The other day, one of wifey's female friends had come visiting and the two women were giggling away to glory, cracking girlie jokes that the male of species is singularly incapable of understanding.

Wifey's friend had a son too; a real cute little bloke who was trying all his stunts to impress my 5 year old daughter. I asked his mom what the little bloke was called. She said, "Arsh".

"Oh, Harsh. Nice name."

"No, no. Not Harsh. His name is Arsh. A-R-S-H", she clarified and went on to explain the meaning of Arsh. She said that it means the Sky, the Seventh Heaven or something like that. Good word.

As a response, I had this stupid thing to say: "There is another meaning to that word. You see those Chandsi Dawakhanas and aphrodisiac clinics which operate from tents. They sell exotic medicines and claim to cure sexual diseases or Gupt Rog. You know stuff like piles and premature ejaculation. They write this word on their posters too... this word arsh means bawasir in that context. Bawasir is what they call an anal fissure, piles or something like that."

The gentle lady was suitably disgusted at my cheap attempt at showing off my superlative vocabulary.

Wifey killed me for that comment. No wonder she, my 'First Class MA in English' wifey, asks me to keep my stupid 'Second Class Science Bachelor' opinions to myself.

Height of impoliteness and sick conversational skills apart, I have been wondering what is it about these unusual sounding names that is gaining mass following.

I have been observing this hot new trend of naming kids with the most exotic (or should I say 'ethnic') words one could find in the dictionary. This is a super cool trend and is especially popular with urban middle class Indians who find that their kid's 'ethnic' name is the only connection with their glorious past. Incidentally, these are the same parents who slap their kids for speaking their mother tongues and make sure they only speak Angrezi all the time.

The result is quite amusing. The old Maheshs, Sureshs, Reenas, Gitas have been replaced with Ekalavyas, Dattatreyas, Prathams and Neelambaras. Simple funda. The more complicated the name is, the more 'cultured' you become.

Nothing wrong about that, really. It certainly adds some variety to our jaded lives and also provides good tongue twisters to help keep our tongues flexible.

Add to that this super trend of changing spellings of names, fiercely promoted by the celebrity numerology-inspired-name-changer Jumani couple. Bollywood and TV personalities have acquired super success just because they appended an extra vowel or consonant to their names.

Now I know why Tushar Kapoor (sorry, Tussar Kapoor) is so supremely successful. Super hot babe Kareena Kapoor became hotter after she became Karriena or something.

Of course, it is an urban legend how much benefit one gets by adding an extra 'K' to a TV soap name. It guarantees super TRP ratings and over 5000 episodes of dead people coming alive.

I think it's high time I start calling myself BhiTi or VeeTee instead of the boring VT. Or better still; please call me kVkT (K silent). That probably will provide some cosmic connection to my name. May be it provides a short cut to the rock star status I have been longing for. Who knows.

The other day someone asked me, "Which is your favorite song?" Wow! That question made me feel real nostalgic and all. I mean, it is the kind of stuff teenyboppers ask to each other. I said, "my favorite song is Baapchik baapchik bumbo, chiki chiki chiki chiki baa...'" and thought my reply sounded cool as hell.

Actually I think this thing about favorite song, favorite this-n-that keeps changing all the time. It depends on the state of mind, age, time and stuff like that. For instance, when I used to be a love crazed teenager, my favorite song was 'Tu meri zindagi hai.' from the Bollywood blockbuster Aashiqui. *Blush*. Heck, I even tried to dig Mozart and stuff at college. I guess these artistic/musical preferences are quite fluid.

Anyways, the 'favorite song' question made me wonder how we misunderstand lyrics and make a complete khichdi of some wonderful poetry. Take, for instance, this song:

Tu jahaan jahaan chalega

Mera Saaya saath hoga

[A purely functional translation is, 'Where ever you go, my dear. My shadow follows.']

Now, the Hindi key word here has two meanings. Saaya means a shadow. Saaya also means a petticoat.

[It was later, much later that I understood the real meaning of the song.]

Initially, the song made me wonder why the hell this woman wants her petticoat to follow her beloved! It sure sounded spooky, to say the least.

