Tag Archives: disasters

Sole-Searching In Modern Times.

“Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it.”
– Rabindranath Tagore

Life is a sum total of experiences pleasant and unpleasant. Some experiences I would gladly embrace, such as a year-long vacation to Abu Ghraib prison, a 10 finger prostrate examination or being struck by lightning; others I passionately avoid, such as shoe shopping. But when faced with the prospect of going barefoot to work or being disowned by family over the condition of my current pair of shoes, I was left with no choice but to confront my fears.

I pulled on a brave face, played the Rocky theme tune inside my head and stepped into a shoe store at a local mall.

The display cases were stocked with approximately 10 million ways of retaining a woman’s attention span for over 5 minutes. I was partly confused and partly embarrassed just as Rakhi Sawant would be, if she were to accidentally stumble into a large book store.

I gingerly sat down in the only empty seat in the otherwise packed place, and performed a quick survey of my surroundings. On my left, a pretty lady was holding up a sandal barely 4 inches from her face. For over 10 minutes, she turned it in a clockwise, anticlockwise, clockwise, anticlockwise pattern like an experienced burglar cracking the combination dial of a safe. On my right, another lady was asking a salesman if they had any thing “more trendy”. Next to her was a large pile of shoes that she had tried and rejected, and her husband blankly staring at a far corner of the store in silent despair. As the minutes passed by, the pile of rejected shoes grew steadily, casting a ghastly shadow over the remnants of the shattered husband, and rousing the interest of local mountaineers that couldn’t afford a trip to Mount Everest.

A salesman spotted me sitting by myself and rushed over. He sported the Arindam Chaudhari fake grin and he shook my hand with the fervent emotion of a childhood friend at a school reunion. He appeared to be very concerned about my health, my family’s health, my social status, and my profession. When I told him that I worked as a software developer, he told me that he also had a computer at home. I nodded and smiled politely. The awkwardness reminded me of the time I’d gone shopping for underwear at a mall in Kerala and how the mall people had, in their praiseworthy wisdom, assigned a FEMALE salesperson at the men’s counter. I remember standing there, gaping like a chimp, as the lady stretched the underwear elastic to show its quality, and made a fist and punched the inside of the front to show its…flexibility probably. I remember how her colleagues giggled amongst themselves as I stood frozen in time during the most fascinating demonstration of underwear dynamics.

“So, what are you looking for?” he asked and shook me out of the flashback. I was tempted to say, “A surfboard, suntan lotion, a pair of floral-print shorts and some nasty waves up in this bitch” but I stopped short – after all, people aren’t expected to look for surfing equipment at a shoe store.

“Black formal shoes with laces please,” I finally said.

Now here’s the thing I discovered: shoe salesmen (or any other salesmen) refuse to acknowledge clear, specific requirements as a matter of principle. They take it as a personal insult if customers think that they know what they want. They laugh off your choice and your taste and show you 1,527 useless items that you didn’t ask for, and would never buy. Finally, when you reject each one of them while constantly reminding the salesman what you originally wanted, they scoff at you for wasting their precious time in showing you what you were missing out on.

Naturally, my request for formal black shoes was denied, and he proceeded to show me the “latest attractive attractions” such as flip-flops, sneakers, Buddhist monk sandals and the state-of-the-art jet-powered roller skates fitted on to a pair of Kolhapuri chappals.

“Not really interested in all this. I’m looking for something more professional,” I reminded him.

His interpretation of professional ranked somewhere between amusing and ridiculous. He placed in front of me a pair of ankle high leather boots with metal straps dangling from the sides. Before I could even open my mouth to protest, he grabbed my right foot, ripped off my shoe and thrust my foot into the leather boot.

“Go on, try walking around and see how it feels” he urged.

I got up and attempted to walk. In only a few seconds, the blood circulation in my leg came to a trickling halt. My brain strained hard to listen to any sort of communication from the estranged foot, but it was definitely out of coverage area. I looked down at my foot helplessly, and I empathized with James Franco from 127 Hours even though I’d been trapped in this shoe for just 1.27 minutes. I reasoned with the salesman that if he didn’t get it off me, I’d be forced to use a Swiss Army Knife on myself. He relented and took it off and I could feel my toes again.

“You didn’t like it? It looked very professional on you,” he said. I assured him that I wasn’t Clint Eastwood, that I didn’t commute to work on a horse, that my profession didn’t involve killing pesky Sheriffs and hence he should show me “something more contemporary”.

Poor choice of words.

“Something more contemporary” was lost in translation, and he pulled out a thing of such exquisite ugliness that it made me stifle a shriek. I don’t think I can ever find the right words to describe the monumentally perverted creation, but it looked roughly like this: a pair of dark-reddish (he called it burnt Sienna) shoes lined with golden threading on the sides, matching golden laces, and abnormally high heels. It was as if a Salvador Dali surrealist artwork had had sex with a bullfrog, and prematurely delivered these hideously deformed twin bastard foetuses.

