The Russians? Are you serious? Russia? The home of the Sukhoi and the Siberian tiger? Some of the prettiest women in the world are Russians. They have one of world’s best gymnastic teams, athletic teams that have won plenty of Olympic gold medals, scientists, engineers, submarines, missiles, and oil wells.
They may have miserable winters where temperatures touch 20degrees below zero only to dip even further. It must be awful living in a freezer, but ice looks good on tv. So, I choose to ignore the cold.
But then they are also home to some of the worst cars made in human history, Communism, Marxism and the Russian mafia. The Russian mafia is something even the Sicilians are scared of.
But then, why would I be bothered about Russian subs and AK47s?
Well, for Two years in a row, I have been exploring the true potential of the second gear in my car. I had to drive close of ten kilometers in second gear, not shifting to third for the fear of running over someone, or worse still, killing myself. Not shifting to third for the fear of running over someone?
Why?
Well, that’s what happens when you drink that colourless, odourless, tasteless, industrial piss called Vodka.
Vodka…….. all the bad words put together and raised to the power of ten can’t describe my feelings for vodka.
You mix that stupid thing with any fruit juice, and you think you are drinking fruit juice. Mix it with Sprite and you are drinking Sprite. Mix it carbonated/aerated water and it’ll taste just like aerated water.
It’s appears to be a harmless colourless liquid that has neither taste nor flavour. Spineless. So you end up drinking it like you are drinking fruit juice, or soda, with vodka in it, sipping it like what you think it really is, which is fruit juice or soda. Its only a matter of time till your brain decides to jump into what feels like a washing machine, spinning in power-wash mode.
Two years in a row, at my school alumni meet, for the sheer laziness of standing in line to buy the beers, my friends and I opted to buy a bottle of vodka instead.
And on both ocassions, I went home high as a kite.
And the Russians drink it like water. They drink it with milk, and call it a White Russian. I am not making this up, you can trust me on this.
Only a Russian can drink Vodka and milk. I never liked milk as a child and I still don’t. And with vodka in it, I think I’ll throw up for a week.
Come to think of it, I think that's why some people in this world prefer to drink “country liquor” brewed out of battery acid, hallucinogenic drugs and sleeping pills.
The lucky ones die, while the others get to go blind.
But I’ll bet you whatever you want, given a choice, they would prefer to drink that instead of vodka.
Bloody Russians.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Labour is such a Pain
The world of politics lost even the litte dignity it had. If you thought only Indian politicians are slimy scum bags, take a look at the polished Labour party of the UK. Our man Tony went all out in kicking Brown in the nuts. Makes me wonder if the Brits are suddenly going native.
But honestly, Tony or Brown, I couldn’t care less.
All I know is that I got promoted.
Below is my oath before taking office:
- From today day, I shall try to be politically correct.
- From this day forward, I shall to set a good example.
- Learn to cook more specialty dishes.
- Buy that fast car, bicycle and motorcycle.
- Point 4 can wait a little longer. Austerity measures are still in place.
Now to the more difficult sections:
- I shall be a more responsible individual.
- As much as I hate it, I shall drag myself against my wishes, to that stupid store called GK Vale and get a couple of “Marriage photos” clicked. I am going to live to hate that day.
- I shall spend more on cosmetics and “beauty products”. Fear not, I am not turning gay.
- I shall work harder on finding a cool chick…. I take that back. I shall work harder on finding a Soul mate.
- Cut down on the swearing….
This list can go on and on.
I know what you are thinking, but read Point #4, of the “Difficult section”. That should lay some of those fears to rest.
But yeah, the old Pulickal is out and the new and improved version is in. And along with all those little degrees running alongside his name, he now has one more.
Its called Uncle!
Gear up folks, a new Pulickal is born.
Boy, this will be fun.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Man from Kaiwara Cross
I met an interesting chap yesterday.
Chap. Considering he was more than 60 years old, I think I should change “chap” to “man”. Chap, man, elderly gentleman, senior citizen… what’s the difference. So chap it remains.
He asked me if I was from around here, Bangalore, and I proudly say yes. I take great pride in being a Bangalorean.
