A letter to Sonia, a Pakistani delight.

Of a broken knee and a want to pee. (An ode to the knights who say ‘Kni’*)

Pain in the knee. Sophistication in the hairdo. Extension beyond the planet’s surface. Amongst other things that are common to you and me, we could have also toasted to incredibly tall friends.

But then you don’t drink. And you are not incredibly tall.

But then.

***

I also know you secretly wish I read titles like “Sleazy Emotions” by Mills & Boons, available in hardbound and paperback no less! Unfortunately I am displeased by the presence of hope and promise-related actions and its abysmal real life performance. The profusely occurrences of some such alone makes those books a Colossal Waste of Newsprint (CWN. Yes, I can abbreviate). What is hope but unknowingly accumulated cartilage that makes just another third broken knee?

I enjoy paraphrasing. What do you prefer? - “I did so because I thought there was hope of being with her” or “I was fucked in the mind”?

But then.

***

I have a question for you.

Have you ever been in the clutches of something as cruel as unrequited love and an urge to urinate, both at the same time no less?! Quickly, I shall abbreviate this: ULUU (Unrequited Love and an Urge to Urinate)

I cannot resist another question. Here it is:

Where do you hide your porn?

It’s most certainly not hard to tell which one hurts more when they occur in unison. Flogged by unrequited love, enchanted by lies, it was two weeks ago when I was stranded over-dressed, staring at long broken third knees, when a thought hit me right in my face.

I wanted urinate away to glory. Relief is best when experienced with a shiver.

But then.

***

Long time ago, way before parking in drive ways was ticketed and heart transplants were construed, and before the invention of a wheel and a God, even before time itself, thrived a few wise men – short, naked, notorious and keenest for fame. They knew they were about to stumble upon a weapon stronger than which there shall never be. “What kind”? You might ask. I am sure you are thinking: “Is there a stronger weapon/ threat to mankind than ‘love’? Oh wait, I get it. Are you talking about odour bombs? Ha! You too think New Jersey is a threat to mankind!” Or maybe you are rolling your eyes to convey, “such gibberish, I rather go back to the chapter where the rich suave handsome man walks his boss’ wife onto his yacht and suddenly a turn of events unfathomable to a developed mind result in Kenny G playing on radio that very same moment”, and then, I know your eyes bulge out in devouring affection.

Long time ago, before dining tables, hairstyling and CWN.

***

“There shall always be a short wise man and a foolish friend he shall be”, they said. “Nudity and fame he shall want but neither shall he be famous while nude nor shall he ever be nude when famous. Besotted he shall be with fellow beings, stonkered he shall get with them.”

Way before rhymes and clock towers playing chimes.

***

“Then there shall be tall ones - towering, mob-minded, sleek and keenest for hope”. The eldest of the wise managed to unleash a nervous smile, the younger ones noticed and followed with an accurate replication. “And then …” The eldest touched his forehead to the ground, an act through which they believed they conveyed their capitulation to their new weapon.

But then.

***

Long before order, flags, and amulets.

“And then the tall ones shall voice something that it not.” The eldest looked around as though waiting for an appreciation. He rummaged for a manifestation of fright and respect at the same time.

But then.

“A certain girl shall always be the arc-boutant. She shall hold it all together. Always.” His face lit up like that of an artist pleased with his improvisation. “Short, naked, notorious and keenest for fame – we shall remain not. Shattered, nauseated, feeble we shall be, just like my decrepit knee.” Everyone looked at his broken knee and felt a quiver emerge in their neck and shoot down their knees. “That quiver has a cure that shall never be able to cure. And now …”

***

Trust and belief are illusionary drugs. Hope fuels it.

A displeased and unconvinced younger wise man mumbled to himself. “But then.” This younger one would later stumble upon ‘time’.

***

“ … now I shall go pee.”

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking “ULUU”. That’s right!

The elder one later invented golf as a way to kill people (by making them watch it). He would also head a team that invented the “beer-chugging and hugging, along with kissing friends while their roommates are sleeping” act. He would go on to win the “I am tall and look like a filmstar” garment made out of leaves. The award is given away by the “I am lame but you cannot tell” academy headquartered at “New Jerk City”.

