Ouuuu... Burpees

 Let's start with a Youtube video. Hope you don't enter a video-binging fest after watching it. 

"You throw a bucket of water on a rock, nothing happens. But you let a drop of water fall on a rock every day, and it makes a hole in the rock. Do you want a rock with a hole in it?" Nice line, Chase (the chap from the video). 

It's been lockdown, fearmongering, along with the vaccine arms race for some time now, and the gyms aren't exactly the best place to be. Yaaay. For someone who's regular to lifting and sweating out, that's quite a bummer. Do you relate? However, there's a bit of a trick here. We as a people have taken to advertisements and marketing rather well. You see, the whole six-pack abbing, whey-protein-chugging, bicep-flexing 'bro' has become commonplace for a reason. It's visually appealing. Functional efficacy... well, that's a different topic. 

Coming back to the point about marketing, the fitness industry has successfully tricked most of us with its barrage of 'weight-loss' tips, videos, hacks, health bars, and fat-incinerating concoctions. Which is why, every 1st of January, we waltz to our fancy, brightly lit, air-conditioned health clubs and fork over a fistful of cash for a brand new membership. Then, we forget about the membership till some 360-and-a-few days. Aha, now you do relate!

Confession time. I wrote the first three paragraphs around the time when we all truly came to grasps with the whole pandemic situation (read July-August 2020). Annnnd... then I forgot about it. In fact, in hindsight, I'm glad that I did. We're near New Year 2020, so it's been a good 5-6 months that I've been training on my own, at home, with zero equipment, and I'm probably in the best shape of my life. Yup, that happened, that too at a time when men in India are putting on weight, supposedly. 

I could end this blog in the next two words. Tabata. Burpees. But, of course, I won't, although ideally, I should. I should, because getting and staying in shape is truly simple, and almost free. Okay, not free. The food isn't free, you probably want to get a jump rope and a yoga mat if you don't own one already. But, the food isn't some fancy-arse 200-bucks-a-meal expensive. Simple, plain ingredients, whole foods, grains, seeds, lentils, eggs, ghee, you get the drift? If you're an India, you can be phenomenally fit on a diet of good-old dal chawal. In fact, that's probably the simplest meal you need to get and stay fit. Some eggs and nuts may help, but simple food is the answer. no whey, protein mud, or pill-popping required. 

About 'Tabata' and 'burpees'... they work like magic. Throw in sessions of jump-roping, squats, lunges, push-ups and pull-ups if you can for variety. I know, pull-ups are a bitch. Plus, you have to figure out the drilling to mount the pull-up bar. Painful, yessir. But stick around. The pull-ups can wait. Get a Tabata timer on your smartphone. Free. Free. Free. Bodyweight... Free. Free. Free. 10 burpees per minute. The whole hog, dropping down into the push-up, getting up with the jump-squat. 10 rounds. Gradually build speed. Trim down the rest time. In about a month or maybe two, you'll be down to 100+ burpees in about 6-7 minutes. It's brutal, you'll hate yourself every day, and sweat a river every day. But you'll see stuff happening in the mirror that will leave you astounded. 

I say this with a lot of confidence because it's been five months since I started. The workout takes about 10 minutes, I die and get resurrected everyday, and because of the sweating, I bathe every day. It's an absolute win-win. 10 burpees per minute, 10 rounds. Everyday. Amp up the intensity from there. You'll thank yourself later, and save a ton of bucks. No fad, only fact. a

Where are we headed?

This whole us-vs-them scene is turning into a fucking pain in the arse. There's a long way for yours truly to go in the way of general awareness. However, there are some bits that stick out more than the thumb you managed to squish between the door hinges. Don't worry, the nail will grow back. Meanwhile...

What's with the pineapple laced with fire-crackers that some folks fed the poor elephant in Kerala? Mothefuckers, those motherfuckers who did this, get hold of them, slice them in half right through the middle of their fucking skulls. Where the fuck are the mob-lynchers when you really need them?

Speaking of mobs, the Black Lives Matter movement around George Floyd's murder proved that humanity still exists in us. From what little one can gather, the general sense you get is that instead of putting up a front, law-enforcement finally is getting to what it ought to do. Defend what's right. Hopefully, no marginalised community ever gets discriminated (anywhere on the planet).

