Desperately Seeking KingKong

Oh no not that monkey. I am talking about this midget actor from Tamil and Telugu movies (late 80s through 90s). Apparently he is a super star now, thanks to the Internet, Kingsely tells us.
Why? This is why!

A million views! Wow!

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Storython: Running Blind 2

[To know what this is all about check Ravages's blog.]

Continued from Part 1:
That is unusual. Who is knocking on my door at this hour? I struggled to my feet and made my way to the door, tapping the floor with my stick. I don�t have to do it but habits die hard you see.
I stood near the door and said �Who is this?�
After a few seconds, I heard shuffling of feet. Silence. And an adolescent voice boomed from behind the door.
�You blind dog!� The voice swore in Tamil (Kuruttu Naaye!) �The next time you act high and mighty, I will take your walking stick and shove it up your miserable butt and you can�t even scream because the stick would have emerged out of your mouth. Otha Thevidiyaa payya! �
I laughed out loud and said �You have a fertile imagination.� It must be the college kid living in the ground floor.
He must have kicked the door hard, for it screamed out and hummed for a few seconds and the gratuitous, stainless steel vessels in my kitchen let out a shrill, harmonic echo.
I heard another muffled voice. Someone was pleading with the hothead. Silence reigned.
I tapped my way back to the chair by the window. I settled down and lit another cigarette. You might not have encountered too many blind smokers I guess. If not for my musician acquaintances, I�d have never discovered the joy of smoking in my life. I played guitar and made some sort of reputation playing in a popular light music band. I played occasionally in the studios, for movies, commercials, and TV shows. The money was good and allowed me to repay the home loan and still maintain a comfortable life, if I call it one that is. I even employed Thangavel, my errand boy who lived a couple of streets away. He is a self-taught percussionist and for some inexplicable reason, he thought that I was his ticket to stardom. I paid him five hundred rupees a month: to buy my cigarettes, food, and stuff. He is my only friend, whose sympathy did not give me ulcers.

There was distinct chill in the wind that had rain written all over it. I wouldn�t mind some rain. I loved the fragrance of it all; when the first raindrops made love to earth and the orgasms screamed through a feral fragrance of moist earth and invaded my senses.
I started my wait for the rain.

Back in the blind school where I spent my childhood, Mr. Easter had spotted my talent for the guitar. I instinctively took to it, don�t ask why or how. Mr. Easter, our music teacher, took special interest in me. Before long I was playing in concerts by blind people, for blind people. And, soon enough, some light music band whose name I don�t recall, offered me a chance to play in one of their shows. I was more of a novelty than a musician for them but the crowd loved it. Some magazine wrote about it. And here I am.

Somehow, through it all, I never made any real friends. I did not want to hang out in blind people associations nor did I want to marry a blind girl in a mass marriage ceremony in front of a politician who did not give a damn.

As for the normal people, well, they are funny. People expected me to advertise and acknowledge my infirmity, every time they helped me. They wanted me to accept that I was a burden on their civilized shoulders, when I was not one. And, each time I refused someone�s offer to help me, I knew that I had accumulated yet another pint of hate. They wanted to help me not because they cared. It was an opportunity for them to reassert their superiority. And, I always denied them of the opportunity. Not because I disliked them, but because I believe, it is the equivalent of beating up your wife when your boss took you to task. I don�t want to be your wife sir. No, thanks.

