It’s been … interesting.

The night before wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be.
Like someone said, it was God taking a long piss goodnight.
There was tons of food in the evening, which the resident daredevil Rana brought after wading through 4 feet deep water.
There was roti, daal, and rajma, which our super-efficient office boy Nirmal brought in the middle of the night, fuck knows how, from Chowpatty.
There was daaru, which Jimmy’s driver brought, fuck knows how, from his place.
There was dumb charades, which I realize I rock at.
The next morning there was piping hot tea. Super-Nirmal.
Then there was the drunk auto driver, who charged me 50 rupees (meter se … hic … nahi jayega saab … hehe …) for a ride that costs about 60 by the meter.
There was my car, which I had coincidentally given for service the previous morning. The mechanic wasn't there, but his neighbour told me that my car was locked safely inside his garage.
There were cars abandoned in waist deep water near SIES college, Santacruz that I waded through alongwith a gazillion others.
There was the little kid with the big excited eyes who asked me if I wanted tea or biscuits or both, and then ran off to bring me a big cup of tea and four Parle G buscuits before running off to ask another walker.
There was this gujju uncle in the middle of the road shouting ‘Ladies toilet available in the building compound!’
There was the Milan subway, after one look at which I almost turned back and thought of staying over at Tavi’s or Nitin’s place.
There was the western-express highway, which looked like the venue for the annual women-drivers’ convention.
There was more chai and biskut.
There was this shy girl in the salwar kameez who kept turning and smiling at me as I trudged towards home.
There was this Sardar who asked me how the road was ahead, because he’d been stuck there in his car for 12 hours and didn’t know what was happening. ‘Road nahi hai ji. Sirf gaadiyan lagi hui hain line se.’
And finally there was this biker who pulled over and gave me a lift when I was on home stretch.

And there were voices who kept bitching and cribbing and quipping how disaster management was better in the west, and who threw away their plastic cups in the middle of the road after drinking the tea offered to them by thoughtful strangers. I really strongly feel that these bastards should book themselves on the next flight to the ‘west’ as soon as Bombay airport becomes operational, and remember to suck the first pair of white balls they see when they get off the plane.

And then there was Kunal, who called up late last night coz he was bored, and was wondering if I wanted to step out for daaru.

I’ve lived in Bombay practically all my life and I’ve never seen it this bad.
And despite the fact that our honourable CM's disaster management plan proved to be a management disaster, I still wouldn’t live anywhere else in the world.
Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Raindrops on the windscreen slip and slide and chase each other in an impulsive game they play until the wiper disperses them. I’m so lost in thought that I don’t see him wiping my car with his rag that’s as soaked as he is. He taps on the glass and looks at me with the most pleading, expectant eyes, and now that I’ve availed of his services I can’t shoo him away. I dig into what once used to be a cigarette case and give him a 5 rupee coin. His eyes light up as he takes it with fingers that tremble – maybe because its 5 whole rupees, or maybe he’s just cold. I see him join a bunch of other kids and flash the fiver at them. He’s smiling, he’s happy, he does a little jig in the middle of the road. He wrings his rag, squeezing out as much water as he can, and moves on to another car. I put my car in gear, but the signal is refusing to turn green. I turn to look at him, he’s sealed another deal. My signal is still stuck at red.

nothings gonna change, you can go away
im just gonna stay here and always be the same

The fuckers planted a car bomb outside a school, dammit. A school, for chrissake. And detonated it when an army truck was passing by. It killed 5 army jawans. Could’ve killed several kids too. Barely weeks after Ayodhya and London.

Bhenchodon ko line mein khada kar ke chun chun kar tadpa tadpa kar maarna chahiye. Terror in the name of religion. Musharraf ki maa ki chut, fucking twofaced madarchod. What the fuck does POK mean? Why SHOULD there be a POK?