That's wishful thinking, especially in a country such as India which is no stranger to discrimination. How is it that our intellectuals call out bullshit from abroad, but stay mute when our own country is in jeopardy? Rehman Khan, the critic-comedian, had some choice words on the subject of our own folks showing concern. Stop trying to sound smart.

A close friend put up one of her posts which made sense but sounded a wee bit pretentious. It was a list that went this way...

- Didn't pay the maid

- Kashmir = Internal matter

- Men's rights activists

- Supports Modi + CAA + NRC

- #BlackLivesMatter

- Doesn't believe in feminism

- LGBTQ What??

- Boys will be boys

- Want fair bride

The house-helps have been behind-the-scene heroes of sorts. You and I realise that when our mums and grandmoms complain about the workload at home. We owe them a little kindness so they can get through these tough times.

About Kashmir, we owe it to ourselves to know more before commenting. There are parts to the story that remain unknown to many. As usual, our reactions are knee-jerk. I hope, wish, and pray that we read-up more before turning into keyboard warriors sitting in the comfort of our homes.

Here's hoping that our men grow up. Here's hoping that we turn more patient, grow stronger (both physically, and mentally), and stop thinking with our dick. The sort of shit-storm out there is real, you cannot afford slip-ups, and both the sexes are being led away from our instincts.

Be it race, gender, or skin-colour, it was never supposed to be us-vs-them. Remember the stupid chanting from childhood "Girls are the best... Boys are the best??" Fucking idiots, especially the ones from the movies. Little did we know that we're being fucked in the backside by those who wanted a cheaper labour force.

There's an upcoming contradiction in my own argument, and I must admit, it isn't pleasant. Men and women aren't equal. We're complementary and due to paucity of space and time, I count on the reader's better judgement to accept/debate over this point. There's no Yin without Yang, and the other way around, a key's useless without a lock. A lock by itself serves no purpose. Heck, even the USB port has male and female ends. It's not VERSUS. It's WITH, lads and lasses! And as Admiral Ackbar said... "It's a fucking trap!"

Hmmm... about our dear Prime Minister... This is tricky. The man has plans, seemingly grander than most predecessors. The critics will call him out, and what's a democracy without mistakes being called out? However, callouts are hollow without backing. In fact, it's incumbent on the opposition to emerge as a worthy alternative, but again, they seem to be wanting in competence and vision. The rulers, on the other hand, seem to have balls of titanium and two iron fists.

What's with our collective obsession with fair skin? Yours truly cannot comment on the LGBTQ movement out of sheer lack of awareness. However, dusky is sexy. However, what is absolutely intolerable is this 'body-positive' hogwash. Someone, please get to the bottom of this. Here's simple logic. Our sugar and fast-food companies, think McDonalds, Starbucks, Cadbury, stuffed us till we got nice and jiggly. We got hooked to the lethal sugar-oil-flour combo, and our companies need us to stay that way for business to flourish. Meanwhile, fitness products have built themselves into a business of their own. Both require you to consume... consume... consume, and then some. Some smart Alec must have thought of getting #bodypositive to trend with our mindless millennials. It worked, of course!

Body-positive, my arse. Eat less, move more, and stop being a wuss. That holds true for both, men and women. Treat yourself, absolutely. But don't survive on treats. And chaps... stop with the 'protein powder' nonsense. Do 50 push-ups in one set first. Wonder why few advocate controlling food-intake. What's this obsession with six-meals-a-day, "eat in short intervals to keep your metabolism up", yada, yada? Dear cavemen ancestors, kindly deliver us. We've lost our way amidst the fads.

Something's been on my mind for a bit. There's been an almost-linear progression between the cost of fuel in India vs the USD/INR exchange rate. Why the Indian Rupee has consistently slipped against the US dollar and other global currencies is a discussion in itself. However, with the "Ditch Chinese goods" movement gathering steam, there's never been a better time to up our export game. Finshots had a lovely piece on the subject with a simple message. Instead of ditch Chinese goods, why not build our own stuff and sell to the world? Time to learn from our pharma folks, people!