Far away, the Electric train barked grudgingly as it gathered speed. The wind picked up and I could hear it whistle through the Coconut trees on street. And an unsettling quiet settled in. The radio died on me. The kids on the street screamed with joy. Power cut. I don�t know why kids loved it when the power took a vacation. The rain made an abrupt yet overwhelming start. It poured down without an ornate preamble as if someone tilted a giant bucket in the heavens. I knew that it was going to rain all night, for I couldn�t hear the wind anymore. Before I realized it, my face was wet. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I realized then that my matchbox was on the windowsill. It was completely wet.
I staggered to my feet and tapped my way to the kitchen. I kicked something on my way, must have been a cardboard box. I checked the shelf first and then the space below the gas stove. Forget a matchbox, I couldn�t even find the gas lighter. I didn�t know if I had one, for I never use the kitchen. Thangavel sometimes made tea for me and that�s about it. I realized that I had to spend the night without smoking. I was distraught by the fact that such a silly thing could upset one�s life so much. I walked back to my chair and shut the windows. I drowned in the chair. The power-cut seemed like it�d last the whole night. This was the third time in as many months that this was happening to me. I�d lose the matchbox or I�d run out of sticks and I had to spend the night without smoking.

After an hour that seemed like ages, I pulled out a soggy cigarette and stuck it in my mouth. The wall clock was enjoying its share of the floor and limelight and tick-tocked away gleefully. With no competition to counter the noise, it sounded eerie. Somewhere someone dragged furniture and it made that awful noise like a giant chalk piece scratching on a giant blackboard. I don�t know why I was so desperate. Probably it was that college kid that abused me. Probably I had it with people thinking that they could get away with murder just because I was blind. I don�t know. I wanted to smoke. So I decided to step out. I�d probably walk to that small shop or ask one of my neighbors for a matchbox. I actually relished the idea of this little misadventure. I knew that my neighbors hated me. I wasn�t too sure if that shop would be open now, with the rain and the power-cut. Yet, I wanted to do it.

I managed to step out of my apartment and lock the door. The floor was wet. The landing was devoid of any human activity, obviously. I couldn�t feel any light too. I walked towards the staircase. The lift rarely worked and during a powercut it was out of the question. I wanted to hold something and I moved towards the ledge. I held its edge and walked towards the staircase. The ledge wasn�t too tall. It was slightly above my waist. I had to be careful. The ledge separated me from the small gap between our block and the next. Before I reached the staircase, I stepped into something furry and soft. I should have worn my shoes! And it jumped up and let out an ugly shriek. Must be a Bandicoot. But it freaked me out so much that I started jumping around, frantically trying to get it off my leg and slipped over the ledge.
I fell in one smooth motion. My stick went first. My glasses next. I was all curled up and I was struggling through the small gap. The walls scratched my back, legs, arms, and my face as I fell through the floors. I heard my stick hit the ground. And I fell on my back.

When I came around, I realized that I must have broken my back. I couldn�t move my lower torso. I fainted again. When I came around, I realized that something was crawling up my leg. It must be a Bandicoot. Probably the same one that assaulted me in the landing.

[Anand, all yours. [To know what this is all about check Ravages's blog.]

Tags: Story-thon, Fiction, Story-thon Ravages, Story-thon Suman

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Web 2.0 Winners and Losers

Oh well. Check it out. (Via Wired)

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ThinkPad Battery Explodes

Oh well. Check it out. Posts on Technorati.

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Long Live the Monk

In the high altitudes of Siachen and Kargil in the jungles of the northeast or even the deserts of Rajasthan Old Monk rum is indispensable to the army jawan." [Via NDTV]

Finally the country is realising how important the Monk is. So, disparaging remarks and smart-ass comments on how cheap Old Monk is will not be tolerated from now on. You could be a Glenfiddich fan and a connosseiur of high class liquor but don't you dare say a word against the Monk. He will bite you in the butt.

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Charles Bonnet Syndrome

"When people lose their sight their brains are not receiving as many pictures as they used to. Sometimes, new fantasy pictures or old pictures stored in our brains are released and experienced as though they were seen."
[Link ]

Reference: V.S. Ramachandran's Phantoms in the Brain

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The Perfect Love Letter - Concluding Part

This is a long ass post. Don't complain later that I didn't warn you.