The salesman brought the shoes right in front of my face for a closer look. I shrank back in a corner and flailed wildly to get away from them. No doubt it was the handiwork of one of those snooty, sadistic bastards from NIFT or some such useless institution, the thieving cunts that come up with bizarre abominations and con dumb ladies into believing that it’s haute couture. I’m not kidding. I have seen women pay obscene amounts for designer shawls that looked like they had been processed by a paper shredder and then hastily glued back together by a 4 year old, marketed with pseudo-philosophical bullshit such as “the delicate material of the stole is a metaphor for the fragility of human life and the arbitrary placement of the perforations is a metaphor for the void in our souls.” Translated for normal people, it is actually “a long piece of cheap toilet paper, torn after multiple usages and now on display exclusively for you to wrap around your neck and firmly establish your status as the most Fashionable Retard of your community”.

Back at the store, the salesman had just about exhausted the last reserves of my patience. It was astonishing to see a 5 word requirement getting distorted into 5000 travesties. The final straw was when he brought out a pair of white tennis shoes.

I lost it and snapped, “I do not want shoes that adapt to environmental temperatures, I do not want shoes with USB 3.0 ports, I do not want shoes that transform into Autobots, I do not want shoes that were thrown at Bush or Kalmadi, I do not want shoes that General Luftwaffe was wearing in the daring Operation Sea Lion of 1943, I do not want shoes that resonate with the divine frequency of the universal Brahman and bring cosmic equilibrium around my feet, I do not want shoes that look like Uday Chopra’s face from a certain angle although they would make great conversation starters, I do not want shoes that Geoff Horsfield was wearing when he came on as a substitute vs. Portsmouth and scored with his first touch in a gripping final day relegation battle in 2004-05. I WANT FORMAL BLACK SHOES WITH LACES. Do you get me?”

He responded by bringing a pair of brown shoes without laces.

Last thing I remember, I was running for the door – I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. “Relax,” said the lady on the right, “they are programmed to deceive. You can check out any time you like, but do you think these Stilettos would look better in beige?”


Theatres Scare Me.

This is a tribute to the precious minutes that ticked by in a dingy little theatre in Cochin. To the precious 50 bucks that lost their way somewhere. To the poor hair that got ripped right out of the scalp. And to my dearest friend Shaheed Pinkesh Ramnikbhai Patel, who died right next to me while watching Mission Istanbul. You continue to inspire me, motivate me and keep me alive through all the shitty movies, mate…

Hello folks!
Before I begin, I would like to request your patience for this post as it is laden with images. Assuming that you have a lame 64 KBPS connection, it would take about a week for all the images to download. I hope it’s worth your time when the page finally loads. Don’t send me hate mail if it isn’t.

Please don’t scroll down already. You’ll only see a bunch of grey boxes if you do.

I know that you ignored my suggestion and scrolled anyway, only to find the aforementioned grey boxes. If only you guys listened…sigh.

Now, what do I do to keep your attention from meandering again? Let me think. Oh yes. The best possible solution at the moment seems to be the one which will engage the reader in reading long sentences which have no meaning, provide no useful infromation or serve no purpose other than keeping their itchy fingers from scrolling again, only to find those damned grey boxes. There! I think the page has loaded. Scroll away!


Daniel Craig in Casino Royale :

Bond. James Bond. Boring James Bond. Stupid Boring James Bond.

Bond. James Bond. Boring James Bond. Stupid Boring James Bond.

Daniel Craig in Quantum of Solace :

Hold Me, Kiss Me, Thrill me, Kill Me. And Bribe Me.

Hold Me, Kiss Me, Thrill me, Kill Me. And Bribe Me.

Now, now, now… before all you Bond-crazy ladies pick up your pointy-heeled shoes and aim at my forehead, just hear me out. With all due respect to Mr. Bond and Mr. Late Pout Minister, I couldn’t help but notice the uncanny similarity between them. Don’t believe me? Take a closer look at their facial structure. I’ll be damned if you can’t make out the obvious resemblance.

*is hit by 5 dozen pointy-heeled shoes*
Owwwwchh! That hurt, damn you!

Abhishek Bachchan and his sexuality.

Abhishek Bachchan is one of my favourite actors. He’s talented and witty, but I guess he’s not too sure which way he’s swinging, if you know what I mean. Seemingly, he loves to *experiment* more than a NASA scientist on performance enhancing drugs. Let me explain.

As a homosexual in Dostana :

Utterly butt-erly delicious!

Utterly butt-erly delicious!