Problem lies here. We take all the atrocities sitting down. If you moon someone, there’s a good chance you’ll get fucked in the ass. That’s what’s happening. Motherfuckers are getting away with cold blooded murder because we’re letting them. So many peaks won in the Kargil war were meekly given back to them. Some kind of new age war etiquette that I don’t understand. In return for their lives, our soldiers’ families were given cheap gold watches and petrol pump plots. Bhenchodon ne yeh nahi socha ke Pakistan mein train ho rahe bhadve – misguided or otherwise - yahaan aa kar khoon kharaba kar rahe hain. Killing in the name of freedom for Kashmir.

Our exalted former PM Shri Atal Bihari Vajpayee had the opportunity to speak his mind when he spoke for the UN a few years ago. The dickface didn’t. Instead, he delivered a harmless chutiya speech, complete with his trademark pregnant pauses designed to put people to sleep and did little to elevate India.

Bush knows that Pakistan is actively involved in global terror. He knows that the LeT and the ISI cannot survive without support from the centre. He’s seen enough tapes of Terrorist training camps in Pakistan. But he goes ahead and gives them arms support. And he stands and announces Pakistan an important ally in the war against terror. No wonder the war isn’t going anywhere. Go ahead, create another Taliban. Thousands have died, thousands will die and millions are existing like the living dead. But no, human life isn’t worth shit. Religion is.

It’s all well to give our PM a standing ovation, and acknowledge us as a ‘responsible nuclear power’. Gee thanks, but it’s not about us. It’s about making an honest sincere collective effort to take this alarmingly increasing scum to task. Forget about oil at $62 a barrel for awhile.

Maybe my outburst is some kind of butterfly effect of watching Sujit’s film ‘Yahaan’ a couple of days ago. The masterminds behind this are expecting jannat in return for taking lives, an act that they’re convinced is in accordance with their religion, fulfilling their prophet’s wishes.

If there really is a God, boy are they in for a rude shock.

So Page 3 won the National Award for Best Picture.
Excuse me while I look for the Barf Bag.
And the award for Best Screenplay and Best Editing too.
Barf Bag, quick.
Unbelievable. I’ve lost all respect for the National Awards.

Salman put his foot in his mouth again. So what’s new. TV channels screaming themselves hoarse, showing decades old footage of Salman walking in and out of court sessions. One of them even flashed Vivek’s infamous press conference against Salman. In what connection to his current fuck up, I have no idea. They asked Mahesh Bhatt, the biggest diplomat but self-confessed shock-to-the-system in the world what he felt about the whole incident. He said something to the effect of ‘as a senior member of the industry I don’t think this matter is relevant’. Relevant to what?

There’s an MMS going around that shows Mallika bonking some white guy.
Mallika claims its ‘morphed’.
That’s what Riya Sen and that waste of flesh and blood Ashmit Patel had claimed.
Like these idiots know what morphing is, or how and when it’s done.
Now the silver linings to this week.

Sujit’s film is all set for a release. It’s looking kick-fucking-ass, so please everyone go and watch ‘Yahaan’. There’s Jimmy in the role of his lifetime, and new girl Minisha who’s very good too.

The third silver lining. The new video by Green Day.
Fucking awesome. Damn they make great videos.

Summer has come and passed
The Innocent will never last
Wake me up, when september ends.

I’ve been in my fair share of fights. And I can assure you that there’s one side of every person that enjoys getting hurt as much as, if not more than, inflicting hurt. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing as satisfying as beating the crap out of someone you truly detest. But it’s even better when you taste blood spilling out of your own split lip while you’re giving someone the treatment.

You think those jokers who sign letters in blood do it because they want to impress other people? No. They do it because they like the rush of blood when they slash their thumbs. They like the sight of dripping blood. They like the sight of red on the paper. And they like the sight of their name in that red.

People slam their fists against walls. People tear at their hair. People even bang their heads against pillars until they ache and spin. It’s not suicidal tendency. It’s not frustration. It’s not helplessness. It’s not sadism. It’s attempted healing.

Chain smokers. Potheads. Alcoholics. Coke snorters. E-droppers. Acid-trippers. Self help. Who’s anyone to ask why. Maybe they’re all just cutting diamonds with diamonds. Trying to heal the pain with pain. Fighting fire with fire.

Submission is masturbation. Self-abuse is medicine.

How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?
Tyler Durden - ‘Fight Club’.