Continued from
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

I don�t know how I got back home after my weird encounter with Bhel Pathan. I felt a lot better after drinking my mother�s filter coffee and smoking a couple of beedis on the terrace. It was the end of the month and I had no money. I didn�t even have money to buy her a New Year card. My dad promised to break my neck if I asked for more money. I had pawned my silver chain to pay off debts. My brother hid his piggy bank and I could not find it even after searching for it for a week. I was broke. My girl was about to disappear from my life, thanks to me. And, I was hooked to beedis now.

I sat on the terrace wall watching the stars appear and as the light gave into the allure of darkness. I felt stranded and estranged. I had instructed my mom not to let any of my friends know that I was home. I heard a couple of them talking to my mom at the door and leaving. They were organizing a party. We wanted to try Gin on that New Year�s Eve. I decided to spend the evening alone. The grapevine had it that the girl went mute after listening to AH�s snitching. I knew what it was. Whenever she was incensed, she would shut the world out and stay silent. What was I going to do? I was exasperated. I lay on my back on the terrace, as I had nothing better to do and before long fell asleep. I don�t know how long I was sleeping but someone was screaming at me and slapping my head, when I woke up. It was completely dark and the terrace light was not on. The bulb blew a fuse I guess. As sleep wore off, I realized to my utter delight that it was none other than the junior: my witness and savior!

I hugged him and almost cried. He got caught in Hyderabad because his train ticket was not confirmed. He was acting weird though. I ran down the steps and dashed into the bathroom to wash my face. My heart was racing. If I confronted her tonight and the showdown happens, I can have my witness to make a delayed entry and tell her that AH was lying. The plan was on track! But, as I was drying my face, for some strange reason, I heard the Pathan�s words again,
�Lies and lack of faith!�
I felt as if a tiny steel hand caught my heart and gave it a mighty squeeze. The witness was staring at me when I said, �do you think I am doing the right thing? I mean all the lies and drama etc you know?�
�It is too early to worry about all that, don�t you think so?� He said. Sarcasm and Brahmins are inseparable I guess. I made a mental note to take care of the bugger after I was done with my love issues. I gave instructions.
�I am going to meet her now. She must be playing badminton under the lights in the colony ground. I am sure of it. When she sees me, she is going to pounce on me and tear me apart. I am going to walk away, sad face and all that. I will walk away from the badminton court, out of earshot you know, when you will stop me and pretend talking to me. Say some nonsense. Count from 0 to 135 or something? I will shake my head. You have to be animated as well. Then you will walk up to her and ask her to step aside. And you will tell her that AH lied and that you were right next to me when I spoke to AH in the Cricket ground. You leave. She will run to me in slow motion. I will finally give her my love letter. We will live happily ever after. Okay?�
He nodded like a humping dog and we ran out.

I stopped near the slope that leads to the badminton court. It was lit up with those lights that they use in lawn parties. There was a sizeable crowd that had gathered that day. I saw her sitting in the shadows, with her best friend. They were watching four losers play Ring. I made another mental note to tell the colony secretary to ban playing ring in the colony. What kind of a loser game is that anyway? You throw a rubber ring across the net and your opponent catches it and throws it back. You score when your opponent drops the ring� god! Why do some boys thing it is a cool sport? Anyway, I asked my witness to stay in a place where no one could spot him. He chose to squat at the foot of the slope. The streetlights were on vacation anyway. I paused to take a deep breath. This was it!

I walked up the slope and after what seemed like ages, I entered the badminton court. Out of the corner of my eye I saw AH and his cronies. I thought he sniggered. I turned towards her and waved; an innocent wave, as if I was unaware of the controversy. She rose to her feet and came right at me. I closed my eyes for a moment and said a little prayer.

