One liners. Let's get cracking.

There's no order to the lines that are about to follow. Some are life experiences, some are rather obvious, some painfully true, a few ludicrous, and the rest? Well, you decide for yourself. Here goes.

Your future self is probably talking to you right now.

Instincts are smarter than you. Trust them.

If you don't see the blue ticks, Turn Around And Run! (TAAR)

Fake American accent after a three-day visit to Singapore? TAAR.

Fishy handshake? TAAR

If it's hard, the effort is mostly worth it.

If he, she, or it makes you wait, it's not worth it. (unless you're getting naughty as fuck)

A sound sense of grammar shows a coherent mind, irrespective of language. Fine, I made that up. But if you/ she/ he/ it/ they typ as tho dey r stenographers, TAAR. Especially if that's how you type.

Gossip mongers? TAAR

If you can't tell your mom, sister, brother or close friend what's truly bothering you, you've got trouble on your hand. Sort yourself at the earliest. Somehow. Anyhow.

You and I aren't special. We were lied to. I know, the feeling sucks.

Too many hashtags? TAAR

Pout? Oh god, really?

And stop taking a fucking selfie anywhere and everywhere! Stop!

Holy shit, we're doing this

Odd title for a short story, I know.
Don't worry. Soon, there won't be any rhyming to show.
Let the awkward silences do their thing.
Someday, it will all be worth a ping.

Ours was a strange way to part.
You vanished, just like a fart.
I know that's funny for a start.
But holy fuck, gorgeous, it broke my heart. 

A little fault was mine, you played the rest of the part. 
Yeah, stubborn we both are, admit it or not.
I'm uptight, and oh, did I mention you're hot?
Shit, it still hurts, rotten jokes apart.

I think of you sometimes, oh what a lie.
Once a day, even that's a far cry.
To keep you out of my mind is all I try.
And return home a failure, fuck knows why.

You've changed your ways, the blue ticks are gone.
There's some new guy, perhaps. Clearly, you've moved on.
Not the kind to turn around, I know that woman.
But not like yours truly was without chinks and flaws.

I wish I had the balls to tell you that.
I'd be there through thick, thin and fat.
Where being cold and closed, I felt I was being a man,
That was me truly being a pussycat.

I still miss a beat on that pure, honest, giggly smile.
Swear to god, that sight's been a while.
It's the one thing that beguiles.
More than the curves, curls and the works by miles.

We went our ways for the better, I feel.
You've gotten yourself on an even keel,
I've had my own skeletons with which I had to deal.
It's a deal. It's a steal. It's sale of the fucking century!

Somewhere, it was also a chance to self-reflect.
To look within, assess, and check for defect.
Perhaps I should have followed the stupid heart, that I regret.
Holy fuck, life isn't perfect.

A few emojis I can't use anymore.
Gandhiji's favourites went out of the door.
Goodness knows what's in store.
But each time I bow, I pray for you. That's for sure. 

Oh, blast!

November is here, people! You know what that means? For a lot of us nouveau riche Indians, it means "Oh, did we miss the Holloween party?" For the humbler ones among us, it's time for DIWALI! That means the kids will cry for new toys, new clothes, new pencil boxes, spiderman underwears, while the party-planning committee in your office (if there's such a thing) will be busy brainstorming over their corporate gifting ideas. Please send good-quality dark chocolate, folks. Don't prove that you're cheap by sending Cadbury Celebrations with those mini-chocolates in them. Oh, and speaking of November, it's also time for some low-visibility days in our national capital. Poor Delhi-ites. This is one of the rare occasions where your heart will go out to them. Especially so if you have ever experienced how difficult it is to breathe anywhere outside the city's metro trains.

Lots of factors have contributed to the foul air in the city; crop burning in Punjab and Haryana, vehicular pollution, poor air circulation in the region during this time of the year, and if you think of it the cooler temperature in the winters too. Cooler air means denser air, and as a result, the concentration of particulate matter will be higher in the winter. Whether that logic rings a bell somewhere, the folks in Delhi will want for clean air for a couple of months. The somewhat good news is that the Supreme Court has announced that "Thou shalt only burn green crackers." Up for a technical joke? If you want your firecrackers to burn with a green flame, you need to have barium compounds in them because, well, chemistry. But apparently, if barium is part of the ingredients list of your cracker, it can no longer be classified as a 'green cracker'. Got it? 

Now, every Saturday, The Hindu has this one, massive, 2000-word Op-Ed article that looks rather daunting, honestly. The newspaper calls this piece 'Ground Zero', and it discusses some excellent topics. This week, the massive spread was on the Honourable Supreme Court's directive on green crackers and how it has had devastating consequences for the cracker industry. If you're into long reads, I suggest that you check the article out. After spending a good 12 minutes on the piece, nostalgia hit me like a brick. Diwali is staring us in the face, and just a few days before it is when our big guns at Mandi house have let loose their polar-bear saving instincts. God bless them if they can save their fellow citizens from the noxious air they must breathe. 

But the present scenario reminds me of examinations. Yes, examinations, those ugly, unpleasant, forgettable events that yours truly, like most of you, absolutely dreads. Remember how we used to lock our rooms during the last hour before the exam? The good ones among us crammed in an entire semester's worth of wisdom into our thick skins in those final moments. Nah, I wasn't among the good ones. My grades will make you cry; they at least make me cry. Another topic for another day (or never, perhaps). Back to the topic at hand. So yes, with its latest directives, our highest court has spewed out a bunch of instructions to prove that it is concerned about the well-being of our lungs. However, like our exam preparations, is it a wee bit too late?

