nonsense of humour

Pre-Marital Woes

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Tue, 14 Mar 2017 10:15:00 +0000

Actually, it was this series of events which was very amusing. The end result would have been my marriage! Not to worry girls, I am still the most eligible bachelor boy around here. But that envious position was facing severe and constant threat from different corners of my otherwise whole and round life.

The corners from where i was attacked, were actually my parents. We all did the conspiracy together to get my sister engaged. I never thought they will turn around and use my strategic MBA tactics, back on me! Anyways, I always had this belief that my dad is Napoleon incarnated. I was wrong. He is the re incarnation of Adolf Hitler with some predatory genes from Julius Caesar. If my dad had faced Napoleon today in war, the poor Frenchman would have seen flying across the continent fearing a matrimonial with a local Indian girl.

HE (that is my dad. I have started using HE, HIM etc these days.); after conquering the first province (my sister’s engagement) immediately turned his attention to his next quandary, which is yours truly, me. When I say immediately, it literally means the next working day. It was like Dell’s service request. I shouldn’t have bought him a Dell laptop. One fine day my parents called me guffawing, saying they have created my profile in some shady matrimonial site. (I believe this marriage business itself is very shady)

What the heck? One nice guy can’t flirt around peacefully? I am happy in the bee hive, people. I don’t want to buy bottled honey.

The next day supposedly my profile generates a stir among the female community of the underworld and the site crashes not being able to manage the heavy traffic. The site resolves the problem by cutting down parts of my profile. They drop the last letter of my caste ("Nair" become "Nai" which now conveniently means Dog.) My dad claims total innocence whatsoever. Also the profile data becomes skewed at 45 degree angle. When contacted and protested the Site Admin changed my profile heading to read “Frozy - Soon to be Straight”. Still I managed to get some 6 proposals in one week. Of them one was a guy! We are still debating if I should take that as a compliment or not.

Then my dad called and started yelling at me all for not keeping even one photo at home. If future generations hold me as a visionary, this can be the only possible reason. Hail Frozy. There is not even one decent looking photo of mine at home. In the best one, I resemble a thug ogling at a village beauty with unkempt hair, 3 days of facial fair growth, muddied shirt and a Bermuda which had a hole in the right place (or wrong place– it’s all in the mind… and bermudaaah!)

As per my dad, that’s not the ideal match making photo. Even after searching my 2 dvds of fotos, I couldn’t find one different from the above one– the Bermuda was always unmistakable. So I had to visit a studio and get my portfolio done. That is the most embarrassing thing in life. Standing in front of camera knowing that half your generation will look at it and either scowl or laugh their guts out. I told this to my roommate and instead of sympathizing with me he called all the nasty ones who call themselves my friends. Three of them came down from Mumbai just to see me getting the mug shot taken. But I believe I know the secret behind getting all these responses in the site. It’s only because we haven’t put my photo up there. The moment it is done, probably the site might have to close down for posting sexually explicit material. :(

In the mean time I went to facebook and joined a new community. There I saw one of the proposals in flesh and blood! So as just as all the logical men will do, I sent her a nice courtesy mail. “Hey you. I am your ideal match. Better than a football match…” Blah blah.. She has not replied yet. Been a while. hmmm..

I am telling you, I am the most experienced bachelor around here now. What all of you guys should do is scan the matrimonial site for Grooms. No, Wait. I am not suggesting THAT. As any business proposals (SHADY business proposals) you should be aware of your competition. Sort of getting to know where one stands. You see, every day when I look at the mirror, the Shrek-Lookalike that grins back is not a very cheerful thought that I relish. So I scanned my competitors. Some were real Shreks. Some looked like 25 year old Robert De niro, all the way bald. Some I was not so sure. Some mismatch here and there. So may be… you know, just a may be… that I may not be bad-looking. May be I do have a chance after all. With that increased vigor I went to the next page of men and I cursed all the photographers in the world. There he is, a thug ogling at a village beauty with unkempt hair, 3 days hair growth, muddied shirt and a Bermuda which had a hole in the (oh! It’s all wrong) place. My Photo!! My dad has done the unthinkable. I will be damned if he was not Hitler. Napoleon must be grinning in his tomb.

Frozen Sun

PS: A horoscope pundit came to my rescue at the end. He and I successfully managed to thwart their cruel intentions and got the whole thing postponed by one year. One more year of freedom! I love my life!! 100 Rupee well spent on pundit.

Frozy’s Words of Wisdom to bachelor boys:

1. Never leave any photograph of yours at home unattended. It can be the potential weapon of mass destruction at the hands of your parents for your last bachelorhood ritual called, Marriage.

2. Arranged Marriage is a good thing. No, it’s true. You get to ogle at the photos of all the girls and later the girls themselves while her parents are eagerly watching for approval. If you had done the same thing two days back in the local market, you might have lost two teeth. Arranged Marriage is actually the “Save Teeth!” campaign in disguise.

3. Ask for dowry. It’s not evil. That’s the caretaker money that the girl’s parents give you when you get married. It’s a contingency fund to finance the side effect of all marriages, called “Wife”

4. You get the name of the girl from matrimonial site, go to Facebook, and search her out (oh don’t worry she will be there alright). You employ two gay friends or girl-friends for the job. Straight males not to be entrusted. Once you have her number start sending messages and add her to your friends. These tactics usually would ensure that she will NEVER say yes to the marriage. And yeah, don’t forget to message her “I a nice guy. Can u have friendship to me?”

5. Before going for a photo shoot, never ever mention it to your close friends. Especially if they have girlfriends or engaged or are married. Arrogance of experience can be really hurting. Also the difference between the Haves and Have-nots is always a big gaping hole in democracy. I want communism in marriage.

6. Finally, no one knows what girls really want. So stop pretending that you know them. Be yourself. Go on, be a man and put on some Fair & Handsome!

7. Avoid public functions by all means. Even if you are forced to attend, behave like you are the local goon. Or if that’s difficult, simply imitate Mr. Bean. Both have worked in my favor.

8. Write blogs like this. No girl who reads it will ever want to touch you, forget marriage.

Love Beats

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 19:25:00 +0000

I am smitten and I am head over heals over this girl. I don't know who she really is. We have not even had a conversation. All i do is to listen when she speaks. Even if i do speak, my voice will never reach her like hers reaches mine. And do i want to? I am not sure. Moreover that sweet voice has kept me spell bound for the last couple months. To be exact, since i landed in Pune. My travel in the car is almost always with her musical voice ringing in my ears.

Last week i realized that she can sing also. That too, not bad. (I for that matter, bray!) Half my friends around me had a hypnotized look on their face which i didn't like at all. I was not sure if that was because of her or the song that she played on her radio. The sense of music was exactly like mine. And that laugh.. Awwoooo.. i envy all the guys who work with her who get the golden moments to share when she laughs.

She speaks marathi. And i haven't heard anyone talk marathi so sweetly as she does. My friend said its because she mixes English with marathi. I don't care if she mixes English with Pudina chutney. As long as its her, its good. I am almost on the verge of learning marathi so that i could follow her word by word.

I got really pissed off when one day i was not able to listen to her. I realized then that she has gotten into my mind so much. I almost decided to do a Munna Bhai and go to her office bay and talk to her. But i basically being a coward, found hundred and one reasons to not to do so. What if she is married? What if she has a boyfriend? What if she is the sister of a local goon? What if my boss didn't gimme leave? And more terribly, what if she is single and said OK for me? What will i do then?? Questions are always easy to find. Its to find the answers that gives the problems.

So i decided to do what i can do best. Write a blog. Not that it will make a world of difference. I don't even know if she reads iLand. And i don't have the guts to tell her to come and read my blogs. She being a leading RJ of FM radio might have many things in her mind other than reading my stupid blogs. I am smitten by her. By radio jockey Maanasi in Radio Mirchi, Pune.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Love Factually

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 19:23:00 +0000

The topic, about which the entire human race has written about. Fought. Lost and Found. And died.

So what’s new? Well, nothing is new. As I constantly remind all of you, this piece of iLand is for bull crap. (Come on people. I already have enough tensions in my life. Work pressure, Peer Pressure, Friends’ pressure to keep calling my 257 big contact list. Now above all, iLand pressure!. Nowadays I dream of Moe’s and Bad Angel’s writing skills and fear iLand will throw me out for not keeping up to the standards)

What you think about ‘College Love’? I always felt that there are five types of lovers in any campus.

Numero Uno: The couple will be sitting on the steps on the way to canteen and you have to be a trapeze playing monkey or Tarzan of the jungle to reach the canteen. Take five steps back, beat your chest, howl, run, jump and fly over them. With all luck you will land on your arse with a sickening ‘THUD’. Since it’s not possible to break your arse, you will not duplicate your bones. Each time one poor soul tries to cross our lovebirds’ all entangled position, the guy will give threatening glances which roughly translate to ‘tujhe mein hostel me dekh loonga’. You can see these two sitting there for hours on end, not moving an inch. And when you ask them to sit in the class for 30 min, the world will come to an end!

Second one (what’s the Spanish for this? Numero Secondo?) This is a rare species now. These existed when I did my engineering some years ago. It’s 21.00 Hours. You go to the local phone booth to make a call to your ailing grandma. You can hear sounds coming from somewhere nearby… nothing to be seen in plain sight. You think of all ghost stories that your Grandma told you. Talking going on in very small voices… It’s a human male and sometimes it coos. You being the unsuspecting victim try to wrench open the door and enter the booth. “Aaaaarrrgghh!!!” The silence of the night is broken by this shrill scream followed by a torrent of ‘galis’ in all possible languages not leaving out any in your ancestral line. Usually parents will be the ones who bear the brunt of this shower. Mother, father, sister, brother, cousins, aunts, uncles, grand parents. The best way to count your relations.

Hearing this you run out with arms and legs flying all over the place. You think you have just encountered a foul mouthed ghost. But what just happened in reality was that you stumbled (literally) upon the second species. The cooing sound was from inside the booth with his girlfriend. It meant you should better find another phone, even if that meant walking five kilometers if you really want to talk to your grandma, before she reaches heaven.

Third: The old Fox of Sour Grapes. Ever green lovers. This is not by choice but because there is no other choice. You see. He was after Meena yesterday, with Teena today and will be after Veena tomorrow. Not that he didn’t like Meena & Teena. It’s just the other way. But so what? Life goes on and so does this ‘prem kahani’.

Fourth: Love is a horror story for these. Whenever they hear the word love, they shrivel up like a hazel nut. If a girl comes near them, a heart seizure is all ready and they collapse and have to be taken to the men’s loo. (And if by chance the helper didn’t faint by the loo smell, the lover might escape certain death) But they are these silent lovers. If you follow them carefully, during library hours, they will be in a corner seat and looking over the top of the 30 pound text book, at a girl sitting some ten yards away and busy gossiping with her friends. The moment the girl gives the guy a tantalizing glance, our Pirate Jack will hide behind the book never to be found again.