One question remains.

Where do you hide your porn?!

***

Next time I shall write it out in a pen. My favorite Pakistani, take one, I bow. Time to sign off.

*I like Monty Python. And footnotes.

Graduate Student offers his friend's balls.

Incredible recent developments in the ho-hum life of an annoyed graduate student have departed unnoticed. Unhappy about the way things are in India, Mr Rajuwadh, a doctorate student working on “different ways of filling hollow cylinders”, has decided after a rigorous selection procedure, to offer his dear friend Mr. Agarwal’s balls to the Indian politicians.

Abruptly, I caught him arguing with me on a Saturday evening which till then was surprisingly pleasant. Foxed, I present some excerpts:

Me: WHAT?!
Raj: I really wanted to be a part of making the situation better in zippier a fashion than just attending an evening event organized through facebook. Its about time we stop being mere oxygen thieves.
Me: A vigil, you mean.
Raj: Well, that too. I meant the “Political Trance & Crack” party at Malajulla’s. The guy has colossal balls albeit he was brought up in Hyderabad. It was organized to encourage political thinking he said, I don’t know how, I went there because he’s also into Spice Girls. A vigil’s worse, it involves opinionated gibberish.
Me: What?! Well, why not your balls? Why Agarwal’s?
Raj: I don’t own them anymore. Last day of high school, wanting to catch an auto, and having lost my money in a WWE card-game, I auctioned my balls away. An opulent girl with a nice grip paid a mighty amount. [Grins triumphantly]. Above all, evidently and empherically, Mr Agarwal puts his balls to no significant use, and of course his test scores were outstanding. We expect Mr Agarwal to do well in his life, and we believe he is capable of achieving and conveying consummate intimacy through the short message service (sms).
Me: Does he know about it at all?
Raj: We are planning to ceremoniously hypnotize him back into his puberty and convince him that he has no balls. Then, we let artificially intelligent swarms of nanoparticles do the rest. That’s the plan. Errr…Well, he doesn’t know. He need not.
Me: Is this legal then?
Raj: [With unshakeable confidence and indubitable levelheadedness]. We don’t care.
Raj: Let me add that a graduate student cannot afford a house in California riverside nor can he afford a first-hand Audi. A successful side-business helps, especially if it involves a guy’s nuts.
Me: Business? What are the tests you mentioned?
Raj: The rigorous test is our business strategy. Nobody other than Chuck Norris reveals business strategies. Everyone does business with Chuck Norris. We call our company “Testicles Inc.” and the tag line simply is “hehe”!
Me: Why! Why?
Raj: Looks like our Indian politicians might use some sexually deprived graduate balls. They won’t complain. Look at AVX Shenoy, the superhero from Bangalore who is a bank manager by day, farmer by night, and crime fighter on Wednesdays. I simply join him in his great venture to donate balls to Indian Politicians.
Me: Do you have anything else to say?
Raj: Yes. I miss Spice Girls.

I met with Mr. Malajulla to gain some insight. When enquired about the offering he expressed his discomfort in the choice of balls but admitted that the Indian Politicians could certainly benefit from the idea. He also repeatedly expressed his admiration for Ms Omanakuttan who recently almost won the Miss World competition. He was quick in welcoming me to a vigil he had organized to mark the loss of the title.

Oxygen thieves.

Doodley Squat

He urged to be called Kud. “What precedes and follows it amounts to doodley squat”, awaiting something he said to me, “Perhaps you didn’t get it”. He was right, I didn’t but I liked the phrase - ‘doodley squat’ I repeated in my mind. He had a nose, he claimed, that could house half the population of Jamaica, a mind that could conquer and run Burma, and that the rest of his body parts, he would add as though fascinated by its addition, perform obtrusively.

We hoisted a few.

Uneasily quiet, he seemed to house a relentless battle between his natural freshness and its diluter. He would soon tell me about this e-mail from a girl. The music was loud, his silence louder.