If the Supreme Court had a bespectacled teacher, she would have given our boys in black a nice thrashing, screaming "Had you prepared even a little, had you paid an ounce of attention during the EVS classes, you'd have had half the brains to yank these new instructions out of your backside earlier, *gasping for breath* and not 2 hours before the country was all set to celebrate the victory of good over evil!" Whoever said good and evil are subjective was a complete nut now, isn't it? Now, no refuting that the pro-green-firecrackers stance is a great move, but does it hold water, especially at this point and time? It is a step in the right direction but like the ban on the Rs 500 and Rs 1000 notes, it is solving an ostensible problem while triggering a cascade of troubles. 

For a start, most of the cracker vendors, most of who are illiterate, don't grasp the concept of green crackers. Heck, from the little I have read on the topic, the fellows studying the subject aren't clear about what makes a green cracker. We will reach a clearer resolution, but that's not happening soon, at least not at the staccato rate that the new rules are being dished out. 

The cracker-making business has unsurprisingly taken a hard knock to the head, and it won't be long before their big clients would want to return their goods, for a refund. The industry will have to figure a way out through the directives, get clarity on what this whole green cracker business is all about, or find loopholes they can leverage. But then they are good at the latter, aren't they?

The slump in the cracker industry also portends a spike in unemployment. Agreed, the industry falls into the unorganised sector, but the people who risk life and limb to make crackers – who make ends meet with it – will have to find new jobs. That's probably a good thing as long as they can find a less hazardous profession to earn a living. There are other upsides too. The drop in the purchase of firecrackers will help the air and noise pollution, but we know that already. The latest measures will help spread awareness about how badly we need to keep our air clean, and only a dramatic move like the one facing us can accomplish that. Lesser crackers mean lesser of the red-and-white confetti that's strewn on the roads the morning after. Goodness, that's an unpleasant sight. Plus, lesser smoke, sound and waste means we can concentrate on the sweets and the good food that's probably part of some wise neighbour's plan. 

Brioche

Culinary enthusiasts, stand clear. This is not a conversation for you if your uniform comprises a toque, a fillet knife and a set of spoons. Also, stay away if you know about more than three cuts of beef, for I can remember none. Oh hell, tenderloin just popped into my head. So did the rib. Shit. Let's keep it short. Cooks, please stay away, especially if you sound, look, or even remotely behave like Gordon Ramsay. He's one Brit I'm petrified of.

Aha, so brioche, as a Google search will tell you, is a type of bread that the French concocted with flour, sugar, yeast, eggs and butter. Loads of butter. It's soft, fluffy, airy, utterly, butterly delicious *Amul*, but wait. It's also the sort of thing that will grab eyeballs at a flashy supermarket near you. Because brioche? What's that? Curiosity kicks in and soon, your shopping cart is cradling this fancily named bread all the way to the billing counter. Higher things in life, you see?

It's humbling sometimes, to have the privilege of experiencing the finer things. Especially when you've seen your family rise from modest means to a life of comfort, if not opulence. But words like brioche, ganache, gateau, au revoir and the likes make your scalp itch. After you're done scratching, I wonder how anyone stays away from Googling what these eclectic words mean. The other day, Farroq Bulsara was crooning over a bottle of Moet and Chandon kept in some pretty lady's cabinet. Heck, who's going to tell you that M&C is a brand of champagne you cannot yet afford? Maybe soon, but goodness, these lyricists, their novel tastes and high-flying lexicon.

Just as a side-note, any song penned by Freddie Mercury will send you sprinting to your rusty-old Oxford mini-dictionary. Fancy words all around, but they paint a stunning picture when you put them into perspective. Back to brioche then. Save for the upmarket name and a little bit of its basic composition, the borderline haughty Brioche isn't that different from the humble paav that cocoons your wada. It's flour, fat, eggs, sugar and yeast. You're telling me that a Modern, Wibbs, Brittania or *insert your favourite bread brand*  can't add some extra eggs and butter to their bread dough and sell you a slightly 'premium' loaf of bread wearing a slightly amped-up price-tag? Apparently not, and strangely so.

Actually, not so strangely so. Think of it. Would you pay Rs 150 for a loaf of bread that has 'Modern' written on it? Or for that matter, any brand that sells a relatively plebian variety of bread? In your head, it would be a bit like paying BMW price for a Hyundai. The Korean underdog is possibly more thrilling than its Bavarian competitor, but you wouldn't buy it. Nor would you buy the idea that Hyundai can make an automobile superior to a German brand. That might soon change, though. You see, the Koreans have smartly roped in ex-BMW staff to give their cars some extra oomph. That rant some other time.

But yeah, the truth is that a brand name could make all the difference to your bank balance. The more tongue-contorting the name, the more substantial the dip in your savings. The chaps even spelled their names wrong. Look at Bvlgari, Versace (sounds Gujarati to me), DKNY (as in Don't Know Why?), FCUK (COME ON! At least spell this right, people!). People gift their credit cards to these folks. Don't even get me started on the ones that sound funny. One second. Jimmy Choo? What were they thinking?

Let's stop here, because it's all in a lighter vein. You really came here in search of the perfect Brioche recipe, didn't you? Sorry to disappoint. Jokes aside, our collective obsession for 'feel-good' products has turned into a bit of a joke; screw the puns. Once upon a time, premium was the amount you paid to save your arse from a stratospheric hospital bill; or your family's arse in case you kicked the bucket a little early. Now, 'premium' has become part of a marketer's nuclear arsenal. Everything's got to be premium. The seat fabrics in your car, the biscuits, the shoe polish, the underwear, ice-creams, cooking oil, goodness knows, even bottled water I suppose. How?

