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Category Archives: Rants

Why

Why didn’t they tell me I was pretty?
Why did they always make me feel ugly?
Why did they always tell me I couldn’t get more, while making me feel like less?

The cruelest punishment of all – is to see yourself as others saw you before – and realise that you allowed yourself, your time and your life to be wasted. To be changed and transmuted as others wanted – because you didn’t believe or know more of yourself.

To look back – and see the images of yourself, hear the witnessing of your own possibility – and realising that you allowed others’ voices to drown out yours, to squelch your own and to convince you that your own was not worth hearing – this is a heavy cross.

And to look back – and realise you’ll never get those years back.
You’ll never be able to reclaim that lost potential.
You’ve squandered the glow you once had – given it up for the delusional embrace of cynicism and pessimism.

Sartre said that “Hell is other people.”
Purgatory must be when you’ve allowed other people to passively live your life for you.

 
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Posted by on June 13, 2013 in Ponderings, Rants

 

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?

 
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Posted by on May 21, 2011 in Rants

 

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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?

 
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Posted by on May 6, 2011 in Rants

 

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ADventures 9 – Out of the agency, into the quagmire

So I’m now in a non-agency advertising role.
I honestly don’t know if this is a good move or a bad move or whatever – given that I don’t see myself in a traditional, hidebound agency set-up anymore, or even in the future…
Should I even be terming these adventures in advertising? But it’s still defined as advertising, just not in an agency…

ANYWAY.

This post isn’t about my career choices, it’s about some gems I overheard today.

So the scenario is this. Overzealous Marketing Guy (OMG, who I suspect has more than enthusiasm coursing through his system) is commenting on some layouts that need to go out. The layouts are not just idiot proof, they’re amoeba-brain proof. Yet OMG is pondering them with the seriousness of Moses deciding on which commandments to carry down.

OMG – Do we need the “the” in this sentence?
Me (dumbfounded) – Um yeah, it’s Watch the program. So yes, its necessary. Else it would be “Watch program” and we’d sound stupid. It’s grammatically incorrect.
OMG – Yeah, grammatically, yeah but advertising can take liberties right?
Me – speechless, I didn’t realise what we were doing was advertising. I manage to shake my head in dissent and smile shakily.
OMG – Okay. Do you think it looks alright in this angle?
Me – Um. You mean the logo? Yeah. Okay. Hey, Art Director, please put a full stop at the end of program.
OMG – Yes! A full stop! Wow! That just gives the whole thing this poetic finish! Fantastic!
Me – Mouth open.

 
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Posted by on February 17, 2011 in Advertising, Rants

 

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Elevating the fine art of being stupid.

Please explain to me, you, yes, you the man with the disgustingly hairy chest and the gold pendant about to lay eggs in it, did you fail kindergarten?
Do you not know your numbers properly? Why is it that every time you enter a lift, you must push the button for the wrong floor?
Is it like Aspergers? Have you got Wrongnumbers Syndrome?
Idiot.
Is it not bad enough that we’re all tensed in the lift, hoping we’ll make it just before officious bosses say “58 seconds late again eh?” and we lose a precious day’s leave/salary/our first born to corporate greed?
Must we all wait with bated breath as your wrong 4th floor arrives, you blink your piggy little eyes and realise, “Oh. Wrong floor.”
AND THEN YOU PRESS 9 AND GET IT WRONG AGAIN!!! You need to go to floor 12! TWELVE. If you can’t memorise your floor number, pin it to your shirt and someone will press a button for you.
Don’t delay all of us, in a lift designed with doors that wait till several metaphorical handicapped snails have toodled out with heavy picnic baskets.
In fact, while I’m here, I might as well attack your cousin as well. Mr Press-the-call-button-constantly-so-the-lift-comes-faster – hey Jabby, that doesn’t WORK!
Did you grow up in a jungle? Do you not KNOW that the lift, unlike the errant spark of any intelligence in your head, is designed to spark and come as soon as the button is pressed ONCE?
In pre-historic times, man came to blows because of women or meat.
Today, bumpkin behaviour in an elevator can get you bumped off it. From the 50th floor. Watch your hairy backs.

 
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Posted by on February 16, 2011 in Rants

 

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Shut up everyone.

Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes.
Let’s amend this to say “Before you advise someone, think twice. Walk a mile in their shoes. And think a couple more times.”