Fifth: Some of you might be offended by this, but I have living proof with me (proof is not me, please). How many of you believe in Rakhi? (I do. I have one sibling. One sister who likes to torment me day and night. And one ‘rakhi’ sister who gives her company. Two born terrorists!) Two Homo sapiens. A guy. A girl. They see each other. Spend some time together. Tadaaa. They decide that this is the best thing that could happen to them. She ties ‘rakhi’ and the guy is happy and so is the girl. They roam around the campus free of any hindrances. The guy chases off any potential Romeos. (Brotherly love and all!) The girl fights off any bitching friends saying it’s my brother. (Can’t you see the rakhi?)

Days Pass. Romeos forget the girl as the biblical forbidden apple. Months pass. Campus moves on to other more interesting topics. Years pass. Alumni meet comes up. Guy pops in along with THE girl, and a bunch of family heirlooms. They declare… ‘Since we knew each other so well, we deiced to marry.’

The End.

Frozen Sun

I still know what we did last summer

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 19:21:00 +0000

I still know what we did last summer

This is a small incident which happened some 5-6 years ago. Not of much importance. I just wanted to share the not-so-common experience here.

My cousins and I used to go for a summer trip every year. But the previous trip had left a pretty bad image among all of us and another venture away from the shelter of home was not exactly a dream for anyone. But not wanting to be left out, we decided to get all the Free Cousins of the World and embark on this mission. So we gathered 12 in all and called ourselves the Dirty Dozen! (Eleven of my cousins and myself. And dirty we were!)

Started in the morning and after traveling up and down the country we decided its time to have some dinner. Since we were busy making Pepsi shares go high by indulging in all kinds of corporate junk food, no one was in a mood to have lunch. So you can say a dozen wild hungry minions were on the look-out for a food joint.

Unfortunately the call of the stomach came when we were in the middle of nowhere. God and our parents had forgotten to put this place on the face of earth. There was not a single living soul to ask directions. And it was approaching midnight. We could hear some grumbling noises rising above the rattling of our vehicle's heart but was unsure if that was from some wild animal or from our own stomachs.

All the nice meals my mom offered and to which I had said 'NO' indignantly, lined up in front of my eyes. I still believe those brinjols were doing some kind of tap dance. We were completely in an alien land. No one knew the local language. Somewhere in Southern Karnataka. One or two farmers we 'encountered' on the way threatened to poison us (Or that was the closest interpretation which one of my cousins volunteered to offer. Others are not worth mentioning. RediffiLand might raise 'objectionable' clause against me)

11 hungry stomachs and 22 eyes looking out on either side of the road was not a very comical picture to anyone. Except for the one who smartly fell asleep. He was smiling nicely in his sleep which none of us liked. Must be HIS dishes doing a cabaret in his dreams! The smile became so unbearable that we poured the last bottle of water over his head. He must have thought he was having a rain dance with his bhindi.

We traveled some 50 km in different directions. Some started exclaiming that, they have seen many of the places we passed, before. We conducted 15 minutes of interviews and group discussions before coming to a conclusion that it's a pure case of Déjà Vu. (12 most brilliant souls and ardent followers of superman & spiderman simply cannot run in circles. Never!) More brilliant souls started to think about gate crashing a house and ransacking for food. After a point of time all of us were ready to follow suit. The only problem with that plan was that, to start with, you needed a HOUSE to ransack, which in that part of world was rarer than a sleepless-history-class in school.

Then we saw! We saw God in the form of a Truck. It was going at a speed of 30kmph ahead, with a half asleep driver at the wheels. We all started to yell at the driver to stop the truck. Some stuck their torso out of the cars and waved and yelled at the truck. At last we knew that the driver saw us. The driver put his head outside and turned back and instead of reducing the speed he started to race for his dear life. Poor chap must have thought its some hooligan party chasing him. (Dirty Dozen is no misnomer. We did look dirty. If our parents had seen us like that, they would have disowned us and all of us would be out on the adoption list in an instant). Anyway a loaded truck was no match for the will of our stomachs. We managed to chase down the truck with a wild eyed terrified human as its driver. (It was our luck that he didn't abandon the truck and ran away crying "bachao")

After recovering from the initial shock he said that there is a famous hotel 10+ km from that place. And that it's open all the time. But we needed to take a detour to reach that place. Some of us had already offered the Gods sacrifices if we got food. Visits to temples, Quit Smoking dad's cigar, not to make the dog pee inside the house, not to watch some certain kind of movies ever in life etc etc. Then what is a detour to us.

We turned the cars, followed the route that was told. We reached the place the driver mentioned. There was a small shack. An old shirtless uncle was sleeping with his legs on the coffee pot. There was a board hanging skewed from the shack's ledges. It read.

"Hotel Famous"

Epilogue: The food that we got from there was the best one anyone among us ever had. It was some kind of mixture of rice, sambar and some more nameless things.. Something more or like a Mexican Gumbo.

PS: That was our last summer trip.

Attempt at Kiss

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 19:19:00 +0000

I am a proud owner of long hair. It almost falls to my shoulder. Well, No, a little short of that. It doesn't take much to maintain. My sister has the view that it’s my hair which is eating up my entire food intake and the reason why I am slim. So after lots of soul searching I decided to cut my long, lavish and luxurious hair so that it’s easier to dry it (never thought someone needed soul searching to have hair cut). Otherwise it’s an exercise unto itself. Or think of it and yeah! May be that’s why I am slim. I can prescribe it for people who want to go for weight reduction programs. (Moe?) Come and dry my hair for ten minute every day morning. You don't have to pay me a penny. I can forgo the fee considering you are my friend. If there is more than one in need of the service, I am willing to take bath more than once a day. Where can you find such an offer? Even beats VLCC hands down. What say you? Staying slim is a privilege nowadays.

I decided to take my head and hair to a saloon. After walking like a drug-addicted chicken for some time I reached one. It resembled more of an Evil Dead movie location than a barber shop. Just as I was about to enter, a small kid came out screaming his lungs out. Not a very good omen, you would say. With a heavy and foreboding heart I entered. To my utter discomfort I found out that the barber and I were on the same level of education. Both of us didn't know one language. He didn't know a word in English and I didn't know a word in Marathi. Trouble is thus spelled. Moreover he smiled like he was willing to cut even my head off, as a bonus. Come to think of it, since 8, all my ex-barbers had that same evil smile. His scissors clicked. Click.. click.. I remembered some vultures in Discovery clicking their beaks before eating the pray alive. I prayed hard to all the gods that this fellow would not have seen that show. It didn’t give me any comfort that those vultures had a very bad sense of hair dressing.

Barber of Pune:“Kya?”

I of Pune: “mushroom cut”

BoP: “Masoom Cut.. Masoom main Jugal Hansraj jaisa..” (It was more of a statement than a question)

IoP: “most respected barberjee.. aap ki marzi.. jo chahe vo kar dee jiye”

He blabbered something in Marathi and I assumed that it meant “short?” I replied in affirmative. As he opened his draw, my memory went back to my second standard where a terrified child in I was looking at my teacher pulling a long cane from the drawer. (Karta was the master, Karma was me and Kriya is u-know-what) Out came a steel device which didn't resemble anything I have ever seen in my life, or for that matter, even wanted to. “Click-click” He almost applied it on my head when I understood his cruel intolerable abominable intention. He was going to put other barbers out of business for a while. What a BALD business DECISION. Shave my head off! I held my hands high up in the air and started bellowing in Malayalam. Evidently he got so shocked that he was standing there agape. It was difficult to determine who was shivering more; I- out of the fear of losing all my hair in one lucky stroke or him out of hearing a cry which almost resembled a blood thirsty hound.

My broken Hindi tried to convince him that I wanted some, a little bit, hair to remain on my head. He grudgingly let go off his device and went back to his scissors. “Click-click” again. And started. I hadn't slept properly for two days and dutifully fell asleep. Trust is such a bad thing. You don't trust your friend when he says he didn't forget but was about to call you. But you will go to sleep with your head in the hands of a human with no known background and who is an expert at dealing dangerous weapons, namely scissors. “Click.. Click”

After sleeping for good fifteen or so minutes I was rudely awaken by the man of the hour, Barber of Pune. And boy, did I wake up or not! All I could do was to sit and stare at the old bald man sitting opposite to me. He was looking like he has gone old by some thirty years in thirteen minutes and he looked remotely like me. No Way that I look like this! All the hair had mysteriously vanished. And what was left on my head now resembled some wild bush in Australia waiting to catch fire. If I peer closely I could see my scalp. And my hair line also has gone up a bit. Terrible. Horrible.

I paid him the extortion amount and left the place meekly. I returned to my flat. The reaction was just as I imagined. My roommates have never ever laughed so much in their life. I took a quick bath and ran outside. The run stopped outside a cine complex. I was waiting for my friend to join me. Suddenly I heard someone tapping my hands and saying something. “Uncle, Uncle.. What's the time?” With sinking heart I realized that a ten years old villain is calling ME his uncle. Badmash. When did I become his UNCLE? Didn't his mother ever lecture him on manners? Is this what they teach kids at school nowadays? What a Shame! No wonder the country is going to dogs. I cursed all and everything. So much for Keeping It Short and Sexy! But the blow was struck. I realized how the man in the Godrej hair dye ad would have felt. That word roamed around my head like a couple of happy yellow canaries. “Uncleee.. Uncleee”

Nahiiiiiinnnn.. :(

Frozen Sun

KISS is an acronym that we use while using presentations for “Keeping It Short and Sexy”. For all those who were looking for a juicy story where I would be kissing my girlfriend, go and take a walk. That’s private :)

Childhood Memories

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 19:15:00 +0000

I had always believed that there was something wrong with me.

Flashback 1: My dad recently crossed his 60^th birthday. Instead of celebrating like all oldies, he decided to keep it under wraps. My mom says he doesn’t want to disclose his age. But when did being 60 ever stop my dad?

It was some time ago that I got a call from my mom saying dad is in hospital. I freaked out and was shouting at the top of my creaking voice. My mom coolly answered “perappurathu ninnum thaazhe veenu” (chat se neeche gir gaya!)

I had to take two deep breaths to processes what I heard. My mom is not the joking type. Actually she is allergic to jokes and humor. No wonder she was a school teacher. But luckily for all, nothing had happened to him other than a minor hairline fracture on his knee. But that took me along the path of Sherlock Holmes wondering how this could have happened. After investigating for almost a day, I explained this to the Watson in myself.

My dad apparently went up the roof to clean the water tank it seems. What’s there to clean that much in a tank, you might ask. But if you allow yourself to listen to my dad’s description of the water tank, you would come to think that its some sort of nuclear waste disposal facility guarded by armed terrorists from Guantanamo Bay. Only the brave can rescue the damsel in distress (read: my mom). The poor lady believed it and gave him the thumps up to go up on the roof. At the age of sixty! Internal sources say that he was up on the roof in less than 34 seconds, hopping and jumping and at times, almost flying. Closer to the world record that any Indian has ever reached.