I asked him if he was from around here, and he says he was born in Kaiwara Cross.
Kaiwara Cross?
He says its in Chintamani. I have heard that name before, and well, may be someone had told me where it was, but I couldn’t picture it, so I asked him where is Chintamani.
For some stupid reason, there’s an ICICI insurance ad that’s playing in my head where they were selling Income Tax saving bonds where Mr Chintamani, says “no Chinta, only money”.
Strayed a little off course there, but that’s how it was when this chap mentioned Chintamani and that tune kept playing in my head for a good hour or so. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money, you know the jingle. I hope it rings in your head for a while too. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money.
He’s not a very talkative man. He had uttered only three words in the hour before I met him. But I'm different.
He mumbled they have a big market there in Chintamani. They stack groundnuts in huge heaps that tower into the sky. As big as mountains. Big market Sir. They also trade oxen and cows and bullocks and buffaloes there. Big market.
Impressive. May be I should go there sometime,Chintamani. Never really been to a cattle fair, although some of the job expos in Bangalore I am told come very close. The only difference is that in Chintamani, they trade in real cattle and not corporate slaves.
He’s been stuck in the same profession for over twenty years. He spent four or six, I think four….. whatever. He spent fours years, before he started work as a professional, as a trainee without salary.
Who the hell spends four years in learning a craft? And what he does, is not something you really need four years to master. Its not like you spent four years in improving your handwriting and you can now do calligraphy or like in my case learn to draw. I can spend a lifetime trying to draw and paint without making any progress. Thus I don’t even try. But I can learn to do what he does in about a month.
He did a lot of other stupid things for long periods of time. I guess career growth wasn’t much of an option for him.
He tells me that his brother left for his heavenly abode twenty days ago. He asks me if I knew his brother. I shake my head. What was he thinking?
I try to change topics as I couldn’t get much of his mumblings.
It’s the day after Ugadi, the second leg where it’s a meat extravaganza. He tells me that his nephew has gone home to gorge on mutton, chicken and fish. He hopes they will leave him some but he’s not really bothered. He's lost all his teeth I guess.
He goes on to tell me that his brother had nine children and all the boys have taken in to the family profession, carefully handed down one generation to another. Believe me, they are not into making jewellery or sophisticated watches.
Do you know my nephew? I shake my head again. How am I supposed to know his nephew?
He grows quiet.
Then I ask him more questions on his own life and he starts all over again.
The man from Kaiwar cross, after his four years as a trainee and some years of practice, then moves into Bangalore. He finds a place to stay in a little Muslim neighbourhood, near Fun World, Palace grounds. Its an old neighbourhood but a well known one. That sounds fine.
But not to his prospective father-in-law.
Back then, Hindus and Muslims were at each others throats in some distant part of the country. That is sufficient reason for him to refuse the then young man his bride. Considering not much has changed, I don't know whose side to be on.
The man-from-Kaiwar-cross is unmarried till this date. He’s old and he’s feeble, has a dry cough, but his hands, thankfully, are still steady.
He then asks me if I know Yesvanthpur. Of course I know Yesvanthpur! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli. Of course I know Jalahalli! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli East. What? He tells me that Jalahalli and Jalahalli East are not the same. I am given directions on a road I am sure he last traveled by bullock cart in the late seventies. I pretend to be paying attention.
Hmmm, yeah, hmmmm yeah, oh ok. Hmmmm.
Stupid old chap.
Man, it is a hot day today. The ceiling fan is blowing hot air from one corner of the room to the other. I glance towards my bicycle enjoying the beams of light from vehicles passing by dancing on the rims, little pieces of chrome and the shiny red paint. I had spent half an hour cleaning her that evening. Job well done.
The Man-from-Kaiwar-Cross then switches off the fan. Punishment for not paying attention?
No.
He pulls out the powder tin, shakes some onto my neck, and brushes it off with his thick, fat brush.
The haircut’s over. The fan’s switched on again.
The hot air blows from one corner of the room to another.
I dig into my wallet and settle his dues wondering, who on earth would spend four years learning to cut hair?
Why would anyone stay bachelor just because one man refused him his daughter, irrespective of where he stayed. Why couldn't he just move?