Similarly, another song:

Do diwaane shahar me,

Raat mein yaa dopahar mein

Aab-o-daanaa dhoondhate hai

Aab-o-daanaa means 'water-and-food'. Basically, 'a life' in poetic terms. And this song tries to capture, the travails of young lovers in the big city, looking for food, shelter and generally trying to go get a life.

For some weird reason I always heard aab-o-daanaa as sabu dana (Pearl sago).

Again the same question! Sabu dana is a that starchy grain that people feast upon- especially during the fasting days. It looks like homeopathic granules and tastes no great shakes.

I kept wondering what was so cool about it that made these two young lovers roam around the city looking for saabu dana of all things! How very intelligent.

Many people call Arundhati Roy a 'one book wonder'. People who call her so also represent a particular school of political thought. But this post is not about politics.

It is about a fact that most artists are actually 'one (or two) great work' wonders. Look at most of the rock and pop legends, most of the bands have come up with one (or two) great albums. And the remaining works have been quite mediocre. So, I guess it is quite natural to be a one 'book/album/film' wonder. It does not demean an artist in any ways.

Here I wish to share one of my all time favorites. Losing my religion, I feel this was as good as the alternative rock band REM ever got.

Losing My Religion

Oh, life is bigger

It's bigger than you

And you are not me

The lengths that I will go to

The distance in your eyes

Oh no, I've said too much

I set it up

That's me in the corner

That's me in the spotlight, I'm

Losing my religion

Trying to keep up with you

And I don't know if I can do it

Oh no, I've said too much

I haven't said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing

I thought that I heard you sing

I think I thought I saw you try

Every whisper

Of every waking hour I'm

Choosing my confessions

Trying to keep an eye on you

Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool

Oh no, I've said too much

I set it up

Consider this

Consider this

The hint of the century

Consider this

The slip that brought me

To my knees failed

What if all these fantasies

Come flailing around

Now I've said too much

I thought that I heard you laughing

I thought that I heard you sing

I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream

That was just a dream

That's me in the corner

That's me in the spotlight, I'm

Losing my religion

But that was just a dream

Try, cry, why try?

That was just a dream

Just a dream, just a dream

Dream

This can be called the Part-1 of My Experiments with iLand. Readers are advised not to attempt to relate these observations to any specific event, person, comment or interaction @ blogspace.

Warning: Too many 'strikethroughs' in this post. A bit of an overkill actually; so may be difficult to read for some.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Me and my bloody big mouth; it does piss off offend a hell lot of people.

Finally, I have decided to be politically correct like all other prudes sensitive souls. I will always post and talk goody-goody stuff. I will always say nice things, sing praises about everything and make sure none of the crap words I speak pisses off offends anyone.

But then, what will I post? Heck, I can't even write poetry in praise of Nature.

Some prudes gentle souls have even suggested that the Nursery Rhymes should be modified lest they do not piss off offend anyone. You know, things like:

'Ba ba black sheep.' should be changed to 'Ba ba coloured sheep.'. 'Three blind mice.' should be changed to 'Three visually impaired mice." and so on.

That will be when the most (yawn) perfect day will dawn, and we will all be bored and happy forever.

Nothing works better than a bit of controversy. And controversy is exactly what everyone has been hunting for. Everyone, almost everyone, is just waiting for an opportunity to get pissed at a drop of a hat/pagri/ topi/whatever.

Some people are maha angry because of a lousy movie called Jodha Akbar. I must congratulate all those who were terribly interested to sit through a very long movie which talked about a (factual/fictional?) love story of a bored king.

The great king, after all, needed to get involved in some true-blue romance; taking time off from all the darbars, wars and opium shots. It must have been quite a task with hundreds or perhaps thousands of concubines doing god-knows-what in the harem.

There is another twist in the tale. The greater than greatest Salman Rushdie says something else: no one called Jodha ever existed.

[Quote]

The Jodhaa Akbar controversy has suddenly taken a literary twist, with Salman Rushdie's short story in the New Yorker recently. Believed to be an extract from his forthcoming novel, Enchantress of Florence, Rushdie sheds new light on the epic love story.

Did Jodhaa really exist? Yes, says Rushdie- in Akbar's imagination.