But when did the nuclear waste disposal ever really bothered the communist in my dad? (Yeah, he is a pukka one. All gung ho for china Russia and Cuba.) The real reason that I strongly believe is (though he just laughs it off) something different. There is a ladies’ college near my house. That he was up on the roof at the precisely exact time the college girls were passing my house is no mere coincidence. Don’t be so shocked. It can be true. After all he is MY dad. And while busy “cleaning the tank” for a second he must have forgot that he is perched precariously on top of second floor on the house… and rest is left to historians and orthopedic surgeons.

Flashback 2: I am a chic-ronmentalist. Meaning, I pretend to take care of environment when cute chics are around. But I hate this Save Tree campaign. Whenever someone comes up with a badge saying “Save Tree” I get cuties all over my body. Reason? There is no other person who has been punished so much by trees. Living and dead, both alike.

Let’s say, I was not exactly the role model kid when I was young. Well, I had some tricks up my sleeves but hey, who didn’t? But they came at a very high cost. Namely, my skin. It was almost nonexistent by the time I was 10. The reason is only one and one thing. Not my dad. The thorny tree at the corner of my compound. Each time I do some mischief it will lower its branches so low.. that even if my dad had decided not to beat me up, he will do it just for the heck of it. Anyway, the-stick-is-at-hands-reach-so-why-not types. That tree died slowly donating all its branches to the noble cause of beating the pulp out of me. And my dad, for some reason I still don’t understand, never planted a new one. May be he had some soft corner for that tree. He will always love that tree more than me I guess. Damn you green headed monsters.

Flashback 3: I had always thought that I am some kind of mistake in my parent’s family planning. Something like an “unplanned outcome”. Either that or I am adopted. I am not saying it from whatever you read above. What if I say my childhood toys were a broken iron box and a pressure cooker lid? Now you see where I am coming from? Sigh. And you talk about under privileged children in Somalia! My foot I say.

To add to these, you must also have read about how they are planning to go about my marriage plans. It’s just plain horrifying experience. I am yet to come to a conclusion which is bad. Whether it’s the prospect of marriage itself or the prospect of letting them choose a bride and THEN marry her. God save me. This should be an item in the next “Rippley’s believe it or not”

I am more of an experimental guinea pig for them. The latest experiment is called “Bechna hain, Frozy ka… Maan Samman aur Abhiman”

Last week my dad called me saying he needs Rs.500. I was wondering why on earth he needs this paltry sum. After putting huge pressure and empty threats, he told me that it is for some colony activity. Suspiciously I agreed. By the way, my house is in a colony in Kerala. I am not sure if the house landed inside a colony or the colony grew around it. It is half occupied by MOGEMBO (Members Of Gelf Emigrated Mallu Babus Organization) and other half by medical representatives. (My dad is a fence sitter). We have this colony day every year which is the most ridiculous nonsensical humbug one can ever witness. We use that day to boast around and wash dirty linen in public. This is apparently what happened that day:

The anchor is all ready to give away the award as if its some Oscar.

Stage Anchor (in a horrible Mal accented English or English accented Mal – which is which is debatable but nevertheless indistinguishable): “Now we come to the most awaited award of the night. This award as you know is given to the person with most WARTs. And this years NAVEEN for most WART goes to Thilothama PP.”

One girl comes up the stage looking aghast and ready to cry. She silently receives an odd looking thing from the chief guest who is equally disgruntled at having to give away an award for WART. From certain angles I thought the award itself was looking like a big oily wart.

No one knew WART stood for Weekly Average Rating in Tests. Except of course my dad, who set it all up.

The Present:

I KNEW there is something wrong with me!

Fress Maal - Invoice

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 19:15:00 +0000

Fress Maal - Invoice

Invoice

Fresss maal All figures in Indian Rupee

I was lying on my bed and my room mate was talking about one of his friends who had sex with a leading actress of a regional language. Suddenly, just like you are now, I was all ears. My sleepiness and laziness vanished into thin air in seconds and I sat upright in my bed. What's more interesting than someone getting hooked? We male species are selfless creatures in this particular area. My room mate was still in his dream world and was sleep talking 1.25 lakhs! How to make 1.25 lakhs? My curiosity overpowered me and I was poking him asking what the money was for. He was like; my friend paid 1.25 lakhs to have sex with her, still in his hallucination.

I was shocked. How can someone do this? This is atrocious. Blasphemy. I am 27 and I never got to do a film actress! This is unfair. And 1.25 lakhs is not a big amount these days. If I stopped drinking tea, I could easily have 1.25 lakhs in a couple of month's time. That too for a leading lady in southern movies! For one second, her curves and bends filled my brain. For more clarity I googled her and there she was, filling my entire 15 inch monitor. Stopping tea may not be that bad after all. Tea board can go to hell. But some other questions were raising its snake like heads all over my mind. How come she is charging so high? Or is it too low? I have absolutely nothing to compare it with because I never had paid sex. I never gave money (neither received, for that matter) in exchange for having sex. But if you think about the number of times I ogled at girls, I would be in serious financial problems, worse than the American food crisis.

I kept on wondering like this for some time. Then suddenly a thought struck me. Should I charge if I am having sex? Don't laugh now. This is a serious blog. Obviously I am no leading hero of any Malayalam movie. My acting talents are worse than Himesh Reshamiya's! It's hard to recognize any bend in my body. It's more like a super express high way with one pot hole here and one there. Moe even wrote a post after my two holes. Therefore, the two areas that are coming to my mind are paid-sex and non paid-sex. Non paid-sex sounds like free sex, which is worse. It makes me feel cheap so paid sex it should be. It's more like a service you know.

So iLanders, I am trying to get how these people arrive at their pricing band. I will try to put all my MBA skills (financial and otherwise) to good use here.

The question is how much should I charge if I were in her position. Don't go literally now. Of course 1.25 lakhs is not for me. I start the price at an amicable 30K compared to a whopping 1.25 lakhs. Since I am a guy (I AM, really!) have to do more work than her in such a scenario so I start at a premium. 25K for my personal work efforts. 30+25 = 75K

Point two: I am a virgin in this field. By field I mean, paid sex! That should command a higher value. Come on, I have seen so many B grade movies. Virgins are always in demand, including our own Virgin at Thirty (VAT)! Just look how many girls like him. So up goes the amount by additional 50K. (My experience on non paid sex? No comments). Now price = 1.25 lakhs (I am actually equaling her!)

Now the question of being ethical in this. Of course I agree this is a service. But should I be paying service tax for this? If some Govt. officials come to know about this, they might want a share of my service. Err. No. I will be an honest tax paying individual. Add 10K towards the tax and the price becomes 1.35 lakh. (Ooh! I EXCEEDED HER! UNBELIEVABLE!)
Then comes when and where? I think it's better to be after 9 PM. My vital stat is not much of a wow. So good if we can do it in the shadows. I am ok with any place as long as I am paid (I think!)

Thus I offer my services at 1.35 lakh rupees. It is for a single night. Conditions apply. No whips allowed inside the room. Only girls need to apply. Protection devices are provided on the house.

Frozen Sun

PS: I am a Mallu with a weird sense of humor. This is all a joke. Nothing serious! I repeat, never take me seriously on iLand. But if someone really thinks she can give me a lakh, I may alter this PS section.

Frozy and the Alien Diary

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 19:14:00 +0000

I found this from the pages of an alien, who paid me a visit from future. I stole it from his diary when he was practicing Yoga.

The Plague Symptoms: The most famous is swollen lymph glands. Other symptoms include spots on the surface that are red at first and then turn black, heavy breathing, continuous blood vomiting, aching limbs and terrible pain usually caused by the actual decaying of the skin while the infected person is still alive.

This is not the description of the bacterial infection called plague. It’s the description of an infection that planet Earth had, caused by the despicable low lives called Humans. (Earth is a dead planet that we use now as waste dump. It is located in the defunct Solar system)

The way humans used their parent body (Earth) and killed it slowly without a care can only be replicated by a virus or bacteria. The scariest thing was humans’ ability to adapt and evolve. It moved on when one part of Earth was dead. Searching for new pastures to kill. till the whole body was dead and rotting and cannot support life anymore. Then they searched for a new place to infect. Another planet perhaps. But we, Frozniktonians have to thank our Froz-ma-taz Gods that they didn’t succeed. Else entire universe would have been in great peril.

There have been some antidotes to this human disease. But humans were too adaptive to them. It devised various artificial antigens to fight off these natural elimination processes that earth used on humans. It also had the capacity to use Earth’s resources and turn it against Earth itself. This has not been witnessed by any other infections in the universe.

One remarkable feature of this species is that, even though it was all the same from one to another, it believed they greatly differed from each other. They even believed (inaccurately) that they had a mind of their own which only an advanced species exhibits. Its communication system was excellent which helped them to invade the whole planet in a very short time. It had a very short lifespan though. About 100 solar years, about 2 units of our Froznitac units of time. But they used to mate and multiply 2-5 times (on an average) in this span.

Final symptom: When death begins the victim (Earth) will get spasms.

Frozen Sun

PS: I think earth has started getting the spasms

Right now I am watching the India NZ third ODI. India started off on the arrogance of having too many runs on the board. India is now getting thrashed. We need someone like Jessee to beat the pulp out of humans. And make them realize the price to pay for being arrogant. I am going out now. Celebrate the weekend. Hope Indians and humans will wake up before it’s too late.

Frozy and The Tiger, and other stories

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 19:03:00 +0000

February last week was unremarkably remarkable for me! That was when I was almost eaten alive by man eating tigers, when I almost fell off into a raging river, when I got shriveled up in snow, when I got roasted in a near-desert city and to top it all, when I had to watch red bikini clad Kingfisher Airhostess from the far away discomforts of the window seat. In English language, this complex and unfortunate series of events is called a VACATION!

The primary and sole reason for me to accept the crucifixion was a promised visit to a certain ‘Cabaret’ park. It was named after a famous white guy called, Jim. He must have been some sort of a regular customer. I simply couldn’t hide the glee. A park dedicated to cabaret with an overnight stay. Do I need to tell more? I was feeling like a Mujahedeen. Ready to sacrifice anything (live in the company of four old people for one whole week included!) in return of the promised 72 virgins (read: the cabaret, not so sure of virgins though)

When I reached there I realized why they call it wild life safari. I was taken for a real ride. There was no cabaret. This Jim fellow was someone who hunted tigers for food. So one day the Tiger High Command met and decided to name the forest after the old fellow and give him a parliamentary seat in 2009 general elections. Our Jim was mighty pleased with the trade off and stopped hunting tigers. That’s the story. No cabaret. No promised virgins. Jim Corbett National Park. Altogether a disappointing start. I can see how mujahedeen might feel once they leave the Earth.

