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.