She was the ultimate male fantasy, not the woman "of big breasts and a small brain" that boys dream of, but an emperor's erotic fantasy dreamt up by a bored Akbar, stealing traits from his many queens in the harem: sensuous, mistress of the Kamasutra, especially the art of unguiculation.

[Unquote]

I learnt a new word unguiculation- which means "using the nails to enhance the act of love". Phew!

Apart from that, I also got to learn that History is a bitch.

Everyone seems to have one's own version of history. The version depends on prevailing socio-political situations and of course, personal/organized faith systems.

This 'versioning' of history thing also provides good fodder to the religious fundamentalists to peddle their own little agendas.

These controversies become even more 'with it' when we have debates happening between states and CMs. Who can forget the rubble that was raised over the very existence of Lord Ram? If people do believe that there was a time when monkeys wore dhotis and built bridges using floating stones, so be it. But Karunanidhi was not too pleased with that version and made some infuriating remarks against Ram Himself, doubting his engineering skills and making supposedly blasphemous remarks about Lord Ram's drinking habits.

Oh, that thin line between history and mythology! The saffron brigade needed just that to make a hell lot of protests. The mandatory bus burning ritual had to follow. Hay Ram!

The other day, I read that Pakistani history text books say that History 'begins' somewhere around 600 AD when the Prophet was born. Before that, every one was a barbarian. They also mention that Pakistan came into 'being' when the Arabs under Mohammad bin Qasim occupied Sind and Multan somewhere around the 7^th Century.

Aurangazeb is portrayed as a villain in Indian history books. He is a hero in Paki text books.

The rebellion of 1857 is called the 'First War of Independence' by Indians. The Brits thought it was just a tiny 'mutiny' involving only a few thousand overtly religious sepoys.

Similar contrasting views are held about Shivaji, Gandhi, Mao, Netaji Bose, Bhagat Singh and a lot of people.

One could go on and on with other examples.

Each man's version of history is different from the next one. It all depends on the man's socio-political bent. Ultimately, it is the politics of the day that decides what history ought to be.

Politics is the mother of history. What say?

As Benjamin Franklin said, "In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is freedom, in water there is bacteria."

In a number of carefully controlled trials, scientists have demonstrated that if we drink 1 liter of water each day, at the end of the year we would have absorbed more than 1 kilo of Escherichia coli, (E. coli) - bacteria found in feces. In other words, we are consuming 1 kilo of poop.

However, we do NOT run that risk when drinking wine & beer (or tequila, rum, whiskey or other liquor) because alcohol has to go through a purification process of boiling, filtering and/or fermenting.

Remember:

Water = Poop

Wine = Health

Therefore, it's better to drink wine and talk stupid, than to drink water and be full of shit .

There is no need to thank me for this valuable information, I'm doing it as a public service.

© No idea.

This post is inspired by the most brilliant moments in the celluloid history of planet Earth. It is a humble tribute to all those wonderful men and women who treated our senses with wonderful works of motion picture arts and sciences.

I feel eternally indebted to those wonderful geniuses (Ramsay Bros., e.g.). People who provided us with visual treats like 'Pyasi Chudail', 'Veerana', 'Do Gaz Zameen Ke Neechey', 'Darwaza', 'Hotel' and 'Purana Mandir', to name some of best movies ever made by mankind.

Here is another script, which, I am sure will be the next big thing in World Cinema. Oscars, here I come!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Purani Haveli Ka Vahashi Bhoot (The Horny Ghost @ the Castle)

Scene 1.

A group of friends go 'trekking' to the great jungle on a Mahindra Scorpio. The group has five members, as usual, there are 2 gals the 3 guys. They have a good time which lasts 10 minutes. And then, the trouble starts.

The SUV breaks down at the strategic location, near an old haveli. [One could never figure out how come there are always a few havelis in middle of the jungle? But that is a different quest.]

Suddenly there is a thunderstorm; the hotter babe of the two babes is scared. The studdest guy among the three studs goes looking for accommodation for the night. He goes and checks out the haveli. The haveli has a chawkidar. [No one could figure out why the abandoned havelis in the middle of the jungle need a chawkidar.]

The chawkidar is, as usual, called Ramlal. Ramlal has a daughter, Chameli, who giggles all the time. When she is not singing on the swing, that is.