No one asks 'Why', that's how. *fin*

Hurt no more

Back in 1994, Nine Inch Nails, the rock band, gave us Hurt. The song had the makings of a rock number, a fantastic one to say the least. It sounded dark, borderline ominous, and had oodles of bass; an easy choice for the lovelorn bloke who recently had his heart decimated. Eight years hence......

Johnny Cash decided to give the rock elements amiss, took a good ol' acoustic guitar, and proved to the world that older means wiser. The song that gave the impression that it wanted to bite your head off would now bring you to tears. Hurt finally sounded the way hurt felt for you and me.

Now, the interpretation of the song is disputed, and heroin addiction is often considered the central theme. But Cash's version leans towards the rock legend – now in his twilight years – reminiscing his younger, brasher, wilder self, and all that he regrets. Cash's Hurt also brings to light an element of inner peace that stands in the face of dilapidation. Almost as though you stopped thrashing wildly in water after realising that you could float if you stayed still.

So that's what getting older does to you, is it? It humbles the bitter, teaches you how to endure, ]forgive, to hold close what was beautiful and to let go of what pained the heart. Maybe, gratitude, forgiveness, mindful retrospection and inner peace are also perks of a longer stay on this beautiful rock hurtling through space.

Yes, the pain is there. Perhaps, shrouded in the all-pervasive white noise, thinking that it's playing hide-and-seek, but you know it's still there. It pokes, pinches, stabs and jabs at you from time to time, rears its head when you least expect it to. But, it's been in business for long enough to have become part of you.

Ever heard that high-frequency sound that pops up in the ear from time to time? Each time that happens, your eardrum becomes desensitised to that particular frequency; you'll never again be able to hear it. You've become immune to it. Slowly and surely, there will be more frequencies that you will lose the ability to hear, just like the old skins you shed, the people you lose, the people who lose you, and the pains that you wanted to avoid all along.

As Cash says, eventually, you'll lose them all, they'll all go away in the end. Not the loveliest picture to paint, is it?  But when you look back, you'll have tales to tell about everything gorgeous, satisfying and enthralling that made your life worth living. And you there, for I know you're reading this, were one of the best things that happened to me, and I wish to tell tales of how you made life blissful for those few precious moments.

They still call him 'masterji'.

'Master,' what a word. It addresses someone who's in a position of control, someone who's got his act together, and thank grammar, here's a word that is perfectly out of the purview of gender discrimination. Or perhaps, it isn't. You never know nowadays.

It isn't the day or age when you switched on the telly and He-Man popped up on screen and announced that he's allegedly the 'Master of the Universe'. Creativity and lies come in all shapes and sizes, replete with blonde hair, a weird costume, and a pussy-tiger for a pet. (Anyone remember He-Man? Anyone?)

The word Master represents everyone from a little boy, to Master Shifu (Thank you, Dustin Hoffman), to those who shamelessly spend precious time, sweat, blood and resources trying to seduce anyone with half a penny to sponsor their college projects. However, serious respect for the academically inclined, because studies aren't everyone's cup of tea. Oh, for those with kinky inclinations, the master is also a source of sadistic pleasure. *Smack, *Smack, *SMACK (Perhaps, the *WHIP of a lash sounds better. Oh, god.)

In our increasingly fast-food life, where everything needs to be at our disposal like two-minute noodles, the whole concept of mastery seems to have taken a back-seat. Everything NOW. Weightloss - now; food - now; settlements - now; sex - now; Times - Now (Goswami's left, isn't it? Phew); clothes - now. All ready-made, ONE SHAPE FITS ALL. Of course, you can still pick from S, M, L, XL, XXL and a balloon. But somewhere, the tradition of getting your clothes stitched has lost its charm, save for among the true ladies and gentlemen.

The last time I'd gotten my clothes stitched was upon my mom's advice. Mom and little sister took along a shirt that fit me well, chose the colours and materials as per their liking, and handed me a stack of new shirts. They did fit well, I must say. However, it had been a while since I last saw anyone's attire in the making. The sight of the measuring tape stretched taut between the tailor's thumb, his meticulous eyes making mental notes of where the fabric will fold unnecessarily, or where it will push unpleasantly against your paunch, there's an old-school charm to the process. 

I did finally get to witness it, and that too in a shopping mall. Dad has a penchant for tailored clothes, but doesn't indulge too often. The last time he did, I went along just for kicks. That's when I heard the word 'Masterji'. This rather quaint man, narrow shoulders, sunken eyes and all, surfaced when the at the representative at the store called out the name. Masterji. He didn't look the part, but something about the way he spoke, his ability to gauge a man's shape, and the quick movements of his eyes suggested that you would be happy with the clothes you would be collecting a week from now. That reassurance is reinforced further when you realise that they are still called 'masters'.   

That awkward moment

Parents are cute creatures. They believe that their tiny tots, who have turned into bristly adults, can do no wrong. "Oh, what wonderful angels our kids are! They wouldn't harm a fly."

Their love for us blindsides them to harsh realities, that they were confronted with a couple of decades or so ago. If you're a parent, don't even bother telling me, or anyone for that matter, that you have never sneaked out of your home late-night to meet your sweetheart. Or that you never went off the radar for a weekend for some bow-chika-wow-wow, while your folks thought you were at some friend's marriage. Where are the photos, eh? Of the marriage, I mean.

That, quite neatly, brings me to the day when my mom decided to randomly rummage through my bag searching for god knows what. She did find something, and I don't think it's what she was looking for. Two nice, shiny, blue, square packets which had something flimsy and ring-like inside them....

Ahhh.... what lovely things.