�I am sorry that I have been troubling you with my silly greeting cards and my proposals!� She hissed. She started walking down the slope. I tried to catch her best friend�s eye but she turned her face away.
I ran down after the girl, for I did not want her to find that moron witness of mine squatting on the road, in the middle of the night.
I overtook her and stopped her in her tracks.
�What the hell was that!?� I said.
�You should know. You have been talking to your friends.� She said. She looked hot when she had her hands on her hips.
�What friends? What is this cards and proposal thing all about?� I said.
�Did you tell someone that I was after you?�
�After me? What do you mean?�
�After you as in after you.�
�Oh that after you?�
�Yes.�
�Crazy! Why would I say something like that?�
�So you did not?�
�No. I did not. I swear.�
�Swear on me?�
�W-what?�
�Swear on me that you did not mention it to anyone.�
�I s-swear I d-didn�t��

I couldn�t swear on her. For all the fantastic schemes that I hatched, I could not lie to her. I was disgusted with myself. The breeze whistled through the trees and the Crickets took a break. The silence had just settled down on us and the Crickets started their chorus again.
In the feeble light from the badminton court, I saw tears running down her face.
�Lies and lack of faith.� The Pathan�s words echoed in my head.
I took her hand and she threw my hand away. She looked away and she controlled her sobs. She wiped her face with her handkerchief and cleared her throat. �Here we go.� I told myself.
�I hate you.� She said.
I knew that she meant it. Somehow I knew that my witness was not going to help me too much. I decided to end it right there. By telling her the truth. I walked up to where the witness was hiding and told him that we were aborting the plan.
�What the hell? I practiced all night on the bus! How can you do this to me?� He said.
I slapped him and asked him to buzz off. I walked back to her and said,
�Can we go for a walk? I need to tell you something.�
She started walking. We walked towards her home.

�Listen, I love you.� I said and I felt a huge boulder fly off my chest.
She stopped in her tracks and stared at me.
�All that happened was because of the fact that I love you.� I said. I told her everything. From the love letters in blood to the grand plan with AH.
When I finished, we had reached her place. She sat on the steps below the gate. I sat next to her. Somewhere, screams of �Happy new year!� erupted. A strand of hair fell across her face. She blew it off.

The Bhel Pathan was right. I didn�t know what her answer was, for I didn�t ask her any questions in the first place. I didn�t want to too. I checked my pockets and found some beedis. They will see me through that tough night, I thought. I rose to my feet and stood facing her.

�Happy new year and� good luck. I am sorry for being such a dick.� I said. She just nodded.
�And, I will miss you I guess.� I said and choked on it. I looked away as a teardrop flew off on a tangent and found freedom in the womb of the night. �Girls don�t like men that cry!� erupted in my head. That�s what Suri said all the time. He cried in all the movies invariably. I thrust my letter in her hand before I walked away. After nearly a year of writing it (in normal ink) the letter finally found its home. It was a simple letter, no blood or anything fancy. No perfumed paper and all.

She never spoke to me after that for six months. Six long, excruciating months. I tried moving on but I couldn�t. I tried dating other girls but found them really stupid. Some, under the pretext of having a meaningful conversation, asked me what I thought of Yendamuri Veerendranath. I told them �Yendamuri writes like a 70 year old guy that never got laid.� So, there. I was on a destructive spree.

She insulted me at the tuitions by not talking to me, or responding to my earth shaking �Hi!� She just looked away as if I never existed. When the Colony gang went for a movie, she made sure that she did not end up next to me. The whole world came to a tacit agreement I guess that no one would bring my topic when she was around or talk to me about her. When you cry, you cry alone. I prayed everyday that all those bastards failed in their exams and that their girl friends should dump them.

One of her cousins from Bangalore came down to Chittoor. My younger bro and I were returning from the provision store when we bumped into the girl and the cousin. She introduced the cousin to my bro and the three of them spoke like long lost friends, while I watched from the sidelines. I smiled at the cousin, who was quite hot herself, when she looked at me. She just nodded and winked at me. It was a message. I nodded back as if I understood. Before the cousin left for Bangalore she left a note for me. I got the note from the girl�s best friend. The note read �Patience pays.�

That day it rained quite heavy. The Gulmohar tree lost a branch. There was a power-cut. The evening was hazy and the cooking fires from the huts in Ed�s farm sent beautiful columns of smokes to the skies. The pungent fragrance of burning firewood permeated the place. Velan the milkman waved as he pedaled hard on his bicycle on his way home; the empty milk cans banged against the bicycle creating a Buddhist monastery feel. I stood in the Verandah and observed the mist clad hills far away, behind the Arts College. I was alone and had no smokes on me; no money either, as ever.