They get into the haveli and the 3^rd guy in the group is happy to see that the haveli has a very well stocked bar. He pours himself a few drinks and gets drunk promptly.

The 1^st hot babe decides to take a bath. She makes a hell lot of froth in the bath tub. [Again, no one could figure out where they get a tap water supply and Head&Shoulder shampoos in the abandoned haveli in the middle of the jungle.]

She sings to herself and enters the bath tub.

Enter the bhoot!

The horrible looking bhoot has a hot round of sex with the hot babe and disappears. The hot babe thinks she had a (bad/good?) dream.

Scene 2.

Next morning, the group has a good time frolicking around in the jungle. The 3^rd guy, as usual, is the funny guy in the group. He cracks silly SMS jokes all the time. They sing a happy song.

The 2^nd guy does not pay much attention to the 2^nd girl. This pisses off the 2^nd girl. On top of that, he has been ogling at Chameli, who is very coy with the male attention.

The 2^nd guy and Chameli promptly fall in love and before they realize, they have sex in the middle of the jungle. Chameli is ashamed of her 'paap'. She says that sex, outside of marriage; is also known as paap. The 2^nd guy is pleased to learn another synonym. He is jacked now.

Scene 3

That night Chameli informs the 2^nd guy that she is pregnant. Boy that was quick! [One wonders how virile these film guys are. Also, one wonders if those are human babies or some kind of mayflies waiting to be born every 30 seconds.] The 2^nd guy is double jacked.

That night, he drinks with the 3^rd guy who is already running his 12^th Patiala. The 2^nd guy too gets drunk real quick, and decides to go pee under the wide open sky.

Peeing under the tree, he sees Chameli, singing a very sad song and walking around the bushes. He follows her. She turns around, smiles and disappears. The 2^nd guy thinks that is an illusion.

Enter the bhoot.

The bhoot scares the 2^nd guy with a break-dance routine. The 2^rd guy is horror struck, but somehow manages to run back to the haveli.

Scene 4.

The 1^st guy and the 1^st babe are doing what they would want to do all the time. Another hot round of sex later, she decides to take yet another bath in the bath tub.

The bhoot appears one more time.

This time, the 1^st babe understands what happened last night was not a dream at all. She screams.

The 1^st guy enters and watches the bhoot doing a Samba. He and she was shit scared.

They go and talk to Ramlal. Ramlal says that there is an old temple near the haveli where lives a wise pujari who knows the secret of killing the bhoot.

Scene 5.

The pujari at the temple tells them a story of a mating Nag and Nagin who where killed by the original owners of the haveli some 1000 years ago.

The Nag became the sexually frustrated bhoot. There is a catch here; he needs to be killed while having sex, with a special trishool made of plywood.

They plan to invoke the lust in the bhoot.

The 3^rd guy who is perpetually drunk is given 6 more vodka shots and made to dress like a horny babe and hang around the bathroom. Everyone knows that bhoots like to hang around bathrooms, like animals hanging around waterholes.

Enter the bhoot. But this time he is trapped!

Burning with desire, the bhoot does another round of reggae movements and pounces at the hot babe, who is actually the drunk 3^rd guy.

The 1^st guy is smart enough to throw the plywood trishool at the bhoot. Aaargh!

The bhoot quickly finds out that he has been fooled. Worse still, the bhoot is pissed because he thinks his sexual orientations have been misunderstood. Sick! Apamaan, ghor Apamaan!

The bhoot attacks the gang.

The 1^st guy, who is actually the hero of the story, does a WWE style wrestling with the wounded bhoot. But the bhoot is stronger than he had assumed. The 1^st babe is embarrassed to watch his stud getting his butt kicked periodically by the horny bhoot. She can't take it anymore; after all, the 1^st guy is her hero.

She picks up the trishool one more time, and pierces it in the bhoot's heart.

This time she got it right! The bhoot promptly departs as the background music plays been music which nags and nagins are so fond of.

Scene 6.

Next morning, they all wake up fresh and nice and drive into the sunrise. Chameli is so coy in the Scoripio, sitting next the 2^nd guy.

A misty-eyed Ramlal waves them goodbye.

Image Courtesy: The poster of 'Pyasi Chudail'; one of the best horror movies ever!