These are amazing! Again, I don't get paid to say this, but the 'extra-time' ones, phew. You can last a lifetime on them, try all your acrobatics, and then think to yourself: "Man, junior lasted that long? Nice." Once, I went to the pharmacy (yes, not a fucking chemist!) and asked for a pack of these beauties. The shopkeeper gave the needful to me, I paid, turned around, and realised that a pack might not suffice for the weekend. I went back for another packet. A lady was ordering her own goods during the whole episode, and when I went back for Round 2, the shopkeeper blushed a bit and took me to the side counter so that he could clandestinely hand me the second installment of the 'contraband'. Condoms, people! Condoms! Because conservative society. However, however, now this is the interesting bit. The sly bastard gave me a devilish snicker after receiving his dues. That's because.... fun, you see?
In college, I remember one of the chaps from this group I hung out with challenged all of us to get condoms. Honestly, condoms were a bit of a taboo in my head back then, because heck, I had no game. Not that I'm super slick with lasses today, but now, I can buy myself my stash of condoms without feeling woozy in front of a timorous shopkeeper. Not an achievement, I know. By the way, we got back to our hostels and made water-balloons out of the condoms. That was fun. Not.

Oh, back to my mom discovering the condoms in my bag. Not good. Not good. She asked me "What is this?", half angry, a fourth helpless, and another fourth in denial.
I sheepishly slipped the two packets into my pocket while she pretended not to see. The fact that she didn't meet me in the eye for quite sometime after that episode pinched inside. Such punishment for the kid's little crimes and misdemeanours. Crimes and misdemeanours because:
a) She comes from an orthodox background; not that I'm a loutish libertine.
b) Woody Allen rocks.
More importantly, I wonder what she was looking for inside the bag.

Not for polite company

Life, as we know it, has a tricky way with surprises. Surprises, more to the tune of rude shocks, the kind that can set an existential crisis snowball rolling. Now, time for a question that's (mostly) guaranteed to induce awkwardness. Do you watch porn? It's fun to watch how so many of us squirm at this question, almost as if it's a crime to watch graphic content involving human genitalia and orifices. Come on, that's a lot better than saying 'dick' and 'vagina', isn't it? Too sophisticated you are. I was asked this question at my workplace, that too by a senior I admire. DURING WORK HOURS. "Do you watch porn?"

"Absolutely sir!" I blurted, a little to my own surprise. "Excellent answer!", he replied. I felt a strange sense of satisfaction, pride if you may, that day because there was no squirming involved. Even more so because the rest of the office shifted in their seats uncomfortably.

A few days later, the shocker came. I was watching this gorgeous, voluptuous woman undressing on my screen. This guy walked in, wagging his enormous pecker, and that's when the woman looked into the camera and said something that, for lack of better words, scarred me. She said, "You sit there jerking off while I fuck this gigantic cock for real!"

My world collapsed on itself like a dying star, turning into a life-sucking black hole in the fabric of my existence. Yes, that line was more a blow to my ego than anything else, but boy, that shit hurt. Thankfully, there was an upside to that sucker-punch. I'm off porn, as would be most men who witnessed the abovementioned gorgeous woman's borderline contemptuous, positively scathing remark. Please don't tell me you're into such a thing; boy, where's your self-esteem?

The vision of the woman delivering the dialogue did replay in my head when my girlfriend said tata to me recently. Just that this time, the woman's face was replaced with the face of my girlfriend. Yup, that pinched like a bitch, but that's how inter-gender dynamics are supposed to be I guess. And finally, we are here to fuck, so let's not be crass or bitter about it. That's yours truly partly rationalising a heartbreak, but anyway.

But let's get back to the topic of pornography. It's not going to do you any good. Agreed, you aren't doing anyone any harm, it's just you, your hands, your pecker, or your vagina, the screen and your devices (if you use any) left to your own device. You do the deeds, feel good about it for 5-30 seconds and that's that. Yes, we men have to deal with the infamous post-masturbation dip in self-esteem, but most of us get along after that just fine. Or do we?

Think of this. You're horny, so you pick up your device, go to your favourite site, watch a video, or a string of them, rub one off, and then you pretty much sit back and relax. You have gotten your dopamine hit, the chemical that gives your brain the 'feeling good' feeling with zero effort. Let this routine set in for long enough and you're looking at issues, issues that can cause trouble. Lack of motivation, poor self-control, and if you are a chronic user, deteriorating social skills is a possibility too. None of this is to scare you, it's all from personal experience. Plus, the dopamine hit I mentioned about earlier, well that's got another problem. Dopamine works a bit like caffeine. The more you're exposed to it, the more you need it, so over time, the amount of porn you need for arousal will ramp up,. The first clip, the second, and the subsequent ones that are so conveniently clickable will slowly fail to satisfy you, which means you're losing more time in front of a screen. That's time you probably could have invested in getting better at something, perhaps meeting a real human of the opposite sex. If that's not enough, porn is likely to mess with your relationships too.

Not convincing, I know. And hence, I urge you to do some digging of your own on the effects of porn on the brain. You will be blown away. It's through some digging of my own that I discovered something called the NOFAP movement. The concept of the NOFAP movement, as the name suggests, is to refrain from porn and masturbation. You can have as much sex as you want though, just clarifying. Now, that may sound ludicrous to many, but this shit works. It's no magic pill to your worldly woes, and some of the benefits you get from it are possibly psychological, but come on.

The benefits? Better focus, calmer mind, lesser time on the phone (we all could use this one), more drive to do stuff (since the dopamine now comes only after you have actually done something, so you strive more), and (strangely) a bigger pecker. The last one was a shocking bonus that I felt after about a month or so into NOFAP. It feels good.