Our neighbor, who lived in a tile-roofed house behind us, started his blow-the-nose-to-hell routine. I never quite understood why he did it. I initially thought he was trying to blow his lungs out through his nostrils but later found that he suffered from OCD of the nose: he wanted them clean. As his nose blowing reached a tremulous crescendo, I heard the gate open.

There she was, shiny beads of rain adorned her long, curly hair. She took a step and asked coyly,
�May I come in?�
�You may. What took you so long?�
�Convincing myself that you are not a dick?�

I laughed. It was one of those moments. One of those moments, that reveals life is going to be good. One of those moments, that announces that your ass is all right.

She stood next to me and joined me in my hill gazing. The neighbor stopped for the day after a mighty blow of the nose. Peace limped back into the evening. And I started thinking about how to convince the girl that making out is all right. I mean she thought French kiss meant kissing in Paris. That is a story for another day I guess.

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The Perfect Love Letter - 4

Apologies for the delay in bringing the concluding parts of this story to you. If you haven't read the earlier parts, please do so before you proceed further. I don't think it matters but I'll anyway warn you: this is a long ass post.

Continued from
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

It was 31 December and I was walking on Bazaar street in Greamspet. I was there not because I had any business there but because I didn�t know what else to do. I was roaming around like a zombie. My grand plan was about to backfire.

The garish, sweltering afternoon kept people indoors. The street was deserted. Well almost. I heard the Bhel-selling Pathan somewhere. He was a portly, old man with a shiny, white flowing beard and a Pathan cap that seemed as if it was stitched to his head. I never saw him without it. He sold Bhel (puffed rice) on his moped, a Suvega that moved at a lightning speed of 20 KMPH on a good day. And, good days were far and few between for his Suvega. He carried two large sacks of Bhel that burdened the 50CC moped. We would know that the Pathan was on his way, at least ten minutes before he actually graced our streets: the Suvega made up for its snail-pace with its cacophonous exhaust noise. New comers to the locality thought he was arriving in a truck! He would make a grand entry, always in the afternoon before teatime, crushing the Bhel and blowing it to the heavens. The Suvega would swerve perilously on the street before he tamed the wacky beast and put it on its stand. The crushed Bhel, in the meantime, would float all around him, creating some sort of an snowy, ethereal effect. Though hardly anyone bought the Bhel, most people popped out braving the merciless, Chittoor Sun, just to catch a glimpse of the gregarious Pathan.

I ran into him near the temple. He stopped and greeted me in Tamil. I never understood how a Pathan could speak all South Indian languages, but he did speak all of them. I don�t know why he was called a Pathan in the first place but he played to his title very well.

�Mora moraaalu!� he roared and grinned baring his yellow teeth. That was his trade-call, his �branding� if you will. He claimed that you can hear the sound �mora mora� if you crushed his Bhel. I responded with a feeble smile.
�What happened bhai? All well at home?� he enquired.
�All fine. All fine.� I said but I guess my voice gave it all away.

He brought the Suvega on its legs, the stand, and slapped the sagging Bhel sacks into position before he came by my side and put his arm around me and said,
�What�s troubling you beta? Your father caught you smoking?�

Though I had stopped buying Bhel from him years back, when we moved from Greamspet, I used to talk to him when I bumped into him anywhere in the town and sort of became friends with him. He lived some where near our Chemistry tutor�s place and he saw me with the girl quite often. And he always beamed his trademark smile at me and a nod of respect to her. I figured he understood what was going on.