He spent two years of his life just drawing water from a well and filling pots and a tank with water.
May be he’s just a nitwit.
The End.
Chap. Considering he was more than 60 years old, I think I should change “chap” to “man”. Chap, man, elderly gentleman, senior citizen… what’s the difference. So chap it remains.
He asked me if I was from around here, Bangalore, and I proudly say yes. I take great pride in being a Bangalorean.
I asked him if he was from around here, and he says he was born in Kaiwara Cross.
Kaiwara Cross?
He says its in Chintamani. I have heard that name before, and well, may be someone had told me where it was, but I couldn’t picture it, so I asked him where is Chintamani.
For some stupid reason, there’s an ICICI insurance ad that’s playing in my head where they were selling Income Tax saving bonds where Mr Chintamani, says “no Chinta, only money”.
Strayed a little off course there, but that’s how it was when this chap mentioned Chintamani and that tune kept playing in my head for a good hour or so. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money, you know the jingle. I hope it rings in your head for a while too. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money.
He’s not a very talkative man. He had uttered only three words in the hour before I met him. But I'm different.
He mumbled they have a big market there in Chintamani. They stack groundnuts in huge heaps that tower into the sky. As big as mountains. Big market Sir. They also trade oxen and cows and bullocks and buffaloes there. Big market.
Impressive. May be I should go there sometime,Chintamani. Never really been to a cattle fair, although some of the job expos in Bangalore I am told come very close. The only difference is that in Chintamani, they trade in real cattle and not corporate slaves.
He’s been stuck in the same profession for over twenty years. He spent four or six, I think four….. whatever. He spent fours years, before he started work as a professional, as a trainee without salary.
Who the hell spends four years in learning a craft? And what he does, is not something you really need four years to master. Its not like you spent four years in improving your handwriting and you can now do calligraphy or like in my case learn to draw. I can spend a lifetime trying to draw and paint without making any progress. Thus I don’t even try. But I can learn to do what he does in about a month.
He did a lot of other stupid things for long periods of time. I guess career growth wasn’t much of an option for him.
He tells me that his brother left for his heavenly abode twenty days ago. He asks me if I knew his brother. I shake my head. What was he thinking?
I try to change topics as I couldn’t get much of his mumblings.
It’s the day after Ugadi, the second leg where it’s a meat extravaganza. He tells me that his nephew has gone home to gorge on mutton, chicken and fish. He hopes they will leave him some but he’s not really bothered. He's lost all his teeth I guess.
He goes on to tell me that his brother had nine children and all the boys have taken in to the family profession, carefully handed down one generation to another. Believe me, they are not into making jewellery or sophisticated watches.
Do you know my nephew? I shake my head again. How am I supposed to know his nephew?
He grows quiet.
Then I ask him more questions on his own life and he starts all over again.
The man from Kaiwar cross, after his four years as a trainee and some years of practice, then moves into Bangalore. He finds a place to stay in a little Muslim neighbourhood, near Fun World, Palace grounds. Its an old neighbourhood but a well known one. That sounds fine.
But not to his prospective father-in-law.
Back then, Hindus and Muslims were at each others throats in some distant part of the country. That is sufficient reason for him to refuse the then young man his bride. Considering not much has changed, I don't know whose side to be on.
The man-from-Kaiwar-cross is unmarried till this date. He’s old and he’s feeble, has a dry cough, but his hands, thankfully, are still steady.
He then asks me if I know Yesvanthpur. Of course I know Yesvanthpur! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli. Of course I know Jalahalli! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli East. What? He tells me that Jalahalli and Jalahalli East are not the same. I am given directions on a road I am sure he last traveled by bullock cart in the late seventies. I pretend to be paying attention.
Hmmm, yeah, hmmmm yeah, oh ok. Hmmmm.
Stupid old chap.
Man, it is a hot day today. The ceiling fan is blowing hot air from one corner of the room to the other. I glance towards my bicycle enjoying the beams of light from vehicles passing by dancing on the rims, little pieces of chrome and the shiny red paint. I had spent half an hour cleaning her that evening. Job well done.
The Man-from-Kaiwar-Cross then switches off the fan. Punishment for not paying attention?