Disclaimer: NOFAP is not an organisation, and I don't get paid to tell you, the discerning reader, any of this. Just another human wading through life and figuring my shit out. Take what advice seems useful and skip out on the rest. Here's something I'd like to leave you with.

Go out and do something amazing with your lives, be nice to people, and I will catch up with you later. - Brian Alsruhe (Coolest strongman on Youtube) 

Are you understanding?

Can you see the scrunched up face of your least favourite human already? Don't know, "Are you understanding" seems like the preserve of frustrated teachers. These are the ones who perpetually claim how the students of the other division are way better than the hooligans in your class. Surely, the teachers repeat the same lines next door, but anyway. Mind you, "Are you understanding?" is grammatically incorrect because of some unfathomable difference between present continuous and present perfect tense. Please use "Do you understand?"

Tenses. Phew. School... BIGGER Phew. Wow, school was a good nine years ago. Facial hair, pubic hair, and other bulbous, beautiful things sprouting, weird subjects, scribbly, doodly notebooks, la-la-la, blah-blah-blah, and just like Ringa-Ringa roses, it all came crashing down. Or was it all falls down? Who the fuck wrote Ringa-Ringa? And who, really, who runs with a pocketful of posies? For those of you who don't know, posies are a small bunch of flowers. I didn't know that either, till I asked Google aunty just five minutes ago.

On the 25th of this November, some of us will take up the arduous task of belling the CAT. This is not one of your regular mini-felines. It's a beast that takes no prisoners apparently. But if you tie the bell around it, you will be rewarded. Hope it's not like the "If you ace your 10th board exams, your name will be etched on some obscure wall of fame." burger that our parents fed us. Well, I bet it will be the exact same burger, this time without the patty. Nah, just kidding. The CAT is the gateway to some of the most prestigious management education institutions in India, and also that to a supremely prosperous life. (Pssst.. text copied from the brochure of some MBA college).

Yours truly, like many of you, intends to bell the CAT this year. And to bell the CAT, or as the lingo goes, 'crack the CAT', you need to have some idea of tenses. Yup, it's that aspect of grammar that deals with time. Past, present, future and their many ghosts. Each tense is further divided into four types.
For instance, the Present tense is divided into Simple Present, Present Perfect, Present Continuous, and Present Perfect Continuous. It's likewise with Past and Future.
Let's look at some examples.
Simple Present: He is mad.
Present Perfect: He is perfectly mad.*
Present Continuous: He's getting there, madness.*
Perfect Continuous: Ahh.. this form of the tense is seldom used, so let's chuck it altogether.
*Please do not, even mistakenly, take these for actual examples.

So that's a wrap for Day 1. Goodness knows what monsters the keyboard will unleash in the next 140-odd days.

One Year Hence (Part Three: The morning after)

The drive to Goa had been a smooth affair, and the 600-odd kilometres I had clocked in a little less than 10 hours was a tick on my to-do list. Meeting Deepak and his better half felt like Christmas had arrived early, and eating their share (more like stealing their share) of food off their plates made me realise how hungry I was.

However, something was missing. Not something, nearly 75 percent of the gang was missing. So yes, we were in Goa, the afternoon was scorching as fuck, and while sitting on one of those reclining chairs by the beach with a bottle of ice-cold beer felt luxurious, the scenery was incomplete.
Evening arrived, and so did one confusion: where should we eat? Deepak, Nami and I were Goa nubies, and what didn't help is that north of Goa gets rather dingy by sundown. Solution? Let's go to someplace well-known. Curlies it was. Agreed, it's cliched, but it had the beach, it had the meats, and it had BIRA! Sadly, yours truly was driving, so Bira only for Deepak. Bastard. But holy pig, their pork ribs! You see them and say, let's share the plate. With dinner done and dusted, we headed back for the long night. Long night, because the remaining cast - Arun, Leelu, Krishna, Yasir and Geetus - was arriving at 6 in the morning. And the eight hours that remained felt like a month.

I woke up at 5 because honestly, the anticipation was overwhelming. The gang had pulled me out of a dark corner in my mind the last I'd been with them. They are the ones who had fixed me. And then, of course, there was the other thing. I would see monkey after over a year. This time, for real, not on Skype, or Whatsapp. And we could fight each other again!

Deepak knocked at the stroke of 6. "They're here."
Hmm. Time to play it cool, I guess. Here's something about playing cool. There are those who can play cool, and there are those who can't. I don't want to discuss which lot I fit into, because I fit into the latter. And it's not cool. That's because when you can't play cool and try to, you end up being a flop-show. Because you are trying to conceal all your inner happiness and thinking to yourself that you're wearing a poker face. Sadly, everyone looking at you can see that mile-wide grin pasted on you. Fuck it, who cares. These were my people, and holy cow was I glad to see the fuckers.

Pleasantries exchanged, time to get out of the hotel. Also, time for some food! That means time for more cliched places, and today it was Britto's. The food vanished as fast as it came, so did the beers, but still no beer for me. Because, well, because don't fucking drink and drive.
The best time to visit Goa is smack in the peak of summer. It's hot, everyone is sweaty, and bae feels sexier to hold. And her curves glisten.

Fact and sarcasm aside, ladies and gentlemen, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT visit Goa in summer. You will end up spending more time than you would like in your hotel rooms trying to avoid the heat. That has its advantages, which I shall not get into, but as a rule of thumb, do not visit Goa in summer.
Since we had stuffed ourselves silly with food, an afternoon nap was in order, so back to the hotel rooms, driver! We got back, some struggled in, some snuggled in, and I don't know how, in my room, we fit four in one bed. It's India, people, get used to it. And trust me, it's fun.
Evening came, again, but this time, there was a sense of satisfaction in having a picture full of sexy people. What a stark jump from 24 hours ago, when you wanted each moment to rush by as fast as possible.