Life goals

This one's a simple post. You'll see pointers/facts listed below that are in plain sight, but a massive chunk of our fellow earthlings do not see them. I wish we could broadcast these so everyone could live a wee bit less fearfully. There's ample to keep you afraid, the economy, the terrorists, the right-wingers, the left-wingers, the newspapers, the layoffs, pay cuts, the works. So, here goes.

Take care of yourself. Not in the way of a parting message, but take care of your body and mind. You only get one of each in your lifetime, unless you figured out how to transfer your lousy brain into a healthier body, or steal someone's soul. Hi there, the devil? Work out. Squat, jump, jump-squat, lunge, push up, pull yourself up (perhaps, along with another human, if you can). Sweat it out. Your company won't take care of you. The world's witnessing that during a pandemic. 

Earn to the point where you feel proud of answering "How much do you earn?" Yours truly has issues here. During every call, my grandmom asks "How much do you make?" Ideally, it's none of her business. Strangely, I haven't met a single mutual acquaintance who has been spared this question. Perhaps, it's her thing. If a girl asks you this question during the first date, never invite her to the second. It's an unnecessary statistic for her as long as you can pay for the meal, none of her concern. It's also a red flag that she has a penchant for irrelevant information. Bail out, immediately. That said, figure out a way to earn enough that you're at peace with the number in your bank account. You owe that to yourself. 

Keep your tolerance levels low. It saves energy and keeps the truly important people by your side. They'll respect your standards. This isn't gender-specific, mind you. Be it men, be it women, keep standards high, and tolerance levels low. If you let them get away once, they'll take that as your standard. So, keep it simple. Don't let them get away with rubbish. Hone your bullshit-sensors. Again, you owe it to yourself. 

Do not give excuses, and crucially, don't argue. Never argue. If you have to fight to make a point, you're not making a point at all. In fact, you're lending credence to your opposition's point when you put up a fight. You may think that you're trying to show them the right way by dishing out logical bullet-points. Seldom will their puny intelligence (hoping that you actually have a valid argument) grasp your gift of sensibility. Walk away. Save your voice, energy, and sanity. Don't get embroiled in a battle with the mucked-up pigs. The pigs will have their fun, and you'll get dirty. Thanks, Dadaji. 

About excuses, again, they are just that, excuses. If you're right, walk away. If you're wrong, apologise. If you let your ego come in the way, you're going straight back to the pigs. Energy, folks, energy is pristine. Save it, use it for better stuff than fighting over trivialities. There's this movie called 'A Bronx tale' starring Robert De Niro. and Chazz Palminteri. In it, Palminteri, a local mobster, befriends De Niro's son and becomes a genuine well-wisher to the boy, almost a father-figure. Think Rich Dad to Robert Kiyosaki. 

The boy once lends some money to an acquaintance. As it often happens with lent money, the acquaintance evades De Niro's boy each time that it's time to repay. The boy grows impatient with the borrower and threatens him to return the money. Palminteri notices the whole situation and is well-aware that the money's not coming back (come on, he's not been a notorious mob-boss for nothing). He tells the boy something to the tune of (and I paraphrase here) "The money that bum owes you is the small price you pay to get rid of such characters. Don't sweat it." 

Two things here. From two paragraphs ago, don't waste energy over trivialities and arguments. Second, when you lend, make sure that it's an amount that won't hurt you if not returned. Third, if you feel particularly generous and still want to cover your bases/mean business, ask for collateral. Why do you think banks are here to stay? Yours truly can't reiterate the fact enough that these are all a message to oneself. Pick what you like, ditch what you don't. Until next time...

Lost innocence

Was it Crazy, Stupid Love, or Love Actually? I fail to recollect. My sister and I were discussing one of these two, goodness knows why. We were surely vouching for which one was worse. Dad eavesdropped into the conversation as usual because you see, he's cute that way. Also, you rightfully get perturbed when you hear your kids speak about nonsensical gibberish such as love. Trust me, we all turn into our parents, no matter how hard you try.