Apparently there are 167 tigers in the forest. Tiger is part of the big, you know, Panthera family. They used to rule the British India like Bachans did in Sarkar. Then there was a big family feud and the family was split into four. Tiger Bachan, Lion Bachan, Jaguar Bachan and Leopard Bachan. Jaguar Bachan has been recently adopted by the Tata. It will be soon renamed to Tata Byebye Bachan.

These sub families have a specialty that only these four can roar, and of course Frozy. Anyone questioning my authority will be asked to watch Splitsvilla in MTV along with Navjot Singh Sidhu for a month. So choose carefully before you speak, you pathetic un-roarable creatures. (Even though Sidhu can roar and has lots of whiskers, my impeccable research has shown that he is not technically a Panthera. He is classified under the pantyhose sub species!)

After thinking a lot, I decided to give a try for a wild life safari. I was made to sit on a she-elephant. If you had shown that picture of mine in a “Show & Tell”, kids would have told “A prickly nut on a tom cat’s fur”. The resemblance was unmistakable even in that dense forest. The elephant now and then turned to make sure I am sitting on top. Couple of times she even swished her tail to check upon me. But Prickly-nut-me, held on for dear life. Hathiji was a bit unhappy and seemingly wanted to throw me down. But I am no stranger for hard play. I don’t like woman on top. Especially when it’s an elephant that we are talking about!

So the story started. We reached the middle of the forest, all dark and dingy. No sound. Dhak… dhak… Only the elephant walking… suddenly I hear the roar from the bushes behind me. It was a bloodcurdling growl of a full grown tiger. I knew I was a goner. I turned and peered (NOT peed. There is an ‘r’ in the middle) into the darkness to see if I can spot a tiger at least before it jumps. But nothing came. The mammoth continued its cat walk as if nothing had happened. I could hear roars again and again. Always from behind me, hiding among the bushes perhaps.

But the driver of the elephant (or whatever you people call him) was least bothered. He was chewing something and had a stupid smile like he was watching an SRK movie. That’s when I realized that the roaring culprit was not the tiger but none other than the elephant itself. That idiot mammoth must have eaten too much of aloo the previous night and had major gastric problem. The roar I heard was actually its bloody fart. Unbelievable. So much for my tiger tales. I took the next flight back home.

God and Chicken Biriyani

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 18:57:00 +0000

Blog world is under attack. No, I am serious. It’s turning slowly into a hotspot for nirvana and moksha sales. “Dus ka theen.. Dus ka theen” Where ever I go, I read about people finding meaning for life or scrutinizing geeta khuran or bible. No offense people. I have stopped reading all those heavy stuff which might be exactly what you just thought aloud! But here in this land I am the God so I know the answers already. Once upon a time I too was dwelling into such topics as why we are here and why not in Priyanka Chopra’s bedroom and all. But then one day I suddenly dawned on me that we are here to eat Hyderabadi Chicken Biriyani and I possibly couldn’t find an answer any better than that. Just imagine. What’s better than Hyd Chi Bir three times a day? Also it’s better to search for something for which I can find an answer. For example, where did I leave my glasses now? Shit.. hold on..

OK.. Got it.. In a way I am glad that blog-world might put an end to all human Gods. At this rate, we will pack them all to Timbuktu for good. The next century maharshis munis babas etc will say, “vals, if you are to seek moksha, pls go to the deep junglee pages of blogging. They are doing it better than I am” or some ayurvedic soup will advertise “From the weblogs of blogs directly after scanning it using the most advanced search engines, the essence of life in a soup, to glow your soul like the pages of xxxxx”

I have used xxx as the name because I am Hippocratic and not ashamed of that. I am young and have no intention of looking for a deeper meaning to my otherwise interesting life. What if I found the meaning and it turned out to be “clean all the municipal sewers”? Sorry guys. I am not going anywhere there. As to the iLand, I have no qualms about being in the midst of such a wide variety of topics. You all write away to glory! I always have the all encompassing power of ignoring and saying “not again!” But no one will hear me so here I go.

“NOT AGAIN!”

Wooo.. That was better. I was going through blogspot and sulekha the other day. I had always thought that this life seeking mode is on because demography of iLanders is mainly married people who are now into that mode because of their family pressures or they simply don’t know what else to do. Now please stop screaming. I really have not met many youngsters who want to seek life’s meaning at 12:00 in the night on a Friday (And after 8 years of college and 10 years of school, believe me, I have met quite a number of them.) But basically I was wrong. I saw some blogs in blogsopt which had the effect of Shock and Awe of US of freaking A. I was. Really. Then for some others I laughed and howled like a moron in my cubicle and my boss came looking for me. He thought I was having sex in my cubicle. I was making all weird noises it seems. People HOWL when having sex? Must be some sex!

Now you might again yell, then go to them sumbitches. Leave us alone in peace and moksha. Sorry people I have no intention of doing that either. God never told anyone I know that you should seek life’s meaning. He must have said “You bloody punk. Have some fun for me. Will ya?” So I will be here and write as I like. Will God be standing at gates of earth’s boundary with a club and pepper spray, asking all, “Hey you, ya ya you only.. The one in green dirty Bermuda.. Come on.. Out with it. What’s the meaning of life?” Then I definitely will reply, “Sir.. mmm.. err.. Hyderabadi Chicken Biriyani?” If God send me to hell for a wrong answer, I am sure he will come along with me (God is everywhere. So why not in hell?) Then we will have a glass of Heineken beer, chicken barbeque on direct hell’s fire followed by Hyderabadi chicken biriyani. (My only fear is that God might turn out to be a chicken. Then I am doomed)

Since I am the God here in this page, I will write as I like and you will read only what I want. You don’t have the option of not reading it also because if you have read till here, there is no turning back. The blog is already over.

Frozen Sun

I should fax the recipe for that barbeque sauce to God. I like mine with a tinge of vinegar.

Humorous side of Loose motion

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 18:52:00 +0000

This is not about love, butterflies or heart shaped red balloons. It’s going to be as dirty as it can get. So anyone having cold, fever or Mercedes Benz, please don’t read.

It’s a normal weekday morning. After chatting with your online friends, you had slept very late into the morning and feel very sleepy. Your boss had scheduled a meeting with clients which you are supposed to handle. You don’t even have an atom of preparation.

And you have loose motion.

To worsen the condition further (if that’s possible!) you find yourself in the lobby waving at the client enthusiastically. You feel so clueless and start to squirm in your shoe. The only possible solution is to run to the washroom and pray that they have all the required necessities, starting from a functioning closet with the toilet cover up (or down; I could never remember the correct way to leave it!) and most importantly, that it’s unoccupied. You hip-hop all the way to toilet. Your colleagues gleefully agree with a nod that is you are doing a passable imitation of a kangaroo.

You reach toilet safely (by all means) and sit there and perform the art which some may term and smirk as shitty. But whatever it is, a nice smile spreads across your face and you really have no clue as to why you are smiling like a clown. Feeling weird you shake yourself, stop smiling abruptly and curse all for getting afflicted by this disease. At first glance you are not able to realize why and how the heck you got it. After 10 min of complicated thought process which could rather easily beat Navjyot Singh Sidhu’s super brain (still performing the ‘art’ rather tirelessly) you reach the conclusion that it can be something you smelled from that hotel the day before.

Actually we all should thank this disease. This is the only time when all humans and animals are ‘giving out’ freely. Ever heard about a miser who won’t go to loo because he is a miser? (I know a couple of constipated real life misers though!) Shylocks would usually be the first to stand in the line.

After ten minutes of sitting there, you realize that it has been a rather long a time to sit in a toilet. But actually it has been over an hour, just that you never realized. Art knows no time and boundaries. How true. Also without your realization, all your colleagues had come to the wash room and had run out because of some foul order emanating from the closet. One of them sums up all the courage and offers to check out. Once his girlfriends and colleagues bid farewell to our hero, he wears the fire fighting masks and enters the wash room. With very difficulty he knocks.

He: (voice is muffled bcoz of the gas mask) “It’s me Steve. Man, u stink. Get the hell out of there.”

Then you suddenly realize how stinky you are right now! You feel embarrassed to the core and do not know what to do.

He: (continues) “Who the $%#@ are you? Reveal yourself!”

At that precise moment you get a fresh lease of life. They still don’t know who you are. You might have a chance of escaping the horrifying embarrassment sessions not to mention the atrocious looks you have to face all your life. Imagine your name for ever to be Stinky Kumar or Motion Patel or Shitty Mehta? You change your voice and put on a squeaking tone which resembles your boss’s. And you decide that if needed you will stay back all night long so that you can slip out unnoticed.

So you go: “I am your boss, and mind your words.”

That exact, precise moment your cell phone decides to play havoc on the world’s equilibrium. It bellows aloud.

“Lose Control! Lose Control! One more time, Lose Lose, Lose Control”

Shocked, Irritated, Embarrassed, Angry, Frustrated, you really lose control… again! Shit!

Outside all of your colleague yell in a perfect symphony to match it… “I KNOW THAT RINGTONE!! THAT’S FROZY”

Frozen Sun

PS: This is pure fiction. I could not end the blog in a better way without poking myself. But what’s sense of humor if you can’t laugh at yourself? :)

I Me Myself and Frozy

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 18:45:00 +0000

How many of you know the real Frozy? Mostly it has been kind of platonic relationship. It may be because I haven’t properly introduced myself yet. Whatever the anonymity and the associated fundas are, some of my real-life friends know the real Frozen Sun. Or simply which section of iland not to visit! So, why you poor wretched souls shouldn’t be given that option to escape the obvious, right?

So I am going to bare myself. The real Frozy!

When I started here, I had thought that I will write here anonymously. But whenever a girl joined my office team or when I happened to stumble upon one in a better environment (afterwards they unanimously agree that it is their sheer misfortune), the first thing I ask her is… “Do you like blogs?” Immediately followed by (the answer to the first one being inconsequential) “Have you read Frozen Sun on reddiffiland?” Some people are of the opinion that it might not be a good opening question. Oh, I know. They are just jealous.

I am Frozy. Going strong on 26. Absolutely no grey hair. To start with, a highly unsuccessful mechanical engineer in practical life though theoretical knowledge is very high to the extent of actually being a total bore. Managed to get good grades in all the exams by religiously mugging up all the Chinese formulae and when ever that didn’t help, copying shamelessly from slips up my undergarment. My general life can be summed up by the next line- To get a four wheeler drivers license, (which means I don’t have one yet) you need to learn it first which I am not willing to (which means I am lazy) because that demands getting up early in the morning (which means I sleep like a polar bear) and going to a driving school (heaven save those souls who do). A vicious circle and therefore no license. But that has resulted in a particularly high level of enthusiasm in the Greater Dog Community near my flat. By using a car I don’t want to rob them off their daily evening jog routine. They are all a big happy joint dog family, chasing me and my bike around.