I did not answer his question, for I knew he was going to arrive at the issue.
�How is that lovely, young lady? Your friend?� He finally asked.
�Oh she is great. She is great yeah.� I sighed and he nodded ferociously before uttering the simple yet moving words.
�Talk to her if she is angry. Women like to hear the same thing many times. I have two wives and I know from experience that nothing like an honest, heart-to-heart talk to fix any issue. Anything at all!�
�What makes you think that she and I are not on good terms?� I said.
�You have not denied it yet and your face tells a million stories. After all, I have known you since the time you started crawling, eh?�
�I don�t know Pathan, I played some games on her to impress her and to gain some sympathy�� I said and observed that my voiced quivered.
�Sympathy is for losers, bhai, winners do it by tackling the demon by its horns. But then again, the trouble is you need to find what your demons are. I guess they are lies and lack of faith. Kill them, but for now, eat my mora-moraalu!� The Pathan said handing me a fistful of Bhel. We sat down on the stone bench outside the temple. A couple of kids were riding Nandi the bull. I don�t know why but I told him my story. He listened to me as he blew his crushed Bhel and by the time I finished, there was a crunchy carpet of Bhel all around me.

�Like I said, go tell her the facts before it is too late. I don�t see any other way out. Even if your plan works, do you think you will be happy? I don�t think so. From what I have seen I think she likes you. The way she looks at you when you two are walking together?�
I was excited. �You really think so Pathan? I mean you are the expert, do you really think she�s got feelings for me?�
He paused to cough. He cleared his throat, pulled out a beedi from behind his ear, and lit the beedi despite the strong breeze that had started a few moments back.
I asked him for a beedi but he refused to part with one.
�She is a beautiful girl so how many boys are after her?� He asked.
�Around ten? Maybe more?� I said.
�Yet, she sticks around only with you?�
�We are friends Pathan� were friends.�
�A man and a woman can�t be so close and not fall in love. So, don�t give up. Actually why don't you write a letter and give it to her if you are scared that you will mess it up when you are talking to her? Now, I will have to take care of my business. Do tell me what happened.� He said.
He patted me on the back of my head before he started his Suvega and went away.

I stood there watching him disappear around the bend. Sweat trickled down my face and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. Back to square one. Letter again! But, I really thought about what he said. Why is it that the obvious always evades us until it is too late? All I had to do was to get the message across and that was it, but I wasted time chasing Garden lizards and staging dramas to get her attention and sympathy.

People say that when your time has arrived nothing can go wrong. But, mostly the opposite of it occurs: when you are destined to be screwed, not even Chiranjeevi can save you.

My junior, who was supposed to be my witness, was in Hyderabad. He had promised to return the previous day but he was nowhere to be seen. Junior�s ultra conservative, brahmin dad refused to talk to me because he claimed that he saw me in Jyothi talkies, watching one of those Malayalam movies. I wanted to ask him what he was doing there, but I had better things to do. I never was at the Jyothi talkies. I always watched my share of �those� Malayalam movies in Ananda movie hall. They showed dubbed versions. The dialogues were in Telugu but the content remained the same. Junior�s dad also threatened to kill his son if I ever met him. I wanted to reassure him that if his son did not turn up, before it was too late, I would do the honors myself.

So, AH executed part one of my grand plan. He went and sang to her. He told her how I had bragged about the girl irritating me by stalking me and giving me 'I miss you' cards. About how I would throw her out of my life if she had any grand ideas like 'love.' He played his part well. So the original plan of proving that the AH was lying and there by creating a trough of sympathy backfired. My witness was inaccessible. And all hell broke loose that night. The new year�s eve.

[Concluding part to be posted tomorrow. Promise!]

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Chennai school forbids inter-gender talk

The school Principal says interaction between boys and girls could lead to indiscipline and untoward incidents.

"We want them to follow the culture of the country," said P Prabhakaran, Principal, Vellamal School. [Via NDTV]

Um, which country is he talking about? Tamilnadu? Figures.
Untoward incidents? fcuking hilarious man!