Upon hearing the title of one of the aforementioned movies, he exclaimed "Love??" His shocked and almost agitated, and positively hilarious countenance became an inside joke between us siblings. In fact, even today, our old man drops unannounced into our conversations and we sort of chuckle at each other thinking of "Love??" Back then, yours truly was yet to wean himself from the flowery construct that love has been made into. Butterflies in the stomach were a thing back then. Or, at least you felt those incoherently flappy insects. And now?

Class seven was the first time the tummy tumbled and ached at the sight of a girl. The hormones hadn't kicked in yet, or were on the cusp of knocking you out, and the mind was perpetually confused. At 12, you really didn't know what you want out of your crush, or romantic interest, did you? Of course, you'd seen the kissing scenes, and some of us precocious ones watched a little porn here and there. However, if someone came and told you "Your dad fucked your mom," you'd feel betrayed. Yeah, the world was just unfolding, kid. Anyway, you learned along the way.

Now, I won't even bother when someone says "I'll fuck your mom." I almost killed someone for saying that some eight years ago. He and I are best friends today. You see, somewhere, I realised... can this nitwit really even touch my mom? For one, there's the logistics part. He needs to know my address. He doesn't. Second, even if he does, why would my mum spare her rolling pin the pleasure of cracking this retard's skull? Third, he thinks that my dad will let him in. Fourth, will my dad let this filth near my mum? Correct, I got my sequence jumbled there. Nevertheless, logic says that our man here's not thought his threats through. Anyway, back to learning.

At 15, I set myself up for a second heartbreak. Trust me, the girl was cute. She still is. Last, she liked some post of mine on Instagram, but then I deleted my Facebook and Instagram accounts rather randomly. She liking the post and I surrendering social media were mutually exclusive events. LinkedIn was last resort where I thought I would run into her again. But, she's not the pseudo-professional, suit-wearing kind. Shitty, I know. I'll admit that it was puppy love, the innocent kind. Also the unrequited kind.

Next up, engineering college, far from home, and happily so. It was the first day in college, and I was walking to my department. This large, and mostly empty complex on the other side of the galaxy (read campus) had this daunting flight of stairs at its entrance. Strong legs came handy, trust me. The never-ending staircase was also where I saw this woman for the first time. I trailed this girl, all clad in black, by about 100 meters, as she climbed. A little voice in my head said "Fucker, she's trouble." I'd not even seen her face till then. Your inner instinct is sharp, fellow earthling! Trust it.

Four years went by like a silent but deadly fart. She threw questions at me that I couldn't fully comprehend back then. "Do you like me?" "Do you love me?" Again, we spoke of weirdly innocent stuff while waltzing around, quite literally. The skeptic in me took a backseat and the blind, dumb, romantic buffoon jumped at the helm. You know that shit's hit the fan when you're too invested and you don't realise it. You become possessive, the idiotic temper leaks through your pores, and before long, you've scared the woman away. I'm surprised how she and I are still in touch, or that we haven't missed each other's birthdays for what, the past eight years?

Work came along after college, the dream job in the truest sense of the word. Imagine having your byline in the magazine that you bought when you were all of five, and could barely read. Few are lucky that way. What I wasn't was a player. I saw this woman and was prompted by some part of my gut to go and ask for her number. Strangely, she didn't resist. I returned to my seat with a chest measuring 50 inches. Of course, it's another story that I got overtly invested over the next two years and made little progress in the romantic department with this gorgeous creature.

I'd learned little in my 25 years of existence, but in retrospect, the woman was kind. She meant no evil. Was she the one that got away? I don't know. She certainly was the one who taught me that there will be some point in life where your ego will take a backseat and you'll put everything at stake. It's important too that this happens to you. It's humbling when you risk rejection and go down on your knees. That's because no matter the result, you'll come out stronger when you stand back up. Yes, the rejection stung like a thousand bees, but it raised my pain threshold. 'No' doesn't hurt anymore. Also, innocence remained a companion, not something I could say a year down the line.

We met during a trip to Coorg. This rather stunning woman and I had a mutual friend. Of course, we started off with a fight, lashing out at each other every chance we got. It was chemistry gone wonky, and the group we were part of sensed something. They couldn't put a finger on it, neither could this woman, nor could I. Somewhere, we hit it off. Chalk and cheese coalesced, but don't worry. It doesn't get stranger than fiction. She stayed abroad, so after the trip, we parted ways. Only that Skype didn't let us. A year and a half later, we met again, much more familiar with each other.