After my engineering this weird yembeeyay bug bit me in some unspeakable part of my body. I packed my bags went to Chennai for coaching classes. Did everything there except studying and spent a year as complete honest example of a loafer. Then at the end of that Stone Age, I wrote xat mat cat dog donkey and whatnot to somehow get inside a college. That was also the time when I started resembling a Neanderthal physically, emotionally, chemically and grammatically. The idea of going after girls started to become a high point of my life, with as much luck as Chandler Bing (of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.) Somehow I got into a college. (A nice one for that matter. Not some I-too-did-MBA College, mind it. That’s the only area where I am itchy, other than the unspeakable part of my body mentioned earlier.) Then joined a company‘s in Bangalore. Got transferred to Pune after roaming around USA for some time. That was Fun. Stayed in Marriot for 3 whole months, ate, slept, boozed, played pool, poker, went partying, mouth washed using coca cola, played cricket in baseball grounds, got chased by Afro Americans, alternated between office and strip bars… mmm.. It was nice.. (If anyone from my family is reading this, it’s all a joke… This is not me. You know I don’t play cricket.)

Girls and Humor has always attracted me and so I laugh at any attempt at latter by any former. I give credit to my friend Nibesh for whatever sense of humor I have. Thx Spartan Nibesh! Talking about Spartans, there is this biggest dilemma and challenge in front of me, something to the tune of facing a one million strong Persians. My parents want to get me married off (Come on, you sulking Persians, you bloody homosexual retards.. I think I will rather fight them.) For my parents, I am a full house (means “pura niranju nilkal” = Malayalam for “get the hell out of our life”). So they dragged me kicking and screaming to fill up the matrimonial section in some shady website (the entire business of marriage looks shady to me). I will soon write about that. I am quite busy and my life is full of songs.

Coming back, now that the truth is out, “Frozen Sun” has lost most of its meaning. But I like that name very much. Shortened as “Frozy”, it has been going rounds in my limited circle of friendship here in iland. So I may just not say adieu to Frozy.

Yet again Frozy,

Yours.

If you read this, chances are high that you might NOT like any of my blogs. But still try reading some. I promise a complete waste of your time.

Yellow Pages

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 18:38:00 +0000

I don’t know how many of you out here are journalists. Not the ones who smoke a beedi and wear an old unwashed piece of cotton dress. I mean the normal ‘real’ journalists.. By which again I mean the one who writes all the cool Page-3 stuff. If you are that kind

Come one guys. What’s wrong with you all? You suffer from constipation or something?

For the record, I have stopped reading any paper other than Hindu or Financial Times. They are still not all stories of how fast Kangana Ranaut removed her undies in a movie. No we are not discussing that here, sorry. The others, especially TOI, are a sovereign socialist republican country for yellow journalism. There are close competitions to TOI. Malayala Manorama from Kerala is the best. Oh! The tabloids from London got to learn so much from it. I will tell you why I think so. Once there was a suicide in Kerala (which is sad in its own way.) The police apparently forbade the paper from taking any pictures because Kerala police is very camera shy nowadays. One of their high ranking officials got trapped in an MMS scandal. He was caught washing a woman’s cloths. Nothing bad in that, of course! (oh! you feminists.) The problem was that, the lady turned out to be his neighbor. Washing dirty linen in public proved to be very costly for Kerala Police. So the next day when I opened the paper, what I saw really baffled me. The news was front page. (Coup in Pak was in page 5, lower section. But I would say that actually deserved Page 11. I told you, it’s all yellow journalism.) On the front page, there was a big 8 column photo of a road, with people walking left and right wearing mundu. And a caption that read: “This is the road which he used to go to office”. Now that was what I was looking for. This is what I missed in my life. Thanks Malayala Manorama. My day is so blessed. You complete me. To think so far sighted and to get that picture right in place, I tell you, is an art. Without that piece of information how could have world moved on? Especially the oil prices and stock market. By the way, anything and everything affect oil prices. It’s also because Kerala has the maximum population among all Gulf States. After Kerala, second is Saudi Arabia followed by . Saudi didn’t get to be the first because they keep cutting the private parts of their men on a rotation basis. I hear it’s a national festival there. Kerala doesn't do that. We have hartals and bandhs instead. Also we are fully literate. So we let our men roam freely. Oh yes, It’s all safe.

Another heading that I clearly remember was a humongous “BRA”. I got all excited thinking they are writing about streaking in Kerala or publishing an information bank on lingerie models (There are so many other things about that word but I refrain from mentioning those!). I love progressive modern countries when it comes to this. But it turned out that it is not BRA actually but Brazil. Apparently the previous day Brazil won the football world cup. What the… They could have at least shown a Brazilian chic in a Bra. It’s not very difficult to find one either. Come to think of it, I think that’s how the country got its name. They wait for a chance to throw off their clothes and will easily give Salman ‘The Blackbuck’ Khan a run for his money any day. That photo would have at least made some sense. They can use the girl’s photo at a certain zoom and angle and write ‘ZIL’ next to it.

This was all till yesterday, when I didn't know a thing. Now I am all grown up. I have changed. I see what they were trying to tell me. There is no yellow journalism. There is only one color. Yes. You said it. Yellow. Yesterday I was reading BBC. There was a news article which said ‘Missing girl found’. I thought it is the girl who was murdered in Goa. I opened it up and then realized that it’s in UK and not in the safest tourist haven, Goa. In UK, a little girl had gone to play outside and her parents got freaked out. Since UK police has nothing better to do (other than be a butler to Prince William) they tried to catch the little girl. Something similar to our own Chor Pulice. But the girl proved to be a tad bit smarter for the Scotland Yard. She successfully hid for 3 weeks behind a desk until third day when she forgot they were supposed to be playing and came out asking mama for milk. They have caught a guy who offered her water instead of milk. Apparently that’s a crime in UK. Now that’s not the end of it. BBC had given a detailed road map of that area. The county, Great Britain along with Irish mainland and Europe. Notes read: This is where she was last seen playing, this is where she was found, this is where the reporter made-out with the neighbor, this is where Queen of England #####, The English Channel and a big circular area down south with Theory Henry sucks written across it. By now I was speechless but I managed a ‘WHAT THE FCUK!’

Love Gamble

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 18:34:00 +0000

How does one begin when one is to write about love? Is it the greatest trip every man and woman wishes to embark upon? And perhaps the longest too. A journey, the beginning and the end of the same thing. The freedom. The perception. The Self. The love.

Watching terrible TV

It kills all thoughts

Getting spacier than an astronaut…

Making out with people

I hardly know or like

I can't believe what I do late at night…

I have witnessed people changing. I have seen me changing. With permissions
or not. I have changed. For love. By love. Because of love. For good. For bad. Running
in circles, not knowing the tail from head. Chasing both. Getting chased. Ending
up losing all. Losing my head. Losing the sight of love.

I wanna know what it's like

On the inside of love

I'm standing at the gates

I see the beauty above

Reading too much into it. Not reading at all into it. Which is worse? Which is true? Do I realize that I might actually know the right way to read? And then reading the Braille with my eyes closed. And blindly laugh at the jokes round.

Only when we get to see

The aerial view

Will the patterns show?

We'll know what to do?

What is true love? Is it me? Or love? The goal turning into the path. Suddenly a tap on your shoulder reminding you that the path was your goal and not knowing where to turn. Is that shock, the true love?

I know the last page so well

I can't read the first

So I just don't start

It's getting worse

So where do I stop? Do I wait here for the next train? Or do I get back? Where did this all begin? Do I get to see it in a different view and light? Different angle? Different eyes? Open eyes? Different love? Another chance, to learn to unlearn?

I'm on the outside of love

Always under or above

I can't find my way in

I try again and again

Do you wait for love to happen or will love wait for you? Who will blink first? I guess this is a game we all play. All of us losing it. The game wins. Like a Casino. Always. We getting lost in it somehow or other. Still, claiming a victory. Win-win or Lose all? Love all?

I wanna know what it's like

On the inside of love

Of course I'll be alright

I just had a bad night

Frozen Sun
PS: The central lines are by Nada Surf. Credited

My Hyper Modern Poetry!

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 18:28:00 +0000

Crow cried on my black keyboard

Did not shit

Yellow lines

“Meow”

Revenue Capital and Expense

Frozy turned

Mysticism

Blinking tube lights

Pseudo Gods wore helmet to pub

Worms ate Chicken Manchurian

Argh!

Withdrawals

Deposits too

Maine pyar kiya

Mouse beckons

Another meow

Middle of the end

Amen!

This is my first attempt at modern poetry. I have come to the realization that modern poetry is more hip. You get to be the dude. Earlier I had written some run of the mill poems on love but they have become a cliché!

I know this is not the best poem. I see some minor scope for improvement here and there. Like ‘Argh’ could have been replaced by an ‘Ouch’, ‘Bah’ or ‘Grr’. But no problem, there is always a next time! I have not quite been able to capture the vivid colours in my mind, but nonetheless it’s a good start. You can expect more of these from me – The modern poetry dude!

Sigh! I hope till now I didn’t make much sense to anyone. If I did, I am so sorry to say that you need to visit a lunatic asylum ASAP! It didn’t make even one iota of difference to my understanding level (even though I wrote that horrifying set of lines which I called a poem)

I have often found myself at the receiving end of such poems from several people. Each time I will start thinking, this time I will crack it. I will roll up my shirt sleeves, beat my chests, howl and shake my monitor vigorously. Then spend the rest of the day staring blankly at the poem not able to make head or tail of it. After a tiring day of staring, I go home overwhelmed by the superior intelligence level of the poet and sulking at the fact that I can never do it that way. Sometime I have even wondered if people posted the poem upside down or something. Because once when my desperation was at its pits, I tried reading one modern poetry bottom-up!!! To my chagrin it did not help much but that was when I made some observations like - the second stanza actually comes after the fourth stanza. Creative geniuses! Who would have thought of such wonderful ways to express themselves? Another one was that all words do not necessarily have meanings (like *****. Come on guys, there is no such word!! Don’t fool me. I know you are pulling my leg. Or like people in Kerala naming their kids. I fear the day when a kid with a name ‘Kangaru’ walks by because his mom is KANGana and dad is ARUn!

Reading modern poetry is one thing. I will never understand it anyway. Hence there is no problem whatsoever. But reading an iLANDER’S modern poetry is a bigger problem. You got to comment on it. That’s a herculean task. I am telling you, this is the ONLY reason why my friend’s list is so small even after being here for a year. When I go through the poems, there will be expert comments from Savi, Dilip, Moe (fellow ilanders) and the likes. After reading them, I get all confused. Whatever I thought the poem was about, it eventually turns out that the poem had nothing to do with that. How can someone mean WWIII when he is actually writing about pigs? I had really thought it’s the family anthem of some pig sty and was about to say “You are a good master for the pigs. All piggies will be proud of you.” Moe’s comment about Hitler or something stopped me from committing that suicide.