The beers were in, along with some exotic spirits from three oceans away, and so was pizza. Lot's of pizza. Somehow, we didn't get that wasted. The hours flew by, the food vanished, and since we were in Goa, we just had to head out for that mandatory walk on the beach. For the first time in a while, I felt an entire lot of people letting their guards down. A couple of us, especially the newlyweds Arun and Leelus, happily walked our time away, while a few unloaded all the weight on our chests. Some let it out in tears, some vented theirs out with hugs, some sprinted the fuck out of their worries, and some of us allowed the receding waves of the Arabian Sea wash our botherations away. It feels nice, I must tell you, to sense the sand slipping below your feet. Like there's new ground to stand on each time a wave of trouble passes over you. Perhaps it's nature's way of telling us all that you can start over any time you like, on a clean slate. Notice that you can never hold on to that sand near your feet either. Best to let it go, like with everything else that wants to, I guess.

I remember that evening, that of the 6th of April like it was yesterday. Good Friday it was in the truest sense. The one that was a jab of adrenaline, hope and warmth straight into the heart. You see, some moments revive your faith in the fact that life will be good, and this evening was filled with them. Yes, there will be hang-ups, you will have to wade through troubled waters, trudge over bad roads, and things may not go as planned. In fact, things seldom go as planned, or so I hear from anyone remotely wise. That said, however, what you have is beautiful, and neither the troubles of the past nor the worries of the future can take that from you.

Part 4 coming in a bit....

One year hence (Part two: The Drive)

About 17 years ago, Akash, Sameer and Sid set out on a little road trip to Goa. Little perhaps did they know that their sojourn would become the stuff of dreams for every young Indian. Time to play hero, then.  

It was three in the morning on the 5th of April. The parents hadn't woken up, sleep wouldn't come, and one pretty face simply refused to leave my head. The plan was to leave home by 3 and reach Goa by about 1pm, or that's what Google aunty estimated. Unlike the swanky Merc SL300 that the Dil Chahta Hai (DCH) trio drove for their road trip, I was about to do the 600km run in my trusty little 47hp, Alto. Please don't tell my parents that I took the Alto. They'll faint. They'll also wonder how I made it back alive without a single scratch on the little hatchback.My dad had serious doubts about the Alto making it half-way to Goa. I, however, was confident that my little tin box, with its monumental fuel-efficiency figures and power output of a lawn-mower (power output of a fly with the AC turned on), would pass with flying colours. Aha! Let's go in THE Alto! Thank you Maruti. 
So, yeah, I managed to sneak out. Just about. Because just as I tip-toed up to my door in all my hubris thinking "Yes, I'm about to get out undetected", I hear my mom. "Where do you think you're going, little fellow?". I froze and muttered I don't know... "To get some bananas for the trip? Okay, bye mom, see you on Sunday!" And I darted for the door, with my mom's "Drive carefully!" floating somewhere in my slip-stream. 
This was going to be a solo run for the next 10 hours or so. I tanked up my lucky little machine and hit the road. Okay, for those planning a DCH trip of their own, it's pretty simple. Head out of Bombay on the Pune Expressway, and simply merge into NH48. It's a no-brainer. After the fourth toll on NH48, continue for about 25km and take a right. Soon, you'll hit Amboli Ghat, which is an absolute treat for anyone who loves a set of switchbacks. Because Amboli Ghat is left, after right, after left, after right, after a harder left, followed by a harder right, and WALLAH HABIBI! You're in Goa! This is if you have an older brother, a gang of friends and the most gorgeous woman on the planet waiting for you in Goa. That means you really want to get there as fast as possible. 

If you have more time to spare, head down the Ratnagiri route. A close senior of mine says that's a lot more scenic, although NH48 is the easier one to drive. However, I didn't. And so the Bombay-Pune Expressway-NH48 route it was. 
The stretch till Pune was familiar, of course, and by 6:30, it was done and dusted. I was only disheartened to know that the McDonalds en route wouldn't open early in the morning. My double dark hot chocolate *tears*. I had bananas on board, and so, I simply decided to chuck food stops after the disappointing halt at McD. Thankfully, the sprawling roads meant that I could make good time, and I only halted to prevent paralysis of my spine (don't try this at home). I maintained the speedo at 100, because if I went any faster, the universe would shiver and the steering would turn into cake. By some stroke of luck, I'd sorted my playlist, and the internet never failed, so the miles flew by without a fuss. Then came the Amboli Ghat. 

The most humbling feeling in the world is to realise that you are average at something. Yes, we like to consider ourselves "above average", but think of this. If everyone's above average, who the fuck is AVERAGE? Now, my driving skill has been the butt of many jokes in the past. It kind of hurt initially, but I stayed at it. So, the universe has magically kept me from running over all the pedestrians and bikers on the road. But if you drive a Dzire, a WagonR or any of the Ola-Uber cars, I swear I'll run you over on purpose. Goodness, these blokes have ZERO, absolutely ZERO road sense. Okay, back to Amboli Ghat. Wow, what a section of road! It's a proper joy ride! The Alto skidded and slid around some of the harder turns, and if I were to have someone riding shotgun, motion sickness would have raised its ugly head. So yeah, drive solo on Amboli Ghat. And boy, the scenery!