He was just ‘pretending’ to be a homosexual in the movie, eh? Yeah, right. Veeerrrry convincing. The deleted scenes will make it to Youtube in a few days time.

As a bisexual in Dhoom 2 :

This is better than the Hrithik-Ash kiss.

This is better than the Hrithik-Ash kiss.

But he wasn’t a bisexual in the movie, you fool!”, you tell me. Oh really? Then would be so kind enough to explain this:

  1. Observe the image carefully. Notice the way they are looking into each other’s eyes while delicately fingering their respective glasses (phallic symbolism?). Notice the flames licking their hands (wild, forbidden desires raging within?). I don’t know, I’m just saying.
  2. If I remember correctly, AB’s character’s wife (Rimi Sen) is shown to be pregnant in the movie. But still, hubby dearest is busy running after topless men. Why?
  3. Still need conclusive proof to support this theory? Ok, here goes : recall the climax of the movie. You know, when Hrithik jumps off the cliff. Now be honest to God when you answer this – what kind of a man would jump off a freaking cliff (without a parachute!) just to hug another man from behind? I mean Abhishek doesn’t even arrest him in the end anyway. So if he had no intentions of catching the bad guy, then what did he really intend to catch?
  4. To further intensify this conspiracy theory, Aishwarya shoots Hrithik in the end. Is this a reference to their real life relationship? Think about it. Quite clearly, everything’s NOT OK in paradise.

Cold, cold logic. *evil grin*

As a transsexual in Drona :

Kahin duur kisi saari ke saaye mein...Traannaaa..

Kahin duur kisi saari ke saaye mein... Traannaaa..

This is an easy one… the gorgeous hairstyle and the beautiful evening gown that he’s wearing give it away. Cho chweet tranny-nanny he is!

As an asexual currency-humping crackpot in Guru :

Make money, not love.

Make money, not love.

He prefers cash to Ash’s ass. I think Ash pretty much ruined her chances when she called him Gurubhai.
Not much dhoom-dhadaka in the bedroom now, is there?

Priyanka Chopra, I bow to thee.

As an ugly weird ridiculous freak show in LameStory 2050

When it comes to hair colour, I'm very retarded.

When it comes to hair colour, I'm very retarded.

As an ugly weird ridiculous freak show in Drona

Who the fuck designs my costumes anyway?!

Who the fuck designs my costumes anyway?!

As an ugly weird ridiculous freak show in Chamku

Chamku - my domestic help.

Chamku - my domestic help.

Rani Mukherji – An inslut to acting?

Rani Mukherji as a filthy call girl in Lagaa Chunri Mein Daag :

Lagaa re! Lagaa re!

Lagaa re! Lagaa re!

I hope she washed the ‘daag’ afterwards. Or does she like it dirty? Hee hee hee.;)

Rani Mukherji as a horny slut in the ‘blue movie’, Sawariyaa :

Gulabji by any other name would cost 1000 an hour!

Gulabji by any other name would cost 1000 an hour!

I don’t really feel like commenting on this one. Sigh.

Rani Mukherji as a trippy whore in Thoda Pyaar, Thoda Magik :

Hello kids!

The Indian Micheal Jackson. I sound like him too.

Any woman who comes cycling down a rainbow wearing a dress like that and that too only for the purpose of touching little kids cannot claim to be an angel. Her track record in such roles doesn’t help either.

Just look at her smile. Evil, corrupted, sick, twisted, maniacal, immoral, wicked smile. Our kids are not safe anymore. I don’t have kids, so I don’t care.


Minissha Lamba’s boobs in Kidnap :

The Indus valley civilization originated in my cleavage!

The Indus valley civilization originated in my cleavage!

Bra-vo, Minissha, bra-vo! You really deserve a big hand! A mammorable performance! A fantastic booby trap for the audience! Tit for tat! We are no longer bust bosom buddies! Honky tonk woman! I have run out of breast-related puns!

Wow, it feels nice to get it off my chest. (no pun.. uhh nevermind.)


Mission Istanbul-lshit – Darr ke aage jeet ke aage slow death hai :



This was nothing more than a 3 hour Mountain Dew commercial. Even the tagline is “Darr ke aage jeet hai.” Sheesh… what shameless, imagination-less bastards!

The icing on this dung-cake was Viveik Oberoi – the dumbass kept appearing and disappearing throughout the movie like it was some freaking Jadugaar K. Laal Magic Show. Somebody pension him off already.

FYI, this film has been officially banned in Istanbul. Istanbul’s mayor was extremely embarrassed and denied any connection with the movie. “Kill-a that bastardh, don’t a make no movie again!”, he was heard saying.

Note to self : No fooling around with Karzzzz in this post. Enough already.

Ciao peoples, I’m off to watch Golmaal Returns.