Sparks and fireworks followed, and the emotional investor in me went long. Benjamin Graham would be ashamed. Bad investor joke notwithstanding, it was time to short my position. This part of my life taught me to step out of any situation where you feel mistreated. Notice when it happens the first time. If the poor treatment happens the second time around and a wild gong doesn't go off inside your head, sorry, you're too invested. Ideally, the third time shouldn't happen. In such situations, you can't, afford to confuse self-esteem with ego, and absolutely must stand your ground and bail out. Come. What. May.

The heart will bitch and moan about its precious emotions, and how you're about break something precious. This bit is good as long as it's in a movie script. In reality, it's a bad idea. In reality, only sanity trumps Donald. Letting go hurts, but it also makes you harder. Well, that sort of came out wrong, but please catch the drift. In fact, the deeper you're invested, the harder you get hit when coping with all the letting go. "We ran out of condoms," she said, explaining one of her escapades. Something shattered inside and I think it was innocence. If you're reading this, here's a humble request. Do not wish such a crushing heartbreak even for your sworn enemy.

I left home soon enough. A new city awaited, no relatives, no acquaintances, it was all left to me. Not exactly candy land, but again, Bangalore's been kind. It gave me shelter, taught me to put food on the table, and fend for myself. The shattered shards were thankfully clumped together, and not blasted all over from a shotgun going off. Then, akin to man discovering fire, yours truly discovered swiping. This part of life taught me to be ultra-choosy. I'm choosier than your girlfriend, guaranteed. Without a description, even Marilyn Monroe shall not pass. That said, the ladies in my life have been largely kind. The apps were surprisingly kind too.

Single dates, I've had my fair share of. These are perhaps part of the learning curve, because you realise that not every 'match' results in good bonding. Some, you leave after settling the bills, some reach till dessert, some fizzle by the second date. The ones that last beyond the second date are largely a thumbs-up. Pat yourself on the back, sire. Again, you might want some to reach the second date, and then some. That won't necessarily pan out, but that's where you'll have to trust your gut, and let go. During one of my early dates, the woman and I hit it off . The photos were borderline bait-ish, but heck. The conversations we struck, you could ignore small discrepancies.

Having uttered the last line, if you hear lines about empowerment despite the mismatch, skip and press next. Some things are permissible, some are not. Yeah, by this part, the heart had hardened a little, perhaps noticeably. The first date happened. "I don't sleep with the guy on the first date, you know..." she quipped. "Second date then," I thought to myself. Who would have known that I was right. The second time around, a slightly possessive friend of hers happened to be an accompaniment. The gent seemed simple, and I'm glad he came along for some reason. It taught me how to handle unexpected situations, and be firm about three being too much company when the time came.

"Brother, it was nice meeting you, but I want to take your friend out on a dinner date. We'd like to take your leave," I said, much to my own surprise. The woman followed me without batting an eyelid. Moral: You don't have to be a dick to be a man. Sure, you have to be firm, but not an arsehole. I'll concede this much. This woman turned me into a man. I'll remain indebted to her for that. She's smart, engaging, and stimulating in every sense of the word. About six months in, though, she was scouting again. I wasn't, and that pinched.

When two people drift off, there are two forces at play. It's not as simple as saying that it was his/her fault, or asking "Where did I go wrong?" The drifting apart became obvious, and you know it in your gut when you're drifting away from someone. When I found her scouting, I knew it was time to bail out. Till now, I felt the innocence being crushed in me. Seeing her scout felt like having shards explode inside. Emotional attachment no longer meant much. I could finally walk away from a romantic interest without getting illogically bogged down. But, there's a message here I'd like to leave. You're never entitled to affection. It was just your time to be with a woman/man. Accept when it's over. 

Charming, yours truly may not be. So, when someone speaks in positive adjectives, or throws a compliment my way, it takes me a bit to digest. The skeptic in me identifies with the father who says "How much money do you want?" when the son comes to hand him a glass of water. The woman I met next was a 'woman' woman. Yes, she looks just fine in a t-shirt, but in a saree, holy wow. I'd gladly make a poster out of her photo and plaster it all across MG Road. Surprisingly, she's remained consistent with the compliments which is both humbling and terrifying.