The roads, however, are narrow, and I was just lucky to get this shot. Yes, I had to turn around and park on the other side. 
Goa is a stone's throw from here. That's because I remember taking this shot at about 1pm. By 2, I was at my resort in Morjim, raring to meet my buddy, Deepak. God, hugging the bugger felt good. As I previously mentioned, he's the ONE reason that made this trip possible. In fact, the background of this little drive to Goa lies in December of 2016, when I skipped town on a whim. Had Deepak not been there then, I'd probably have headed straight to a madhouse. So here's to friends who come to your rescue. 

That's Deepak on the left. (PC: Geetus)

That's Deepak getting rogered by his wife, Namita. That happens often. (PC: Geetus)

As for the rest of the mad gang, I'd have to wait another agonising 14 hours. But with this scenery greeting me, there was little I could complain about.....

Here's Part 1 and Part 3

One year hence (Part One: Meet the Gang)

Two of our lot of six got married, so that makes us eight. Time for some introductions, but before that, a DISCLAIMER. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Deepak: The fundamental reason why yours truly is writing this. He's pot-bellied, hair sprouts from his ears, he's wise (well, mostly), and the only octagenarian in the gang. No, actually, he's just 32. Importantly, this gent got me into the gang about which you will read in a bit.

Namita: Deepak managed to woo this innocent soul about two years ago, and wah-lah! They are married. She looks docile, but don't be mistaken. She's quirky, fun, and when she gets pissed, Deepak runs for life. But, she's also made our old friend a happier man than I last remember. Not that he was unhappy, but now, he looks brighter. Hmm....

Krishna, a.k.a The Gentle Giant: My first point of contact in the gang after Deepak. She makes me feel like a midget. Actually, everybody makes me feel like a midget. Eh, a topic for another day. Back to Krishna. She's six-odd feet of pure heart, the one you will call without hesitation at 3 a.m. And trust me when I say this, she's got your back if you even remotely know her. And like with all members of our gang. don't leave your snacks around here. They'll be gone.

Bandar, a.k.a Monkey, a.k.a Pranthi (meaning mad woman): Ahem! Next.

Leelus: Okay, she's the only one who doesn't make me feel like a midget. The little, erstwhile untalkative woman found herself this hunk of a chap called Arun (About him in a bit) and well, they got married. Six months into their marriage, she's become a lot vociferous than most of us can remember, and (Thankfully) healthier in the right manner. Let's get something off the bat. She looks the 'Khadoos' types, perfect teacher material, but as the phrase goes, don't judge a book by its cover. Want to really see her in her elements? Get her some good old Old Monk. 

Arun: He's the handsome hunk I mentioned earlier. You see, there are some people you meet the first time and say, "Holy cow, I am jealous of this fucker's personality, but GOD would it be amazing to have him for a friend." Arun belongs to the category of chaps who clearly have their shit sorted. So, no surprise that Leelus fell for him. Equal parts fun, equal parts zen. He'll sort you out when you are punch drunk; by making you sprint on the beach. He'll care for you when you're low. Buddy, please tell me how to become like you. 

He Who Must Not Be Named (HWMNBN... Pssst his name is Yasir): He is mostly the silent types, so don't coax him into his "One-liner" mode. Because HE. WILL. SHUT. YOU. UP. AND. HOW! He's the cute chap in the gang who is not supposed to drink. He does. And then, he goes ballistic. Dangerously so, in a way that you will look for shelter from all the shit that's about to hit the fan. But then, that's the deal with pure souls. They don't have inhibitions. Plus, they have an extra set of balls which allows them to blurt out whatever the fuck they want, RIGHT in your face. Our man hates the fact that I use the word 'Fuck' as a punctuation, adjective verb, and noun. Sorry man, few habits die hard. 

Bandar, a.k.a Monkey, a.k.a Pranthi (meaning mad woman): No, can't miss this one. Geetus. That's her name. And since I grew an extra pair of balls in the last three seconds, she's the real reason I drove ten hours straight from Bombay to Goa. She's fiery, sexy, captivating, if you may. And, if you ever lay your eyes on her, you'll die doing unmentionable things to yourself. That and two very mad men WILL take your life anyway. I met Geetuson my last trip with the gang. Little did I know that she'll turn into a life-long confidant, because the first time we met, we were like fire and ice. Quarrelling like cat and dog. The rest of the gang wasn't too sure if both of us would come out of the trip alive. We did, I more alive than ever before. 

She's been the voice of sanity for the past year, the one who made me realise how uplifting the company of a gorgeous woman is. How gorgeous you ask? I wish I could tell you. But then, I'd have to kill you. 

Here's Part 2 and Part 3

On deadlifts

What is it about lifting heavy shit that's so satisfying? Why does that rush of blood to the head and the following tinging sensation in your entire being make you feel invincible? Whatever the reasons, you will return to the weight stack once you've got a taste of iron.

Now, there are three (five, actually) fundamental lifts that can turn your body into that of a superhero's. The first three, comprising the sport of powerlifting, are the Squat, the Bench-press, and the Deadlift. The other two are the Pull-ups and Parallel-bar dips. Incorporate these into your regime and watch the magic. Among these, the deadlift is the real killer. It requires your entire body to work in unison, your back, shoulders, legs, core, the whole shebang! It's also the easiest to cock up and mind you, the deadlift takes no prisoners. Probably, it will rip your lower back to shreds, and you'll be lucky to get out of the gym walking.
Yours truly screwed up a heavy deadlift once. I was pushing about 110kg, I rounded my back while lifting, and nearly herniated my lumbar discs. That was in December 2016. The doctor told me to avoid any spinal loading, and I took a year to develop the cojones to pick up the barbell again.

Do the deadlift right, however, and it is the most rewarding exercise. It gives you a Superman-like posture, a T-Rex's legs, the tush of a model, abs of steel, grip-strength of a python, and a bulletproof back, and then some! Oh, here's what a decent deadlift looks like (she's not tucking her chin in, though). Thanks for the GIF, Buzzfeed!