No.
He pulls out the powder tin, shakes some onto my neck, and brushes it off with his thick, fat brush.
The haircut’s over. The fan’s switched on again.
The hot air blows from one corner of the room to another.
I dig into my wallet and settle his dues wondering, who on earth would spend four years learning to cut hair?
Why would anyone stay bachelor just because one man refused him his daughter, irrespective of where he stayed. Why couldn't he just move?
He spent two years of his life just drawing water from a well and filling pots and a tank with water.
May be he’s just a nitwit.
The End.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Clockwork Orange
One of my earliest memories as a child is getting ready for school. My first school, Sophia’s, where I studied until I was in class four, used to start quite early in the morning for Bangalore standards. It used to start at a freezing 8:05am. On misty Bangalore mornings, as my brother and I stood at the veranda, with our lunch boxes and school bags, we filled our lungs with air, and blew it out into the morning mist to see who “smoked” more as we waited for dad to pull out the car or the scooter from the garage. The old days……
We were healthy kids. And we stayed healthy for a reason. Everyday, if there’s one thing we did without fail, it had to be take tablespoon fulls of Waterbury’s Compound. We always took one for good luck. We loved our Waterbury’s. I still swear by it. For those of you who don’t what it is, it’s a general tonic that builds body resistance against colds, cough, bronchitis, and the lot. We took our shot of Waterbury’s and we wrestled in the dust, played with water, did all the stupid things we could think of, and we didn’t fall sick. That was our magic potion. In the old days it came in a black square glass bottle. I will not be surprised if our love for Old Monk stems from our love for Waterbury’s.
Nostalgia. Nice.
I just ran down to the store and bought myself a bottle of Waterbury’s for old time sake. With the caramel flavour still lingering in my mouth, I am now ready to take life by the horns, do a back flip and kick it in the balls. Its about time.
Those of you who know me, for the last three-four weeks, there has been only one thing on my mind. The most dreaded word in all of mankind. The mere mention of the word is enough to send shivers down the spine. In dark rooms where they don’t want to be seen, men and women discuss the horrors and the unseen tragedies they had to suffer when the beast sprang into the air and attacked them. It bit them and mauled them, leaving them bleeding and traumatized. Some even dead.
A few manage to scamper away to safety, ran into the jungles. They lived off wild berries, fruits whatever the jungle had to offer. Occasionally, they would bump into hikers who would part with a few tea bags and chocolate chip cookies. Not all are that lucky. The jungles are not always littered with hikers carrying chocolate chip cookies in their backpacks. Some went hungry. As long as they were in the jungles, they thought the beast wouldn't bother them. They wished!
Now they all speak in whispers, fearing the horrors, what if the beast returns?
If you are lucky someone will whisper a few words into your ears. Its usually a very scared, “Run, and keep running”. (It’s a whisper, thus can’t be in normal font size.)
The more I researched, the more I wanted to buy a fast car. I wanted a turbo charged version. Planned to install performance exhausts and stiff suspension. Big fat tyres for extra grip. I wanted Nitrous Oxide in the boot. I needed ceramic brakes. I filled my fuel tank to the brim. I even contemplated signing up for a “midway refuelling” service, only to find out there is not such thing.
I was petrified, still am. May be I should get a dog for added security, one of those fierce, mean, ugly bastards with teeth that can bite through steel. I’ll even buy it a collar with shiny steel spikes to give it an even meaner look. I’ll call it “Hippo – the crocodile slayer”. But I am told even that may not help. The beast apparently has no sense of humour and working under cover for the Japs, it aims to wipe out the Green Peace activists.
As I was just about losing all hope, Inspiration knocks on the door.
He’s not Tamil Christian, don’t worry. Inspiration as in “to be inspired”.
Knock knock. I let him in. He had a message. It’s cryptic. But it’s a brilliant plan. You watch it for yourself and let me know what you think of it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zorjieypbjo
I have nice big smile on my face. Thank god for Waterbury’s Compound. Surprising isn’t it? You used to drink it as a child to protect you from Mother Nature. You are no longer a child and while it still protects you from the elements, it gives you that psychological edge to fight against Mothers’ nature.