She taught me how to hug. Previously, what I thought of as a hug is apparently called a bro-hug. The arms get in the way and the body dynamics get thrown off. Perhaps, we should ditch the word hug and call it 'embrace'. For as much as we love or hate our cute Modiji, the man hugs and how, what with his 56-inch chest and the works. He's probably multiplied the actual figure by 4/3. Then again, we didn't vote the man for his factual accuracy. On PR skills however, the gentleman scores 21/10.

About this woman who taught me to hug, she's warm, forgiving to a fault, and boy can she hold a conversation about anything in the world. Fair enough, the conversationalist is sort of my type, or so I realise now. However, not many people, let alone women, have it in them to mend a heart, watch a man cry, and yet praise him for no reason. Faith restored in the idea of love? Not exactly. However, she makes you want to be a better man.

She's someone you'd go back to after a bad day and feel relieved after a conversation. She's also someone who you'd want to make soft love to endlessly. And when she says that how you two made love last time was the best she'd experienced till date, a part of you wants to believe her. She inspires that confidence in you, makes you believe in yourself. The innocent heart that wants to romanticise with the idea of puppy love, must die though. 

When to go POOF

Nah, it’s not fun to be the only one up thinking “Where the fuck did I fuck up?” The question is a good one, one that’s cathartic. But, fun it is not.

You know the “How are you?” is never coming. Ever. You also know that you’re the last resort, once all other options have been consummated. Quite literally.

This quote scrolled by the other day “Where do broken hearts go? Back to the best friend.” So cute. Hogwash, I say. Broken hearts go back to the last resort.

Being kind, being accepting, being accommodating, the whole shebang, it is all good. However, not when you compromise on your beliefs.

Had you been that important, you wouldn’t have had to wait. If you were, you both would battle each other to put forth your best versions.

Silence hurts. You know what else hurts? The fact that they know how much they mean to you, and yet show indifference. That air of superiority, well that too.

When the regulars disappear and all support is gone, the call comes. “Oh, I missed you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how you’d react.” That’s the time to say....

Sorry babe, your tricks have gotten old, clichéd. Show me what’s new, else it’s time to find new shade. I saw enough behind the façade. And all the moves you made.

Trust not the words. Watch if things are the same. Both when it’s time to make hay, and when dark clouds come thy way. If not, turn around and run the FUCK away.

Between night and day

"The sound of your watch ticking away is scary." That one line summed up an evening that slid into the next morning without a wink. That and the smell of her perfume. Should I have revealed her smell was the reason I took long breaths? The least I could have told her is how good her touch felt. Warm, soft, comforting, calming. Not one which drives your ticker frantic.

We've got a problem. This constant search for partnerships has ruined creativity. Talks seldom move beyond our attempts to sound smart or superior to our surroundings. Somewhere amidst all the pretence, we lose sight of what we want. It could be as simple as holding a pair of soft hands, a peck on the cheek, a few moments of peaceful silence, a few lame, juvenile laughs, or good ol' hot sex.

Our inflated ego, deflated self-esteem, and perilous fear of offending another have muted our intelligence. It takes your trusty cojones to own up to your desires and do one thing and one thing only. Ask. Because ask and you shall receive. In the worst case scenario, you shall be rejected. But rejection beats the perpetual limbo of not having stood up for your wants. Pants down.

I asked. I was lucky, and so, I got more than my fair share. I got consent; I got the deep, satisfying sighs of both tension and relief, and I got back some of my faith and humility. It was a match (made in an app), or that's the dazzling message we see nowadays. You see how smartly we've boiled down attraction to the bare basics? Looks and a chance to display the grey matter between our ears.

Rest assured, if one doesn't hit the bull's eye, there's always a shotgun which doesn't miss the mark. If you aren't physically endowed, trust your brain to save the day. I know, the shotgun isn't the aptest analogy. But who cares? The mind knows what it wants. It's time you should too. Even better if you have the gall to be an arsehole about it. She knew I was. It made things easier, but who am I kidding?