Here are pointers when doing a deadlift. 1) Stand in the middle of the barbel with your feet about shoulder-width apart.
**2) Squat down to the bar until your fingers can grip the bad and no more. (Don't bend over)
3) Grab it with the strongest grip you can muster. (this also engages your lats, the wing-like muscles that emerge when you extend your arms to the side)
4) Get your back flat. (like someone is pressing down on your lower back)
**5) See that your shoulder is placed a wee bit ahead of the bar. (This way, the weight won't pull you forward when lifting.
6) Pull your shoulders back and down. (It helps maintain a neutral spine)
7) Tense your arms and body to remove the slack from the bar. (A good way to keep the back from rounding)
**8) Tuck your chin in.
9) Brace your core like someone's about to punch you HARD in the gut and push your chest out.
10) Push the weight off the floor with your legs. Don't, I repeat, DON'T pull it up with your back and arms! The deadlift, at least the lift-off part of the exercise, is a pushing move for which you should use the big muscles of your body, the glutes (bum) and quads (thighs).
11) On your way down, push your hips behind, and begin bending the knees only when the bar crosses it.

Yes, the list is long, but it's just like driving. Once you're used to the clutch, brakes, steering, throttle and indicators, using them becomes second nature. Not if you are an Indian, though. Indians don't use indicators when changing lanes. USE INDICATORS WHEN CHANGING LANES!!

While all the ten points are crucial in a deadlift, #2, #5, and #8 require special mention.
Let's start with #2.
This holds true not just for deadlifts, but for picking up anything off the ground, be it a crayon you dropped, or 120kg. Always squat down to pick up stuff, and the logic is simple. Your legs are waaaay, waaaay stronger than your lower back. So, as in life, don't bend over. Unless you really wanted to. Okay, moving on.

#5) Place your shoulders a wee-bit ahead of the bar. This is something I learned from personal experience. When you keep your shoulders exactly over the bar, you will notice that the weight tends to pull you forward when you perform the lift, especially when you go heavier. This happens because your body's centre of mass is away from that of the barbell's. So, when you tip your weight forward by a bit, your body's weight centre is directly above the centre of mass of the barbell, after which, all you need to do is lift the damn thing. However, make sure that you are lifting by pressing your feet into the floor, you've got your back flat as a pancake, and that your core is tight!

#8) Do NOT look forward with a craned neck while lifting. It's plain bad for you. It hurts me to watch chaps nearly look up when doing a deadlift, or even a squat for that matter. Instead, tuck your chin in, and keep your neck neutral with the backbone, all in one line. This actually protects your cervical spine, the section that connects your torso to the head.

I have left the various types of stances, bars and grip types for deadlifts for another post. Here are a few good videos on how to perform the deadlift.
5 common deadlift mistakes @BuffDudes
How to rebuild your deadlift properly +Elliott Hulse

But, it would be amazing to hear your take on the deadlift, or any advice you have on the topic or anything fitness related. Grow stronger, people!

Black Panther: A review

You're rooting for a man duly defeated in combat by a superior opponent, no shams, no tricks whatsoever. The battle is for the throne of Wakanda. You bet that it's not a pretty feeling to be on the losing side, but what's a story without some suspense? That brings me to Marvel's latest hot-cake, Black Panther, and the flick is worth your cash. With that out of the way, let's get into the parts that keep the movie lingering in your mind way after it's over.

Save for The Hulk, Marvel has effortlessly brought alive its characters like Iron Man with the ever-cocky RDJ; the righteous, albeit saccharine Captain America with Chris Evans; the hammer-wielding Nordic thunder-god Thor and his fellow Asgardian trickster Loki with Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston; and the entire Guardians of the Galaxy crew. Phew, Groot!

With Black Panther though, Marvel has taken things up a few notches. So, "What do you know about Wakanda?" First off, I would like to thank Akshay, a colleague from work, who pointed out how brilliantly Marvel has marketed the movie with trailers, social-media jazz, the works! All the promotion, along with Captain America: Winter Soldier, set the premise for Black Panther – prince T'Chala's (brilliant, brilliant Chadwick Boseman playing Black Panther) ascension to Wakanda's throne after his father's death. He becomes king despite the few requisite road-blocks, and there's just the right dose of vulnerability and fun-factor built into all the characters. For instance, T'Chala commands his genius sister to delete a recording of him goofing up with her high-tech toys. But the bits that compel you to don your thinking caps are beyond the veneer of the sexy Black Panther costumes, the menacing Michael B. Jordan as Killmonger, fancy tech, and T'Chala's staunch support-crew. 

The plot dabbles with the "colonisers" forcefully taking all that was dear to the natives, and consequently racial oppression. Now, comics of the 70s and 80s reflected the political sentiment of their times and it's nice to see that trend continuing in the movies without severe filters. Sadly, however, blurring the middle-finger and muting curses are irksome habits that our own censor-board will not give up soon. Another curveball is the brief victory of the villain who plans to avenge his "black brothers and sisters" and take over the world with superior, Vibranium-powered, Wakandan technology. This, again, harks back to the racial oppression theme crucial to the plot but has been unconvincingly dealt with. 

While blurring the lines between right and wrong, Black Panther concludes all too ideally, suggesting how brute strength is no way to judge a leader, that hatred hurts in the long run, and that no one is perfect. Perhaps, that's how comic heroes and their universes were meant to be, a painless, entertaining injection for delivering hope and righteousness to the world. And goodness, Black Panther is an entertainer! Importantly, wait until the very last credit rolls off the screen. Rant over, tada!