Now, I will not say I love or hate that. Just that I am bit curious about the criteria part of it. How do they decide what goes to the home page? If the quality of a post is the sole criteria then I think I need to redefine my quality parameters. Sigh!

Anyways, here is yet another post about my blogging persona and what I imagine my blog to be.

Those who have already clicked the back button or have already moved to the comment window may please do so. The rest may carry on with this self indulgent gibberish.

First things first, some of you have said a few nice words about me and my avatar. Shyama was kind enough to mention that I actually look very dashing (the avatar, I mean). Thank you.

Actually the channel surfer in the Avatar is a character called Peter Griffin from the animated TV series The Family Guy.

Peter is a rather corny character, a bit stupid actually. He heads has a somewhat weird family; dysfunctional is too strong a word to describe it. He lives with his wife and kids. And of course Brian, the family dog who drinks martinis all the time. Peter is quite a bloke, the blue-collared, hoi polloi types.

He becomes my avatar. The common guy as common can be. No hi-funda, only chats. No supernatural, only natural. No paranormal, only normal. So much for my blog 'positioning'- as the marketing dudes would say.

I don't know how people see a blog. I see my blog as my living room. With me sitting on that green couch, surfing channels and sipping beer. The family hangs around, as Brian the dog helps himself with yet another martini.

People who land into the living room are my friends. We have free flowing conversations about anything and everything. Try to avoid gaali-galauj and personal insults, that is the only code of conduct.

Anything else works fine in those conversations. The last thing a living room conversation needs to do is to make any attempt to 'change the world'. Any attempt at that makes it sound like gyan, and conversations tend to get boring if there is too much of a gyan-giving happening.

These are the leisurely conversations that become the posts to my blog.

Of course, my living room has an endless supply of chai and beer, essential ingredients to an ambling conversation. Drop in anytime, feel at home and may be we can end up having some fun in the process. Some fun. That's all and that's everything.

Folks at home don't like their relationship. They want to bargain, as usual, to no end. Option-less, they elope. They get married and promise to live together, happily ever after.

A couple of months pass. The World raises its ugly face. Money is in short supply. The odd jobs don't really help much.

Love evaporates.

He drinks as if there is no tomorrow. She cries all the time.

They have an argument, and then, they have a fight. She tells him, 'You are no man'. He wants to prove that's what he is, 'a man'.

He beats her with his cricket bat, breaks a few of her bones. He wins. She loses.

As always, the relationship remains the biggest loser. Violence.

***

He believes his religion is 'in danger'. Even his indoctrinator says so.

He leaves home to fight for his religion, and to restore his religion's lost glory.

His parents are confused, "Where did this son come from? He is just 18. We never brought him up that way!" He doesn't care, for he has a bigger cause to fight for. The AK-47 and the RDX are friends that will help him achieve his cause.

He fights, and he is dead. No one sings. He is dead fighting a 'cause' no one understands.

No one claims him; not even his indoctrinator. His parents refuse to recognize his dead body. Violence.

***

Her mother controls the home and believes, blindly, in tradition.

She wants to fly. Her mother says, "It is not healthy to fly. Good girls don't fly. They cook."

She wants to go out and find a job. Her mom says, "Don't. There are guys all around, all potential rapists."

She hates home.

Her mom says to the relatives, "she is misguided. She has the galls to be free!" and she adds, "She is influenced."

Her mom forces her marriage. The guy claims to be an NRI. They don't really know much about him, but they assume that all NRIs are great. "God's own children"; as they say.

The marriage happens. She doesn't really like him. Her mom doesn't care. Violence.

***

It is her first day to the kindergarten, in a big bad city somewhere in India. Her parents are happy and proud.

She goes to the kindergarten. She does her jigsaw and she does her nursery rhymes. The kindergarten loves her, and she loves the kindergarten.

She is very friendly. She looks around. Right in front of the kindergarten building; there is a construction site.

Laborers at the construction site work; and their kids play all the time. She wants to play with the laborer's kids, they are her age.

She makes advances. She wants to play in the sand, without a care in the world. She wants to build sand castles, together with the laborer's kids.

Her kindergarten teacher tells her, "Don't talk to those dirty kids. They are 'gande bacche', filthy kids. They will spoil you, and they will teach you abuses." Violence.

Video dekho, have fun karo!