Why can’t people mind their own business? Everyone wants to advise you and tell you how to do things.

It’s ridiculous.
I’M going through the situation, I’M reacting to it, I’M living with it on a day-to-day basis, sometimes on a minute-to-minute basis. And YOU want to tell me what to do?

It’s (sometimes) bearable when you ask for someone’s advice. But let’s face it. When you ask for someone’s advice, you’re not really asking their for their opinion. You just want them to ratify your opinion.

In which case, listening to someone drone on about a situation you already find unbearable, is..well, unbearable.

Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. Well, now that should be “Everyone is entitled to an opinion. And the person you’re airing it to, is entitled to tell you to keep yours to yourself. “

 
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Posted by on November 30, 2010 in Ponderings, Rants

 

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Miaow.

Despite the title, this will not be a bitchy/catty post.
For the past month, a cat (female, as will be evident) gave birth to kittens in my home’s attic.

It was slightly disturbing at first. I’m not an animal person at all, and although I don’t wish any animal harm, I’m not particularly keen on being very near animals with claws and teeth either.

We called an animal organisation in Bangalore. And were told that “Please keep the kittens with you for 3 weeks to give them a chance to survive.”

Excuse me? Keep strays in our house? For a chance to survive? For what? They’re STRAYS = no one wants them. And you being sanctimonious at me doesn’t help either.

Fine. Let’s forget me. My parents thought, “Aw. So sad. Let it be.”

And it began.

Five weeks of the cat bringing dead rats in thrice a day, a stench that almost enveloped the entire house, raids on the kitchen by mama cat leading to a LOT of milk being stolen or thrown away, continuous mewling from the kittens – and the crowning touch – fleas and mites.

My feet and my mother’s feet are a mess. We have quite a few bites and wounds now from the incessant scratching. And a doctor’s bill of Rs 500 to pay, for our newly-discovered cat allergy.

Phone calls to animal welfare organisations lead to us getting lectures of “Why don’t you adopt the cat?” (EXCUSE ME? ADOPT A STRAY CAT? HEALTH ISSUES ASIDE, WHAT’S THE POINT? I CAN’T EVEN PET MY BLOODY PET!) bureaucratic chains of phone calls (“You’ve called the Dog section. We don’t do cattery here.”) and more lectures of “You should keep the kittens for at least two months, to give them a chance to survive, else it’s just cruel.”

It was amusing at first, and then it became tiresome. As the stench grew worse, and the cat turned feral, so much so that we couldn’t go up to our own terrace, or leave a room without shutting the door behind us because the cat kept sliding in there and not coming out and snarling at us if we tried to come in, we tried to figure out what the hell to do.

Finally, we managed to get through to one animal organisation that agreed to come get the cat and its three kittens – for a thousand and five hundred rupees. ONE THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED. We were desperate enough to agree. And then?? The finishing touch. “Modom, we can only come in three days. It takes time. Also, you have to pay the driver separately.”

Seriously, animal welfare organisations, are you kidding me? Are you out of your collective animal-mad minds? You were (supposedly) started to help animals. And this is how you do it? By extorting the public in the name of compassion?
You’re giving me sanctimonious lectures about giving the animals a chance – when by acting like this you’re actually endangering the same animals.YOU might be oh-so-devoted to animals and compassionate and aim towards action, but seriously, the general public is not like that. Especially not when confronted with a mangy, flea-ridden, snarling mama cat.

This morning, we woke up to find a rat’s mangled body on the stairs, near a room my family considers sacred to God.
Within an hour, as soon as mama cat had gone a-hunting, my mama swung into action.

An old wizened watchmen with the hardiness of old teak and our maid were pressed into service. Within 40 minutes, the three kittens were brought out, almost screaming, and deposited some distance away from the house.

Mama cat came back a few hours later – oddly enough the first time she’d ever left her kittens for that long. And is piteously miaowing for her kittens, dead rat in mouth.

She’s being shooed away repeatedly as I type.

It’s sad. It might seem heartless. It probably is. But you know what? We kept them for 5 weeks and didn’t do anything despite all the milk-stealing and noise. But how in heaven’s name are we supposed to tolerate the itching, the scratching, the calamine-ing and the rocketing expense associated with cats that are not even ours?

I still think that if any of the organisations had moved their collective greedy asses five weeks ago, this would not have happened.

 

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