With this improved IQ level I attacked ant r’s (ilander) poems… By then I developed this expert skill of creating comments from other comments. You read the comments, pick words from here and there and you are good to go. I went and diligently wrote comments on all those using MS word vocabulary and synonyms. And waited, holding my breath for her response. It was a “Duh!” she said my comments had nothing to do with anything that she ever wrote. So much for modern comments! Also she changed her interests to “Duh!” I am sure she meant only me when she wrote that :(

So iLanders listen to the voice. Make my life easier. Start writing something simple. Something I can understand. Something like

I looked at her. She looked at me.

We looked and liked each other

The more she looked, the more I looked

Oh! We looked and liked each other!

Ah! How beautiful! Why doesn’t anyone write like this anymore?

Frozen Sun

Frozy’s recipe for modern poetry: Take a handful of moonlight, mix it with Rum boiled at 30 degree, and add a 200 gram of Cuticura powder. Stand on your head and mix them thoroughly. Drink the potion in one gulp. Now whatever you write will be a modern poetry. Go ahead, try.

PS: This is not intended at any SINGLE individual who writes modern poetry. This is intended against ALL single (as well as committed) individuals who write modern poetry. So if someone feels that it’s after his or her poems, please, its not. There are others too. It’s a sheer coincidence that you are part of the mass mafia poet gang who torture me day and night.

Of Bumpers and Bonnets

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 18:27:00 +0000

She unlocks her belt. Then she helps you unlock yours too. There is a worried smile on her face which is understandable since this is your first time together. She gets down. You are half sitting now. You use all your arms and legs to do it. You are not very experienced and to be honest this is your first time too but she doesn't know and you don't want to volunteer the information either. You can hear her screaming now. "Yes... Yes... Yes... Just a little more...Come on... Ahh! NO... Noooo... STOPP!" You stop and slowly pull back. Then with one simple woosh, you go, "Aaahh!" You can see her satisfied smile.

Congrats! You have just done it. I am talking about parking a car in an Indian Metro with your newlywed wife helping you outside, of course.

Is there anything more difficult than parking a car in Indian cities? I seriously doubt.

The rat race usually starts when you reach a parking lot. You can see other would-be predators lurking around like lions and lionesses. Like in wild life, here too lionesses are more dangerous! Very carefree species! They always seem to be completely oblivious of the physics rule that two things cannot be at the same place at the same time and thank God for small mercies for not allowing cars to move vertically up or down.

The sport of Car Parking was actually invented by Romans. They used to play it with big fan fare. The drivers were called Gladiators and the parking space, a Hippodrome. If you notice, nothing much has changed other than the spiked chariots getting replaced by cars. The gladiators (now called drivers) will circle the hippodrome (parking lot) waiting for the right move. If by any chance their eyes meet, there would be nothing but loathing against each other. A latest research by Frozy shows that humans hate each other to the maximum in parking lots.

After circling for half an hour or more, the gladiators begin to tire and when we idiotic spectators think all is cool, a midget car (for some weird reason called Mighty Hanuman/Maruti) pulls out marking the beginning of the game. Its kick off time! Both gladiators make their cars run like four legged juggernauts in that direction, just like a 10th grader running to his classmate who has just brought the latest print of Playboy to the class. All happy faces! We spectators cry for blood. Both reach the spot only to find that the parking space has been stolen by an uncle who looks all ready to go to sleep. This is a minor modification added to the Roman rules to make the sport more entertaining and widespread across the country.

So not to hurt the ego, the gladiators slowly ease their chariots out of the parking lot, as if they never had the intention to park anything. ('I-don't-care-a-damn' expression will get extra points.) So the set and camera move to the next parking lot. As per communism all hippodromes should have equal participation.

There you find a spot… Not! Crest fallen you accept defeat. You sympathize with Shewag. You feel both of you can’t fulfill the basic requirements of being man. He can’t bat, you can’t park. You feel like you have failed your family. You sympathize with Shewag for failing his Maa. You have disobeyed the Gods. Poor Shewag. You want to commit suicide. You think of Shewag for inspiration. Now is the time to find the meaning of your life. You think of Priyanka Chopra. (and Hyd Chi Bir!)

But you can't say there is no silver lining for these parking spaces. The only promised things in any of these places are the self appointed ticket checkers who will appear miraculously out of thin air as if God send. They will almost never appear when you are parking, but the moment you have taken car out, TAADAA! "Saab, twenty roopees" They should be appointed as tax collectors for our Government. I can predict 100% tax returns. Perhaps for fear of them some of us might even stop earning.

And now enters Tata Nano. Whenever I see its picture I remember the bugs that used to attack us in my engineering college. We students and professors both used to take turns to chase them out of class rooms. I heard Tata saying that the car is a two in one. When the car is not working, you can use it as a motor to pump water to your overhead tank. I am telling you, Chennai is going to love this car.

Frozen Sun

PS: I have a partner in crime for the mischief I did. She told me to post the first para and wait for a couple days to check how iland is going to react.

King of Embarrasment

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 06:04:00 +0000

1. What would happen if you suddenly appeared almost naked in front of your classmate who is a girl? Given: You are a boy
2. Have you ever been ‘almost’ beaten up for looking at your shoes, not to mention the embarrassment for a long time?

To know the answers to these and similar questions, buy the Communist party Manifesto.

Kidding! It won’t help you here (or anywhere for that matter). The only place where you will get the answers is here. So read on.

This is the season of going bold. People all around me have been expressing their innermost secrets and desires. Sam writing boldly abt X, Proto writing abt his personal superpowers, Sunshine writing about how much he loves chocolate ice cream, Lissome Lady still trying valiantly to be the encounter specialist against ignorant aliens etc etc.. So I thought why not try a hand on that. Thank you for deciding to read. It is a pleasure to have you read my embarrassments.

There is no one who hasn’t been embarrassed at least once in life. I am sure even dogs would have had their days when they could not pee on the exact spot on the electric pole. The bellowing barks of his mates would ring in his long ears forever. I am something of that sort. Fellow ilanders, behold The King, The King of embarrassments.

I cannot possibly tell all the episodes because I still have a little bit of respect around here (forget about real life. I need couple of rebirths to get some decent amount of it back). So this is a set of selected short frozen embarrassments for you.
What would happen if you suddenly appeared almost naked except your undergarment in front of your classmate who is a girl?

If it had been in your college days the story would have taken a rather nice twist. I wish. But it happened when I was in school. Being a 7th grader who had just taken to notice that girls are not exactly boys, parading on undergarment in front of one, was not exactly my idea of a fantasy. What actually happened is something like this.
[White concentric black and white circles pops up, telling you that it’s flash back]
There was this cute little girl in my class and who was also my neighbor. We never used to visit each other much. So I never thought the bell ringing would be someone other than my best friend Som calling to go for playing cricket. I had just finished taking a bath and was a half clothed fakeer and answered the door just like that. That was the first time when I realized that girls can make out where exactly you are looking when you are looking at them. Because I was able to. Her eyes roamed all over the atoms that made up Frozy at that time. I didn’t know to run or hide or what! I was twisting and turning like a drunken earthworm that found itself out of its cozy hole on a sunny morning and wondering where the heck its head is. My head was not working properly at all. That was the moment in my life when by brain was working overtime on all the possible ways to escape this situation. I never found that pillar at the far corner so attractive to play hide and seek. But that would mean turning my back to her so I politely declined the pillar invitation. As a result, we stood like that for 5 whole min and talked about some dumb assignment. Then, that very instant, she smiled mischievously and…… (Fill in the Blanks was my favorite in 7th standard. Still is. hehe)

Have you ever been ‘almost’ beaten up for looking at your shoes, and not to mention the embarrassment for a long time? You better not.

This nearly happened when I was attending engineering college. I will continue with a foot note that the reputation engineering college students generally enjoyed is not exactly equal to that of freedom fighters. (Yes, that’s right. Engineering students are respected more.) I had to attend a public function at a family friend’s place. I went early and positioned myself on a seat in the main hall where I could keep a watch on my new footwear. I took pride on them. It was brand new and a new fashion wave, according to the shop owner. He told me that some boys from backward class who had made it big on TV wore them. I thought ‘cool’. Later I came to know that he was mentioning ‘Backstreet Boys’! I never quite knew that Backstreet Boys wore Paragon chappals. Anyway coming back, these public functions were known for footwear lifters, unintentional of course. So I was keeping one (and at time two) of my eye balls on my shoes. But everything was about to change in a few minutes.

Suddenly a hoard of visitors decided to leave. There were busy handshakes and goodbyes all around but my worried mind and eyes were all on my priced possession. I was busy playing a cuckoo bird craning my neck this way and that to make sure my shoes were there. There were so many legs moving here and there. (Thank God for not making man a caterpillar evolved creature. So many legs and so many shoes!) It was difficult to watch carefully. So I pretended to drop my pen and knelt down. Then I could glimpse my shoes through the multitude of legs. I smiled that fateful smile.
Miraculously, that exact instant, the crowd in front of me parted. All the legs gave way for me to see the pair of shoes, and a pair of something else which was not supposed to be there. The curvy daughter of my family friend was bending down beside my shoes and adjusting her slippers. She was a well proportioned girl of my age wearing a low cut blouse. By now several people were staring at me, the engineering college stud. It seemed to the crowd that she had bent down and I was on the floor on my four legs, smiling away at her. And that I was apparently smiling at a pair of something, not exactly in the shape of shoes did not add any charm to the situation.
God alone knows how I escaped from there.

Frozen Sun

Have you ever been scared of getting caught even though you had NOT watched Ramayana at all? :) I will write it if I feel like!

I got promoted!

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 05:55:00 +0000

This blog is to tell you all about my promotion as a Lead Engineer at the PWD in Bangalore.

I wouldn’t say my life had been in a blissful state before marriage but it was a little better with little Frozy having his own little Frozy time. Yes, there are advantages. I have stopped using my hands for certain exercises. But now when I think of it, have I?

There are very few hand signs in the word which are universally well known and have been followed by the pre historic mankind. It’s the rocking motion of your hand, angled away and into your body, at a place slightly below your midriff. This sign is used as a profanity or as a means to pleasure at the same time. But it’s so right when elders say God has his owns plans. I was so naïve to ignore Destiny. I am no longer a self made man. I bow to thee.

Why? Now imagine you doing the same motion (ladies can be excused of not following the motion to the letter, but you may follow it to the spirit). Now try it with your fist open, bring it a little above. Somewhere below your chest and then bring a plate under your hand.