Subtlety is far from yours truly's forte. She was kind enough to show me my new city's skyline, the night filled with stars, and give me an entry into her cosy sanctuary. Without that, would I have had the confidence to let out my desires? Who knows? Even then, it took a little coaxing to open the floodgates. Boy, she had (and still has) the wits to dwarf your IQ. So much so I took half an evening to string together 'intellectually intimidating' to describe her. She laughed. I sank.

No idea what got me where I was. It was probably the brutal honesty, a dash of stupidity, and perhaps the arrogant bastard that I am (the lady's words, not mine) that made a mundane Wednesday evening better than a sloshy Friday, if you may. Heck, what do I know? I don't drink. Some pot would be nice, though, What I know is her embrace felt good, so did the way she gripped and yanked at my vest, and how she rested on my shoulders. I must have done something right. Enough intellectualising. 

We inform with great regret....

If you get a message that has the same words as in the title, brace yourself for a punch in the gut. Or at least that's what it feels like after you read those words. It could be the news of a loved one who passed away or a job/college application for which you got rejected. "It's not you, it's me," is also an iteration of "We inform with great regret."

You know the truth? None of them regret it. They (whoever sent you the message, that is) might pity you, but there's no regret involved. It's a polite way of saying fuck off. REJECTED, if you may. Time for a crash course on how to handle a blow. No, not the kind you think. It's the kind you take on the chin. And bloody hell, it hurts. The teeth get forced into the gums and it gets all weird and bloody.

Rejection has become a friend. First, it came from schools. Then, from girls. Then, from colleges. Then, from girls. Then, it came from HR departments. Then, it came from ladies. Then, five of them came JAB! JAB! HOOK! JAB! BAM! KAPOW! Four universities and a woman. Goodness, that's what I call Black Eyed Piss. Because now, I got black eyes and boy it hurts while taking a leak.

You remember the booster shots dad got you when you were a kid? Those ugly, pain-in-the-arse injections? Little did I know that build your body's immunity. That's what rejection from women has become. Each one makes you a little more immune to 'no'. It hurts like hell, but you've survived one before, boy. You will not die and you know that. Even if the next one is around the corner. I think.

My last one was a little intense. We Skyped a lot. It was fun. However, I suspected she fantasised about another man. She later ratified my suspicion. For the lack of a better statement, it tore me to shreds. That teeny-weeny sensation of inadequacy grew into a little black hole, rather a dementor if you may. You know what dementors do, don't you? You filthy Potter-heads!

Yours truly is gifted. Not emotionally, but cut-and-dry IQ-wise. Well, sort of. You know what smart people do? They take sabbaticals because why not? I thought I'd make good of my time preparing for examinations. The trick worked in parts. The results were positive and the folks at GMAT were kind. The doors to foreign universities opened. I filled forms, pestered mentors and did the whole shebang.

First rounds were luckily a breeze. However, beyond that, here's what I saw everywhere.

We inform with great regret... We inform with great regret... We inform with great regret...

After the third one, I expected rejection to be the outcome for everything. I tell you, the mind is a bitch. But there's a way to trick it. I call it "When in doubt, work out."

The dopamine hit helps. You think Tinder will solve your problems. Haha. Haha. Hahahaha! Who told you to think? Besides, Tinder is a discussion for another day. But yeah, dopamine helps. So do the sundry endorphins. And screw dumb-bell curls, useless gym 'bros'! Learn how to squat and dead-lift for your own sake. You'll sleep better. Else, you'll only get sore biceps and awkward postures.

Chuck that. let's jump topics because I saw something interesting today. It was a WhatsApp status one of my contacts put up. It went like this: Ten signs that show you're matured. Oh. Fuck. No. But curiosity killed the cat.

1) Small talk no longer excites you. Small talk is a weakness, so PHEW!

2) Sleep is better than a Friday night out. Totally. Wow, I'm so mature already!

3) You forgive more. Aah, -1 I guess. But what do I forgive who for? Perhaps, myself. No idea.

4) You become more open-minded. Do you get a surgery done? Heck, open-minded about what? 

5) You respect differences. 3 - 2 = 1. I accept. Other bits I'm yet to reconcile with.  

6) You don't force your love on anyone. Who are you? Mom?

