Thursday, August 11, 2016


Have you ever noticed that the second cup of coffee you have in a day is never as good as the first? This has been happening a lot to me lately. I drink a cup, think "damn, this is delicious", and go for cuppa deux.

And then I regret it.

Perhaps this is life's way of telling me something. Some kind of obscure message; something worthy of being an ancient Chinese proverb. Then again, maybe it's just telling me:


Round 2


Sunday, March 18, 2007

The Haircut

I've always viewed the process of getting one's hair cut as a sort of an ordeal. You go to the barber's, you wait for your turn and then you sit in the chair, quite calm and relaxed. Then you tell the guy what you want done, still calm. It's after the guy brings the comb and scissors to your head that you realise you can't stay calm. He pulls your hair, scratches your head violently with the comb, cuts you (accidentally, of course)... Then he brings the blade. To cut hair too short to cut with scissors, you think, till you feel the blood trickling down the back of your neck. You can't scream. You can't even wince. You show the slightest hint of feeling pain, you lose your manhood. The big, bearded, biker-like barber will look at you as a different person. You become, in his eyes, a wimp. You don't want that. It wouldn't really matter what he thinks of you, if it weren't for his interest in entertaining customers with tales of his great hairy adventures, and those customers weren't nagging neighbours.

I went through the ordeal this morning, complete with cuts on my neck. I've been going to the same barber for nearly all my life, so I seem to have gotten used to it. What happened after the haircut surprised me. The barber asked me if I wanted an "oil massage". My only thought was to ask "How much?", and since the reply to that question was quite satisfactory, I asked him to go ahead. And boy did I regret it.

He started off by pouring this foul-smelling liquid on my head. It felt a bit cool. Kind of nice, actually. And then, I thought my hair was on fire. And I thought I was right when the guy started hitting my noggin. A look at the mirror proved me wrong. He was slapping, punching, hammering, and chopping my head, with a vicious smile on his face (or maybe it was the joke on the radio that made him smile). My brain seemed to have dislodged at some point during his gleeful banging, and I felt dumber with every blow. He stopped, poured more oil, and started again. This went on for at least fifteen minutes, with three more handfuls of oil being poured on the now unidentifiable head. Then he went for my neck. I don't know how, but he twisted it in directions I've never been able to twist it before. I'm not even going to think about what he did to my back.

When it was over, my left eye didn't seem to be seeing things (the oil went in), and I was leaving a trail of smelly oil as I walked back home, hoping no one drops a cigarette butt or burning ember on it.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

The Unbearable Stench Days

Excuse the title; I just didn't want it to be blank. There is a reason, of course, for the title. Wet clothes. It's that time again. Monsoon season. The season I wish gives me a clothes dryer when it arrives.

It seems there's been an unanimous decision to put clothes to dry in my room. I wouldn't mind if they actually dried, but fact is, they don't. Not even after 24 hours. So I end up smelling that oh so unique smell only wet clothes can bring to the nose, all day long.

Practical exams have begun, done with two of the three. Thanks to some bad decisions by a friend, I was stranded right in the middle of this huge 4-way intersection called Kathipara junction, in the rain, with no umbrella, wearing my favourite pair of pants, with dozens of vehicles splashing water on me and aforementioned friend, while returning home after one of the practical exams. It was fun till I caught a cold.

I hoped to come up with a new design before posting, but all my creativity (if I had any) seems to have oozed out. I think I might settle for one of those flashy templates in Blogger Beta.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Catch-22: Maturity (of the mind)

To judge/compare the level of maturity of those around you, you need to be matured.
Then again, if you start comparing the level of maturity of others with respect to yourself, you're being immature.

The whole thing is a farce.

Monday, September 4, 2006


I've done it. My archives now have a month missing. And I have nothing to show for it. Except this picture of Edward Norton punching himself:
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I'll be back when I learn to write.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Killer Potatoes


Add revolving text, and you have the Laughing Man.

Eating them creeps me out. You're biting into one, and it smiles back at you, as if enjoying your teeth mashing it (which is a bit odd, considering they're already mashed). Elijah Wood in Sin City, that's what these are. At least they don't squirt blood. I don't want my food to have a face. There's a reason I'm vegetarian.

In other news, I don't seem to have any luck with wireless keyboards. Using the On-Screen Keyboard. Again.