Plate? Yes my dear fellow bloggers. PWD is nothing but Plate Washing Department of my house, which is headed in spirit and substance by none other than the Evil Puppet Master, my wife. I have reasons to believe that God just didn’t happen to leak that certain hand motion to all bachelors just like that. He had ulterior motives - to train all bachelors into master dish washers. And then leave them at the mercy of their wives. This beats Chinese torture like nothing else, won’t you agree? Now, thinking of that, I have started to believe that God must be a lady only. Why in the world would a fellow man want other fellow men to do this? Or may be he is under orders from His wife. Not sure there too. I can very well understand his predicament if he is. Anyway, it’s all a grand plan for world domination. That much I can say. I want the parliamentary bill for women quota to be scrapped. Our politicians are far better visionaries than us poor mortals. Imagine us ruled by women outside the house also. Brrrr…

Pre Marital Woes

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 13:45:00 +0000

My life usually doesn’t take sudden turns. So this was absolutely out of the blue and did shatter my peace and quiet for a while. The shattering noise echoed across Indian subcontinent and malayala manorama (the tabloid from Kerala) reported it as an earth quake of scale 7. Communist party in Kerala has declared a bandh against the landlordism of earth quakes.
Actually, it was a series of events which was very amusing. The end result would have been my marriage! Not to worry girls, I am still the most eligible bachelor boy around here. But that envious position was facing severe and constant threat from different corners of my otherwise whole and round life.

The corners were actually my parents. We all did the conspiracy to get my sister engaged. I never thought they will turn around and use my strategic MBA tactics on me. Anyways, I always had this belief that my dad is Napoleon incarnated. I was wrong. He is the re incarnation of Adolf Hitler with some predatory genes from Julius Caesar. If my dad had faced Napoleon today, the poor Frenchman would have seen flying across the continent fearing a matrimonial with a Mallu girl, whose uncle is in Gelf.

HE (that is my dad. I have started using HE, HIM and all for my dad nowadays.) After conquering the first province (my sister’s engagement) immediately turned his attention to his next quandary, which is yours truly. When I say immediately it literally means the next working day. It was like Dell’s service request. I shouldn’t have bought him a Dell laptop. One fine day my parents called me guffawing, saying they have created my profile in some shady matrimonial site. (I believe this marriage business itself is very shady) What the heck? One nice guy can’t flirt around peacefully? I am happy in the bee hive, people. I don’t want to buy Amul bottled honey.

The next day supposedly my profile generates a stir among the female community of the underworld and the site crashes not being able to manage the heavy traffic. The site resolves the problem by cutting down parts of my profile. They drop the last letter of my cast (Nair become Nai which now conveniently means Dog.) My dad claims total innocence whatsoever. Also the profile data becomes skewed. When contacted and protested the Site Admin changed my profile heading to read “Frozy - Soon to be Straight”. Still I managed to get some 6 proposals in one week. Of them one was a guy. We are still debating if I should take that as a compliment or not.

Then my dad called and started yelling at me all for not keeping even one photo at home. If future generations hold me as a visionary, this can be the only possible reason. Hail Frozy. There is not even one decent looking photo of mine at home. In the best one, I resemble a thug ogling at a village beauty with unkempt hair, 3 days of facial fair growth, muddied shirt and a Bermuda which had a hole in the right place (or wrong place– it’s all in the mind… and bermudaah!-hole ke peechey kya hai? kind of!)

As per my dad, that’s not the ideal match making photo. Even after searching my 2 dvds of fotos, I couldn’t find one different from the above one– the Bermuda was always unmistakable. So I had to visit a studio and get my portfolio done. That is the most embarrassing thing in life. Standing in front of camera knowing that half your generation will look at it and either scowl or laugh their guts out. I told this to my roommate and instead of sympathizing with me he called all the nasty ones who call themselves my friends. Three of them came down from Mumbai just to see me getting the mug shot taken. But I believe I know the secret behind getting all these responses in the site. It’s only because we haven’t put my photo up there. The moment it is done, probably the site might have to close down for posting sexually explicit material. :(

In the mean time I went to orkut and joined a new community. There I saw one of the proposals in flesh and blood! So as just as all the logical men will do, I sent her a nice courtesy mail. “Hey you. I am your ideal match. Better than India-Pakistan match…” Blah blah.. She has not replied yet. Been a while. hmmm..

I am telling you, I am the most experienced bachelor around here now. What all of you guys should do is scan the matrimonial site for Grooms. No, Wait. I am not suggesting THAT. As any business proposals (SHADY business proposals) you should be aware of your competition. Sort of getting to know where one stands. You see, every day when I look at the mirror, the Shrek-Lookalike that grins back is not a very cheerful thought that I relish. So I scanned my competitors. Some were real Shreks. Some looked like 25 year old Firoz Khans, all the way bald. Some I was not so sure. Some mismatch here and there types. So may be… you know, just a may be… that I may not be looking that bad. May be I do have a chance after all. With that increased vigor I went to the next page of men and I cursed all the photographers in the world. There he is, a thug ogling at a village beauty with unkempt hair, 3 days hair growth, muddied shirt and a Bermuda which had a hole in the (oh! It’s all wrong) place. My dad has done the unthinkable. I will be damned if he was not Hitler. Napoleon must be grinning in his tomb.

Frozen Sun

PS: A pundit came to my rescue at the end. He and I successfully managed to thwart their cruel intentions and got it postponed by one year. One more year of freedom! I love my life!! 100 rupee well spent on pundit.

Frozy’s Words of Wisdom:
1. Never leave any photograph of yours at home unattended. It can be the potential weapon of mass destruction at the hands of your parents for your last bachelorhood ritual called, Marriage.
2. Arranged Marriage is a good thing. No, it’s true. You get to ogle at the photos of all the girls and later the girls themselves while her parents are eagerly watching for approval. If you had done the same thing two days back in the local market, you might have lost two teeth. Arranged Marriage is actually the “Save Teeth!” campaign in disguise.
3. Ask for dowry. It’s not evil. That’s the caretaker money that the girl’s parents give you when you get married. It’s a contingency fund to finance the side effect of all marriages, called “Wife”
4. You get the name of the girl from matrimonial site, go to orkut, and search her out (oh don’t worry she will be there alright). You employ two gay friends or girl-friends for the job. Straight males not to be entrusted. Once you have her number start sending messages and add her to your friends. These tactics usually would ensure that she will NEVER say yes to the marriage. And yeah, don’t forget to scarp her “I a nice guy. Can u have friendship to me?”
5. Before going for a photo shoot, never ever mention it to your close friends. Especially if they have girlfriends or engaged or are married. Arrogance of experience can be really hurting. Also the difference between the Haves and Have-nots is always a big gaping hole in democracy. I want communism in marriage. Jai CPM.
6. Finally, no one knows what girls really want. So stop pretending that you know them. Be yourself. Go on, be a man and put on some Fair & Handsome.
7. Avoid public functions by all means. Even if you are forced to attend, behave like you are the local gunda. Sarkar types. Or if that’s difficult, simply imitate Mr. Bean. Both have worked in my favor.
8. Write blogs like this. No girl who reads it will ever want to touch you, forget marriage.

Men's Underwear Index

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 14:44:00 +0000

There are millions of words in English world. There are thousands of them in financial world. And then there is “Men’s Underwear Index”. It’s like someone with a weird sense of humor (just like mine) combined English and finance just for the heck of it and gave to a guy with a cuckoo hat. How else would you get a word such as Men’s Underwear Index. Yet to understand what is MUI? You will, when and if you continue.

Now what does it actually mean? “A measure of how well the economy is doing based on sales of men's underwear. The reasoning is that men consider underwear as a necessity (not a luxury item), so sales of this product should be steady - except during severe economic downturns, when men don’t think new underwear is a necessity. The notable decrease in underwear sales is said to reflect the poor overall state of the economy. Conversely, when underwear sales pick up, the economy is considered to be improving.”

Wow. You would say, that’s one correct economic indicator they have come up with, for a change. But you are wrong my friend.

If you ask me, this is pure 24 carrot bullshit. I am sure my underwear can’t sense a thing, forget world economy. Because if it can, imagine an economist checking my wardrobe this very minute! I can’t stop chuckling thinking about the rude shock he is in for. He might run out yelling “EUREKA EUREKA..” and declare that India is severely affected by this downturn. He might as well add that it is hanging on to its last string. I meant the economy!

Before you make disgusted faces, read about this friend of mine. He is very normal except that he hates to wash his underwear. So what does our man do? He simply discards his old underwear, and buys new ones instead. Every month he religiously calls for a cloth donation camp and gives them away, for FREE! Imagine what a great humanitarian he is. With all probability, he may be the one who introduced the concept of Use and Throw to the Americans. He is our hope for eradicating poverty, propping up the economy solely with his underwear. Next candidate after Obama for The Nobel Peace Prize!

Actually, I think MUI is none of these but indication of how many ‘active” relationships you maintain. Now as a reader you may note the two words.
1. Active – There has to be action between the man and the woman involved in the relationship. For any man, appearing in front of his woman in his underwear is always a happy thought, of things to follow. But appearing on underwear which is on the verge of giving away may not be the exact same feeling. It is one of those rare mistakes that a man never commits twice in one’s life.
2. Maintenance – Well, how many of you girls would think of meeting a guy who wears torn underwear? I can bet that every time he philosophically speaks about holes in his soul, you would be imagining different holes altogether. So, I conclude. If a guy buys new ones, it is an indication of active sex life. Active sex life is an indication of total joblessness, which means recession. How? - If you think that World War II decreased the human population, it is totally untrue. Imagine yourself in 1942. You would be hiding with your spouse inside some underground bunker. You would practically have nothing to do. There was no Facebook or Orkut in those so you can’t scrap someone or play Farmville. So you turn to the only and the most fun filled thing you can do at free of cost. Human Reproduction. And with less pollution, people at those times were very successful in their act thereby producing dozens of off springs in the process. Couple of them might have died in the war, so what? We have 12 new ones to account for. That is the basis of the population explosion and recession. So take away for the day: World Wars increases population.

Coming back to our topic. The guy, with new underwear. He HAS to be unmarried. Which of you guys would be worried about the holes in your underwear, if your wife is the ONLY lady who will EVER see it? I see no hands going up and didn't think so either.

Since the day men invented underwear (how was it before that day, I wonder!), underwear was never marked in red bold ink in any shopping list. And why do you think men’s underwear is always kept near the payment counter? The logic is linear. As per our last paragraph, we concluded married guys don't buy underwear. Then if you buy underwear, it means that you have a girl friend with active maintenance or at least a plan to it. When you are about to pay for your girlfriend’s shopping list, you suddenly realizes the gaping hole in your wallet as an after effect of the shopping. Then you also remember the other holes that you have in your possession, namely on the underwear. You go and grab a Roopa ki underwear replacement.

In my case, it is not any of these that remind me about it but my neighbor. Imagine a scene where a dilapidated piece of poor garment which has been subjected grave atrocities and war crimes, dries solemnly in the wind on a terrace. That’s mine. Had it been 1942, I would be swiftly booked for war crimes. This poor vintage cloth must have reminded my neighbor of some gruesome picture of the economy and my general state of affairs. Her response has never been vocal, though it has been very effective. She looks at me, her eyes goes below my midriff, stays there for a second, she wrinkles her nose, try to sniff something, shrugs and walks past with a shake of her head. THAT, my friend, is an indication for me to examine the distribution pattern of my MUI and take stock of the situation before the drought catches up.