It’s a mind game.
They’ll ask me questions, a lot of questions and I’ll tell them….
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONERYZ0R19E
The End
We were healthy kids. And we stayed healthy for a reason. Everyday, if there’s one thing we did without fail, it had to be take tablespoon fulls of Waterbury’s Compound. We always took one for good luck. We loved our Waterbury’s. I still swear by it. For those of you who don’t what it is, it’s a general tonic that builds body resistance against colds, cough, bronchitis, and the lot. We took our shot of Waterbury’s and we wrestled in the dust, played with water, did all the stupid things we could think of, and we didn’t fall sick. That was our magic potion. In the old days it came in a black square glass bottle. I will not be surprised if our love for Old Monk stems from our love for Waterbury’s.
Nostalgia. Nice.
I just ran down to the store and bought myself a bottle of Waterbury’s for old time sake. With the caramel flavour still lingering in my mouth, I am now ready to take life by the horns, do a back flip and kick it in the balls. Its about time.
Those of you who know me, for the last three-four weeks, there has been only one thing on my mind. The most dreaded word in all of mankind. The mere mention of the word is enough to send shivers down the spine. In dark rooms where they don’t want to be seen, men and women discuss the horrors and the unseen tragedies they had to suffer when the beast sprang into the air and attacked them. It bit them and mauled them, leaving them bleeding and traumatized. Some even dead.
A few manage to scamper away to safety, ran into the jungles. They lived off wild berries, fruits whatever the jungle had to offer. Occasionally, they would bump into hikers who would part with a few tea bags and chocolate chip cookies. Not all are that lucky. The jungles are not always littered with hikers carrying chocolate chip cookies in their backpacks. Some went hungry. As long as they were in the jungles, they thought the beast wouldn't bother them. They wished!
Now they all speak in whispers, fearing the horrors, what if the beast returns?
If you are lucky someone will whisper a few words into your ears. Its usually a very scared, “Run, and keep running”. (It’s a whisper, thus can’t be in normal font size.)
The more I researched, the more I wanted to buy a fast car. I wanted a turbo charged version. Planned to install performance exhausts and stiff suspension. Big fat tyres for extra grip. I wanted Nitrous Oxide in the boot. I needed ceramic brakes. I filled my fuel tank to the brim. I even contemplated signing up for a “midway refuelling” service, only to find out there is not such thing.
I was petrified, still am. May be I should get a dog for added security, one of those fierce, mean, ugly bastards with teeth that can bite through steel. I’ll even buy it a collar with shiny steel spikes to give it an even meaner look. I’ll call it “Hippo – the crocodile slayer”. But I am told even that may not help. The beast apparently has no sense of humour and working under cover for the Japs, it aims to wipe out the Green Peace activists.
As I was just about losing all hope, Inspiration knocks on the door.
He’s not Tamil Christian, don’t worry. Inspiration as in “to be inspired”.
Knock knock. I let him in. He had a message. It’s cryptic. But it’s a brilliant plan. You watch it for yourself and let me know what you think of it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zorjieypbjo
I have nice big smile on my face. Thank god for Waterbury’s Compound. Surprising isn’t it? You used to drink it as a child to protect you from Mother Nature. You are no longer a child and while it still protects you from the elements, it gives you that psychological edge to fight against Mothers’ nature.
It’s a mind game.
They’ll ask me questions, a lot of questions and I’ll tell them….
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONERYZ0R19E
We have a game on our hands.
Oh! Nearly forgot. That dreaded word…….Shhhhhhhh. Remember, you must never say it out loud or the beast will hear you and hunt you down.
That dreaded word is Marriage.
That dreaded word is Marriage.
Have I gone Clockwork Orange?
Well, I don't know. But think about it, isn't that what marriage is all about? About going Clockwork Orange?
Think about it and let me know.
While you ponder over that, I'll leave you in the company of the master genius.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-mvutiDRvQ
Well, I don't know. But think about it, isn't that what marriage is all about? About going Clockwork Orange?
Think about it and let me know.
While you ponder over that, I'll leave you in the company of the master genius.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-mvutiDRvQ
The End
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