Wednesday, October 12, 2016

How to avoid getting sexually assaulted in hospitals

I went to the hospital today, on one of the customary trips I make every time weather changes in thepristine SOx/NOx/COx-storehouse that we like to call Delhi. Without getting into details of what was transpiring in my ENT canals, let me share what transpired inside the hospital.

Even in hospitals (in fact especially there), we Indians lack any sense of private space. But that’s probably because very little of that is usually available at our disposal.

1)    I was standing in front of the doc's room. Suddenly, three random chaps wanted to cut the queue. I really don't know why they wanted to do that since the doc was not in yet.
Anywho. They started breathing down each other's neck. And everyone was sick! Obviously.
It was like an orgy of people with VD. So, I moved away.

2)    I move to a spot that was close to the billing counter. This guy with a thick Bihari accent squeezed himself in the space between me and the counter. Which was fine. (The Bihari accent is immaterial to the line of events. But his loud conversations on the phone ensured that his accent got etched in my memory of this encounter).
By then he started bending. With his butt dangerously close to my crotch. He was bending to place his documents in his bag. Of course, he could not do it anywhere else.

Anywho. My tryst with close sexual encounters in the hospital did not end just yet.

3)    I moved away from the billing counter and stood in front of another doc's room. The room was empty. There was no queue. So I thought no one would trouble me. I was excruciatingly mistaken.
A young MR from a random pharmacy company wanted to leave a memento on the doc's table. He looked like a young sterile virgin. He, too, bent. But this time with his face precariously close to my crotch.

Monday, September 21, 2015

Divine Creepy Apples

As he drove along the long and weary road, chequered by the street light lit patches, he thought about her. Tree after tree passed him by. So did formless shrubs, encased in earthen pots and lying on the median. Ensnared by the never-ending streak of white paint on the road, he wondered where would she be at that hour of the night. What exactly would she be doing? Probably she was sound asleep, with her face still possessed by that all-knowing look on the face. The look would be the strongest remnant of her awake self. He wondered if she’s tucked in a cozy quilt, oblivious of the kittens biding time outside. Biding time till they wake her up early morning with their incessant cry for attention. He wondered if he was traveling closer to her with every tree he passed on the road. Maybe the trees were pillars of space and time, being vanquished along the journey to hills.

As the car drove up a flyover, he envisioned the flyover magically transporting him through a sheet of mist to the lush green hills. A diabolical acquaintance appears! Reality, the self-righteous watchdog, dispels the mist with no trace of any remorse.

As he dreamily stood in an unkempt elevator, watching the red diodes change pattern in the lift display, his thoughts drifted to the staircase that led to her apartment. He imagined her trudging along the staircase, breathless from the excursion. She stops and turns around, searching for a leopard to kick.

Wednesday, July 09, 2014

Pot of Gold

"The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of."

- WS

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Marco Guptaji

She believed that even the slightest twitch in his body was a result of  intricate motion of countless gears and wheels. His fabrication was perfectly aligned with and governed by facts and undeniable logic. The robot could not feel. He could not emote. He could not express. He fed off his lack of emotions. It was the source of his strength and the root of his downfall.

After meticulous analysis he concluded that the butterfly gathered all her might to stay  unfettered every day of her life. Flapping  her radiant glistening wings, she would take the course set by the winds, no matter where, no matter how unpredictable. Maybe that's why even her creators couldn't identify a sequence or pattern for the course of her flight. If she had her way, she would cover all flora that existed. Sadly, she could not see that her zeal often converted into impetuosity.

The two spent an inordinate amount of time wondering if they were alike. Both thought one's basic structure antithetical to the other's. One not restrained by any boundary, the other devoid of all emotions.

On that fateful day, the robot helplessly saw the butterfly fly away in the subway along an atypically methodical path, as a teardrop rolled by his cheek. Years later, as if in a long-forgotten dream, they would realise that the two were more alike than they ever imagined.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

She Thinks Not

Quite often in my life have I, like most emotional beings, felt the euphoria arising from discovery of one’s true soulmate. Subsequently, and almost as often, have I also been utterly crestfallen and forlorn, for reasons that are not difficult to fathom. I think I’ve finally found her. She thinks I’ve not.

This turmoil of emotions is not easy on the good ol’ blood-pumper. The good ol’ basket-of-grey-matter decides to take matters into its own hands (unintended pun alert). The good ol’ basket-of-grey-matter fails to apprehend the onslaught of depressant hormones and a general lack of blood supply from the good ol’ blood pumper. I give up on both of the good ol’ mates and decide to indulge myself with some imaginary violence.

A typical bout of imaginary violence has the same effect as this sequence of events:
  1. Break a few ceramic plates and glass …. well, glasses.
  2. Scream aloud and do some hair pulling
  3. Decide that I don’t give a four-letter f-word
  4. Suddenly realize that I am still left with a few four-letter f-words to give
  5. Repeat steps 1 to 4
  6. Decide to jump off from the fifth floor of a building. Realize that my twisted ankle (or sore joint …. you get the gist) would hurt severely moments before my ultimate demise. Decide to not jump off. Repeat steps 1 to 5
  7. Try to convince myself that true happiness lies within. Search for true happiness lurking in some deep corner within. Get acquainted with what truly lies within : forlornness. Exchange pleasantries and all. Leave the rendezvous after many awkward silent moments later. Feel more depressed. Repeat steps 1 to 5
  8. Try my hand at poetry. Stop trying my hand at poetry. Try my hand at prose.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012


On a warm February afternoon in Bangalore, as I retrospect on the year that just went by, a realization surges within me. I realize that I do have the aptitude to perform a more constructive and demanding task than just dawdle. At the same time, I remind myself that dawdling is so very convenient. It’s not very difficult to fathom which of the preceding propositions wins (by a landslide margin, by the way). So, in the true spirit of dawdling and after invoking the true gods of dawdling (*ahem* HR people *ahem*), I dawdle.

2011 Keywords:


Anwar’s knot

Ligament Tear (cast on the right leg)



Deviated septum surgery

Zeroeth Keys

DL6CC2690 (green)

Kaju big-bro’s knot

Jai & Juliet (Bangalore) / Desires Unlimited

Kiran Chaturvedi / KC / Felix

Iris – Butt – Honey

Are-you-sure’s knot

Club club

Tennis elbow

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Peace out, man.

After a long hiatus, finally a nightmare-free sleep.