The sound of mist

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 05:58:00 +0000

You don't want some moments to end... You just want to bring time to an absolute standstill and live an entire life time in 'that' moment or have 'that' moment for an entire life time. One of those moments when things happen out of the blue on a regular day and leave you spell bound... Totally!

That's precisely how I felt when I spoke to her for the first time… I just knew her name and that I would be working with her some time later when I got back to India from U.S and now, I knew how she sounded.. Her sound... Ah! It could melt even the biggest MCP's heart so what can a poor fainthearted fellow like me can do? I fell flat, with my heart in my hands. That voice was so soothing, and that says it all. From the first day it captivated me just as much as its owner did.

She is not extra ordinarily beautiful or tremendously cute or anything. But she was there, unmistakable in her presence just as a dew drop. You find it difficult to describe the feeling when you take a drop in your hand. Just there, to be cared. Like the clouds, but with feet firmly on terra firma though still floating in the wind, as meant to.

When I came back to India, I started working with her. She was not ordinary at all. It took time for my beating heart to understand, how valuable she was. How inexplicable her presence was to me. Every day I used to walk her to the gates since she left a little earlier than I did. Those were the days about which I will always say, "I walked with wind in my hand". After four months of working with me, she had to leave the job and the last day too, I walked her down. Each moment I cherished as a million years of my life. I somehow knew this time will never be back. They are just there, just there for me to 'live' them.

After that I did not see her for a long time. We were in constant touch over the phone. We used to talk about anything under the sun.

On Friday, she invited me to her place for Holi. I was there. And there she was, looking just as yesterday, as we parted, if not prettier. She and I played Holi with her family and they fed me like I had never eaten. I left there in the evening with a rather aching tummy and an aching heart. While leaving I knew something. This is Déjà vu. These moments too are never to come back like my last walk. I may not see her at all. One of those rare moments where you appreciate the value of time. You wish with all your heart to stop it. To freeze it. For just one second, just that moment.
I will be going back to Bangalore in a couple of months. She will be here in Pune itself. This might be the very last time I am seeing her.
Rather last time for my eyes…

My heart will always have her deep inside … like a calming presence... like the sound of mist…

This Holi has left its mark on my cloths as well as on my heart.
To my Motu, with loads of love…

Frozen Sun

The Pain of Blogging

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 16:02:00 +0000

This blogging business should be banned. And blogger should be fined for doing this to me. I am actually getting addicted. Now if I don't write something and put it here, I am not getting sleep. Hence I see myself writing this at 3.58 AM on a beautifully dark Saturday night (or morning. Its subjective) when I am supposed be partying or getting drunk or doing some other crazy stuff.. But the thing is.. I don't know what to write. I am sitting with my laptop open and looking at the screen with the dumbest look on my face. If someone sees me like this they will think I am imitating Himesh Reshamiya.

Or rather I do have a feeling that I am going crazy.. I don't know why I am crazy. Obviously if I knew the reason why I am crazy I will not be crazy anymore and that itself makes me crazier, if that’s possible in anyway.. The irony is mind bogging. It's like asking Superman who he is.. You know that you know the answer but you also know that you don't know the answer, so you ask again.. You know what I mean.

Or it's like Captain Jack Sparrow.. Johny Depp in his eloquent style, "you can trust a dishonest man because you know the dishonest man will be always be dishonest. Honestly. Its the honest man who you should be afraid of. You will never know what stupidity he will do next."I have a similar line to say.. Something, of course, crazy.. Nothing spectacular as the previous, but I like to think so nevertheless.. It is as this: You can depend on your enemies more than your friends. Because you know what to expect.

This is not based on my life.. Just a thought.. When I think more and more about this I have a feeling that its true. It doesn't degrade your friends. Just reverse thinking.

Talking of friends, I am blessed with some nice ones (or at least I think so. Will call all of them first thing in the morning and confirm) who have stuck to me even though I have given them enough chance to kick me on my bottom and throw me out by my collar for good.. Well, They have kicked me alright! My last birthday.. Ooof.. The memory itself is paining.. I got somewhere around 35 bumps, part of which were pending kicks. Not sure if thats allowed as per the birthday bumps rule book but when u are hanging 3 feet above ground supported by 2 blackish Hulks and your lower bottom is getting pounded like a hot iron in a smith's workshop, arguing about the rule book is the last thing you will do on earth. Some even tried to experiment in kicks. Pele kicks were the most favorite. Messi fans and Ronaldo fans also not uncommon to find. And Roberto Carlos... That @$$%@$& came running like a fast bowler and kicked me. I still remember.. I closed my eyes just before his footballer legs contacted by bottom. As if closing eyes would have made it feel nicer. Well, it did not. Girls, you are lucky to be born as you are.. Whatever they say in forwards about men being a happy thing, just this one day will take all those pleasures away. But.. mmm.. not that bad also.. The real fun comes after that.. Even if that meant I got to stand for next 30 min without the comforts of sitting anywhere. The iron had to be cooled after the pounding. Coming back to the pain of writing blogs. I pity all those column writers. They must be truly talented or completely bored with their life. To come up with a topic every week and to write so much on that topic.. hmmmm.. And where do I stand? Still sitting with a blank white screen, with the same dumb look. First thing I should do tomorrow is to find a topic to write a blog. Good night all you jobless friends, get some sleep.. m off..

PS: On an after thought, I should write a blog on that line. You can depend on your enemies more than your friends. Because you know what to expect. May be next time. Till then,

keep yourself chilled

Frozy

[Originally written on 7/Jul/2007]

An Autobiography

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 06:55:00 +0000

I urge you to read the full post. Don't stop in the middle!

I never knew how real love felt like. May be thats why I am like what I am today. I knew people used to make fun of me, behind my back and mock me when I am not paying attention. I can't say I never cared. Deep inside the heart I felt the pain. What once was a heart has turned into a shell. A hollow cracking shell..

The lack of understanding! If at all they knew what it took to understand someone like me. Is it a fault that I wanted a life of my own? That I didnt like to be tied down? Never! I was born free and will live free. If death comes calling me because of this, I will accept her rather than the bonds that they had to offer.

Why do you people treat me like this? Remember that old gentle lady that I used to visit everyday? Refresh your memory, please. I was the only one close to her. Such a nice time we had together. That was the best time of my life. But you people tricked me even there. I still remember standing by the road when you carried her away in a coffin. Suffocation... I dont know what the small thing that quivered inside me was. I felt it then and there. Nobody cared about me. Nobody bothered to tell me, when I was the closest living being sheh ad. Even after that I used to go to her house. Everyday. As usual. Stand in front of those closed gates and cry, very well knowing my cries wont be answered. She will never come back. May be she was the closest to love I ever got.

I had thought that the only constant point in my ever changing life was my girlfriend. My dear! Ah, my lover! But she has deserted me nowadays. Yesterday, I saw her with another guy. Cant blame her. His mustache was better than mine. She was my last solace for everything.. Not anymore.. Why me?

But I will live. I will survive. I may not leave a mark in this world. But still I have to live because I dont know how to die.

*Sigh*

The new people who have moved into the corner house seem to like me. And their young beautiful daughter! She has such nice long legs.. I can feel her treble when I rub my body against her legs.. Oh.. There she is calling for me.. I should tell her that I am here before she turns back to her room..
I kept my tail straight up in the air, sharpened my ears, cleaned my face with my hands, and then looked up.. I called her with the only sound I knew to make..

"Meow"

"A Cat's Tail"
Autobiography of Tom Cat
Chief Editor: Frozy

PS: This is my original work and not a copy-paste!

Dumb and Dumber

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 07:03:00 +0000

What's is the difference between being dumb and pretending to be dumb?

Me and one my acquaintances (using his own words) were having this deep conversation about Vinod Kambli and his not so good looking wife (or girlfriend.. donno) And from no where he started laughing.. I thought he has gone bonkers thinking how can this happen to us.. The same old "why me" syndrome.. Then he said:

He: "Do you know, a girl proposed to me once"
Me: (Shit.. how can that happen.. the world is going upside down.. This is the end..)
He: "What are you thinking?"
Me: "Nothing.. You continue.. What happened after that?"
He: "hihihihi"
Me: (????!!)
He: "I said how can you do this to me?"
Me:(Well said.. You have just saved a life)
He: "I never thought about you this way.. I thought we were just friends.. And she started to cry"
Me: (Must be tears of happiness)
He: "Hihihi"
Me: ???!!! again!!
He: "I was wondering, how can someone love me?"
Me: (So true, my friend.. I am happy about your self realization)
He: "I told her, we can continue to be friends for ever. But not this way.. She clutched my hands and didn't let me go.. Then I told her that I have to go home and we will see later"
Me: "mmmmmm"
He: "I knew I deserved someone better than her"
Me: ………... (falls down and faints)

Now, the million $$ question: Who amongst us was dumb and who was pretending to be dumb?

(This story is not completely fictitious. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is also not coincidental. There are a couple of inspirational figures behind this story apart from me. And I genuinely hope they don't read this post)

I had neglected this blog space for quite a long time.. almost 2 years to be precise.. got hooked up onto another site and was there for 2 years. I am back in Blogspot.

Non Resident Malayalee (NRM)

noreply@blogger.com (Frozy) — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 06:04:00 +0000

This is a letter written by me to my cousin in US (All persons and incident portrayed here, are not fictional. Any non-resemblance is pure coincidence)

and btw, its in pure Manglish. (Malayalam in English). so others please excuse me for this post!! moi will return with English soon...

"Ethrayum priyapetta americayile cousin ariyuvaan indiayile cousin ezhuthunnathu..

Avide ninaku sukham aanennu vicharikunnu.. evideyum anagne thanne.. nee poyathinu shesham nammude karumbi pashu vaikol onnum thinnunnilla.. paalum kuranju.. athukondu ninte fotam onnu udane ayachu tharanam.. neelandane vittu athu frame cheyyichu thozhuthil kettanam.. Kolothey mash paranju thanna soothramanu..

Nammude vadakele shantha, adutha maasam Gelfil pokukayaanu.. avar kadamaayi 5000 roopa chodichu.. kaiyil kaasayitu illathathokondu, ninte credit card koduthittundu.. avarku bhayangara santhoshamaayi.. athu kandittu ente kannil ninnum vellam vannu.. kayari irikaan paranjittu kettillya.. enthaa vinayam.. udane ponam ennu paranju madangi.. ethra nalla manushyar..

Idakide kathezhuthanam.. sambalam kittiyaal aa vivarathinu mani yorder ayakan marakaruth.. saayippanmare kandal adhikam samsaarikan nilkanda.. ikkalath oruthnem viswasikkan pattilla..

ninte card avar adutha maasam madakitharamennu paranjittundu.. palisa tharamennu paranjappol njan venda ennu theerthu paranju.. namukkeppozhum abhamaanama, mole valuth.. alle?

ennu snehathode,

cousin.."