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NDTV Interviews Ravages

I don't know if it was my post or serendipity or providence but Alaphia chose to interview Ravages!

Most journalists seem to have a problem with the possessive noun and pronoun. Hm.

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BlogCamp Humour: BMK

On Sunday afternoon this dude started the session off with these immortal words:
"Can you imagine a Bollywood without the big B? Can you imagine a Kollywood without Mr. Shivaji Ganesan? Can you imagine a BlogCamp without Kiruba Shankar?"
sycophancy is cool in Tamilnadu. They built a temple for Khushbu a few years back, remember? So unfrown. But a blogger having such a fan following is amazing. I am sure the dude who uttered those immortal words has tattooed Kiruba's name on various locations in his body. No, I am positive. So, here is my suggestion to kribs: start a political party now. Strike the iron when it is hot and all that. I have a name for the party too. BMK. Blogger Munnetra Kazhagam. We'll call the volunteers of this party BJs. No not what you are thinking Chandru. Blog Jockeys!
What say?

Off-topic: Thanks Jace for those wonderful pictures!

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Blogcamp Humour: Interview with a blogger

We felt left out that NDTV and CNN-IBN refused to acknowledge our presence. We were hoping some channel would give some air time, our moment of glory, youknowwhatIamsaying? But nada. Nothing. Alaphia of NDTV interviewed Kribs. We tried capturing her attention by hovering around when the interview was going on but she ignored us. Alaphia, you look better in person or is it the new hairdo? See! We can be nice people! Please show us on TV next time.
The desperate among us used innovative attention-grabbing techniques. Ravages, tried this but couldn't wank an interview out of this effort. Better luck next time bro.

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She was over priced...

...but you know how it works. On a warm Sunday evening I stepped out having made up my mind about quenching that desire. My budget was 3000 bucks. So I walk in and this short, frail guy pops up and says 'Imported or local?' I settled for imported, I mean what the heck!
And then I saw her. I fell for her curves and the dusky posterior. The guy pimping her said 'you have five minutes to decide saar.' I asked him if I could check her out. He agreed. She fell into my lap and as I ran my fingers through her I was entranced and transported into a myriad, ecstatic place and time... And the guy said '6000 Rupees sir.' For one fleeting moment I thought maybe I was doing the wrong thing, but then it was too late. I was in love!
Why don't you take a look at her?

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BlogCamp Humour: Evil FothaMuckas @ Blogcamp

Nilu, Anand, Ravages and me.
And yeah, there's Neha too. I am not gonna say who is Nilu because I know quite a few of you will crop his face, print it out, and do unmentionable things to it. I have never seen so much compassion and love oozing out of a single guy as Nilu. Gosh! I wanna cry now.
On Saturday evening at the beachhouse, there was this particular fellow that was hitting on Ravages. And how? By asking Ravages 48 times within half hour, 'did you have dinner?' The dude was pissed drunk and displayed amazing grit in logging on to Ravages.

At the 49th time, Ravages lost it and told the guy 'WTF man? Go get a life.'

And a blanket of silence swooped in on us. We could hear the waves crash against the porous shore. Somewhere a Gull let out a shrill call. A matin call? The stalker shifted his feet and shook his head to clear the demons that alcohol had created in his head. I thought he was going to mount Ravages right there, but as always he said, 'Oh, er, okay that's fine did you eat but? And if you want to help me, you can also join me in asking people around if they ate? hic?'
And I fell on the floor laughing.
More such incidents will be recounted on this blog shortly. Ravages, manchiko maamey.

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Steve 'Crocodile hunter' Irwin Dies

Steve Irwin, the passionate conservationist who shot to international fame as the Crocodile Hunter, was killed today in a freak accident while diving off the north Queensland coast.
In a bitter irony, the man who risked his life handling one of the world's most dangerous reptiles was mortally wounded by a stingray, a usually passive sea creature which attacks only if threatened. [Via Guardian]

Wikipedia entries on Steve and Stingray

:"( Damn!

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