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)