted this cool snake on my T-shirt.
Me: (Words? Fail.)
Creepy Colleague: Isn’t it AWESOME?
Me: (FINALLY!) Yes. I’ve always admired self-portraits.
He: Aren’t you turned on?
Me: Yes. Very. In fact I should go be alone in the bathroom. (Stagger away)



Up, up and splat.

I was supposed to go home today. My long-awaited, much-prayed-for, on par with Indians-wishing-for-a-boy-child emotional passport is finally here.

And I was supposed to go get it.
Firstly, I get given a deadline to show up.
Then I book tickets, wincing at the cost.
After booking them, I realise that they’re on India’s most strike-n airline, Air India.
Sweating, I call them – more frequently than my mother over the next couple of days, begging to know if I can cancel if my flights was affected. From “We’ll let you know a day in advance” to “We’ll let you know the morning of the flight” to “Please go to the airport”, amidst cancellation charges being an extra almost Rs 2000, I bit my miserly nails and waited.

At the airport – “This flight is full.”
Me: “How is that possible? I have a ticket and I’m still not on it.”
Neither were 50 other people. Most with fairly important life errands waiting for them.
An hour of begging other airlines for a seat later, to no success, I take a full refund and almost sob my way back to my apartment.

I re-book tickets at almost double the cost. Now the boss has to be explained to as well.
And two hours later, the Air India strike is over.

I feel utterly wretched. And poor. And ready to cry.
I know a lot of people who tell you “Whatever happens is for the best.”
But HOW do you tell yourself that when things like this happen?


Posted by on May 6, 2011 in Rants



Cinco de Mayo

Many years of bad birthdays have taught me not to expect much.
There was the time when people divided themselves into two groups and sat on opposite sides of the room – a Kurukshetra in my parents’ living room.
The time when I threw a party and couples spent it making out in my bathroom – and my 14-year-old grossed-out-self spent the night disinfecting the bathroom.
An earlier party in which a game of passing the parcel ended with me getting out first and disconsolately watching the rest of the kids get a prize each.
And the one at 26, when exactly two friends remembered. Who are twins.

When it comes to birthdays, I am extremely unlucky. So much so that I have given up on them, and consider anything I get as a gift.

This year, thanks to Hiroshima and Hyphen, I had a lovely birthday. Great food, a bright molotov cocktail of vodka and sugar, laughter and an awesome birthday cake. To cap it all, I went on a short drive through Marine Drive and floated home.

Hiroshima and Hyphen, thank ya.
FINALLY. Happy birthday to me. 🙂


Posted by on May 6, 2011 in Raves



Four Words.

Flash Fiction 11 – Word Prompt – Noticeboard

“So. There’s this guy,” she said, cocking a hip and raising her eyebrows at his crowded desk.
Rhett-Butlerically, he gestured as if to sweep the pile of papers to the side – then carefully piled them neatly at one corner. And then waved his hand grandly at the bit of desk he’d cleared.
“All yours, madame” he said, smiling.
“Oooh, 12 inches,” she simpered and slid on, her back to the cubicle wall.
They both grinned. Work could wait. Or least take a token for now.
“With you, there’s always a guy,” he said, looking at her from above his glasses.
“Okay, don’t make that face. This time is different.”
“You always think it is.”
“No really,” she protested, half laughing, half embarrassed. This was yet another time that she was seeking his advice. And he always said the same thing.
“Okay, this time, I’m not saying anything.” Picking up a pencil, he scrawled “I told you so” on a sheet of paper pinned on his noticeboard. The paper now boasted seventeen important numbers and four words that were the number one cause of fights everywhere.
She sighed. “I have the worst taste in men.”
“I agree,” he said.
“You know, you could have waited five minutes. Or at least made a token protest.”
“Yeah. Right.” He paused. “Okay, really, don’t call him again. I don’t want to see you hurt. Again.”
She looked at him. And knew that she’d be a sucker and call again. “Okay. I won’t.”
“Hmmm.” He knew she’d call. “So what else?”
“Hmmmmm…” She knew she’d call too. “Well, in other news, this latest meeting proves your boss is an idiot.”
“Of course. The trick is to get the idiot to give me a raise.”
They smiled.
Later that night, after her sixth time listening to a phone ring endlessly, the words “I told you so” floated in front of her eyes.

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Posted by on May 3, 2011 in Fiction