7) You accept heartaches. As if you and I have a choice. If you're Salman Khan, it's a different issue. 

8) You don't judge easily. Even if I do (which I do), no one gives a fuck. That's that then. 

9) You prefer to be silent over getting into a fight. I prefer being silent over everything. I can give dear old Manmohan Singh competition. Beat that!

10) Your happiness doesn't depend on others. Happiness? Oh, there's something called 'others' too?

I'm sure maturity isn't like puberty. Puberty is simple. It makes you hairy and sexy. Either that or it makes you curvy, sexy, bleed, and mad. Not maturity though. Oh no, no, no. Maturity has its own way. It spanks some at birth (Oooh, naughty), slaps some during childhood, punches a few during adolescence, kicks some in the arse at the dawn of adulthood, and knocks out another few in the 20s.

But it spares some.*Ahem*. To these rare few it says... "Go on, child. You're screwed anyway. What can I do you for?" You take a few wobbly baby-steps forward and look back longingly. Sobbing. Trying to be brave, but you have a lump in your throat. Then, you sense evil. The benevolent creature behind you transforms into a fire-breathing monster. And god, do you run like there's no tomorrow! 

Moving up in life

Everything seems to want to upgrade. Your girlfriend probably wants to upgrade to a better guy; you probably want to upgrade to a better girl; your friend wants to upgrade to a better job; his boss wants to upgrade to a higher salary; the boss's wife wants to upgrade to a bigger house, a bigger car, a bigger cock, the works; and their daughter wants to upgrade to a better smartphone.

Heck, even the smartphone wants to upgrade to the newer version of its software. That little device, which just about fits in your pocket nowadays, is a needy bitch. It'll blink, vibrate, ring, ping, and even do the SOS shingle to get your attention. And bloody hell will it remind you minute, after minute, after minute, that it is time for a software upgrade.

Icecream sandwich, KitKat, Oreo, Snickers, M&Ms, goodness knows what sweet treats the folks at Google name their operating systems after. It's reached 9.0? I lost track after they popped the Jelly Bean. That's how long it's been. The Apple fanboys will tell you they are running on IOS 5674 or who knows what. But, I've got a question. What are the coding lads at these companies up to?

What shenanigans are they planning by offering upgrade after upgrade? Fair enough, they say the battery lives will be better, RAM management and yada yada will improve, and the porn you watch on your little screens will look more lifelike (really?). However, however, there's a little conspiracy theory I have which might not be a conspiracy theory.  

You know the feeling you get you're the last person to know something? As if everyone around you notices the elephant in the room, but you're deluding yourself into thinking you're 'The Boy Who Lived'? I think software updates are a front used by mobile-phone manufacturers to intrude deeper into our lives, make themselves more indispensable to our puny existence.

They already know where we live. They know where we work, who we fuck, who fucks us over, what we eat, and what eats us deep down inside. And with every 'upgrade', we're happily giving them a warmer welcome to make us their prostitutes. The pizza ad that popped up on your screen is because you liked a random Facebook page with Photoshopped images of a slice of Italy.

The photo may conjure in your mind images of a wood-fired oven in one of Sicily's cosiest pizzerias. Good going, but highly unlikely. The poor fellow who raced across the city to deliver it to you has probably taken a bite out of your little slice of Italy. You didn't bother to tip him, did you? Well, he needs an upgrade too. I know, I know, the app in your phone handles it all. Fuck etiquettes, anyway.

Coming back to software upgrades, they have become the bone of contention in Op-Ed columns. The blokes go to great lengths to tell you how the 17.4.3.2.2 or some upgrade makes your phone start three attoseconds quicker than it did before. Impressed? You will be, especially when you see the tech monkeys fighting over who upgraded first to the new version. The excitement, boy isn't it palpable!

The software upgrade craze has honestly faded. In fact, I'd even say this piece is about two years too late. But the rate at which we're headed towards a spondylitis epidemic, we need to have our back. Get the joke? Get it? Get it? Remember Terminator? The movie projected a bleak future with humans being dominated by androids and machines. Well, the machines are here. and 2029 isn't far away. Where the fuck is John Connor? And stop quarrelling over that software update, pussies! 

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)