tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38527523781825693832024-03-13T07:28:52.747+05:30Musings of a Morally Impaired SoulWords are merely what you want them to be!Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-228695782368403712011-06-13T17:19:00.007+05:302011-06-21T17:29:31.097+05:30Redemption<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>The following story is a work of fiction. However, it is based upon actual events and therefore no real names have been used</i>.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He held on to his coat tightly as the wind blew colder. The streets were lonely, dark and desolate; and it was not the best of times to be taking a walk. But it was not a mere stroll that he was on. He was out there because it was only in places like these that he could think clearly. He wanted to purge his mind of all the ideas that had been bothering him; he wanted to get rid of the guilt that was plaguing him from the things that he had ended up </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">doing and the horrible things he now held himself accountable for.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He turned around the alley and ventured into the long, unwinding street. This part of the town was the last place one would want to walk around at two in the morning, but for some reason, he had always felt at home in the most absurd of places. All he could hear at this hour was the occasional wailing of the neighborhood dogs, the distant noise of a car alarm or the mere sound of his own footsteps. But it was not noises that bothered him; it was silence that scared him. He chuckled to himself at the irony of it, given he had grown up around it; how, more often than not, the only person he had to talk to was the lonely, friendly face that looked back at him in the mirror. Maybe the silence was finally getting to him; maybe the voices in his head were getting too loud for comfort. </span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">Tonight was not a night he wanted to be alone, and as fate would have it, here he was, walking down the path of least resistance, as always. He kept walking, shivering a little, not so much because of the chill in the air, but because of the storm brewing inside his mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">As far as he could remember, he had always been a loner. Maybe it had something to do with his roots, where he was found as a discarded three month old baby in the city dump. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that while most children his age were being spoilt for choice by their parents, he was out on the street, having to fight for every square meal that he was lucky enough to lay his hands upon. Maybe it was the countless nights of sleeping underneath the stars on an empty stomach that brought out this dimension to his persona. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the jealousy and hunger to have everything that he had been denied that evoked such strong feelings inside him to think for himself and achieve all the things that children like him are not destined to get. Destiny, he often wondered, was the excuse for people who just did not try hard enough. He lit his first cigarette for the night and let himself be drifted away in the stream of thoughts flowing through his head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He had found ways to climb the ladder faster than the others. His methods may not always have been on the right side, but given his circumstances, he felt he owed himself at least that much. While the others in his generation had a head start, given where they came from, he felt that the only way he could catch up was by bending a few rules. He started out as a rag-picker, graduated to being a waiter at a small time restaurant, often being abused and laughed at by the so called ‘elite’ crowd. This was where the first signs of disdain and hatred started cropping up inside him. He saw boys walking around with beautiful, young girls and was filled with jealousy. He wanted to be one amongst them, someone who would effortlessly walk into a place hand-in-hand with a pretty companion by his side. Instead, he was waiting on such guys and being subjected to their high-handedness and ridicule.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He had realized that this road would only take him so far. To get what he actually wanted, he’d have to resort to methods the world wouldn’t quite approve of. To hell with their approval, he told himself. When I make it big, the world would come crawling to me for my approval. </span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">And that is how it all started.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He started smalltime, peddling drugs to young boys and girls outside schools and colleges. Sometimes he’d do nightshifts around clubs and discotheques, helping rich boys and girls get high. Marijuana, Hash, Ecstasy or whatever it was that his loyal customers wanted - he would arrange it for them. It started out as a tiny effort to get into the big league, but slowly and gradually snowballed into a complicated web of mammoth proportions. He knew the ins and outs of the trade, the right people and the right places to do business. His rise was meteoric, and he did not know what to do with it anymore. The money made his head spin, but more than that, it was the power that thrilled him the most. The kind of girls he would spend countless nights fantasizing about, now threw themselves at him. The new found confidence seemed to sit pretty on his shoulders and his presence was almost magnetic now. The fact that he could control people who came to him, the fact that he could dictate his terms and the world would listen – these were the things that he had always craved for. Finally he had something he always wanted. Finally he had arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">If only I had stopped at that, he thought to himself tonight, as he took another puff at the cancer stick. One of the few things that can still control me now is this stick between my fingers; he wryly smiled, looking at his cigarette. In spite of all the events that had changed him as a person, the one thing that he still managed to sport was the innocent smile from his childhood. He was not good looking, in the conventional sort of way. In fact, he had an everyman quality about him that had helped him blend anywhere. His average built, wheatish complexion and unassuming demeanor made him just another face in the crowd. But it was his smile that would make people turn around and notice. In spite of all the things spinning out of control in his world, he had managed to carry the one thing from infancy to adulthood – and that was his honest, childlike smile.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">Events had spiraled out of his control, taking a form of their own. He now realized that he had started something he had no control over. The devil inside him wanted more, the greed ever growing in nature. Having established himself as a known entity in the world of drugs, he set out to achieve bigger conquests. During one of his underground rave parties, he was introduced to people dealing with guns and ammunition. For the first time in his life, he held a gun in his hand, and could instantly feel the connection. He felt power to its hilt – the ability to control, manipulate and decide for people and he felt heady from the feeling.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He started dealing with ammunition and owing to his connections and networking skills, soon established a name for himself. As with the drug packets, his guns carried a signature mark on them, just to mark his presence. Even though he was now dealing in huge numbers, he was still a one man force. He lived alone, worked alone and slept alone. Trusting anyone was difficult for someone like him, mostly because of his past. He knew that in his line of work, one was bound to gather a few enemies as he went ahead, but he had always had the knack of turning foes to friends. He would often tell people around him that he wasn’t afraid of anyone else, apart from the devil inside him. If anyone else had said that, they would have probably laughed. But in this case, they knew this was true. And that was the scary part.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He had never really known that he had a conscience. The very idea of one eluded him. Until this very morning, at least. He woke up and just like any another day, walked out into the balcony and picked up the newspaper. As he was sipping on his customary cup of dark, black coffee with the day’s newspaper spread wide open, he almost spilt the hot drink over himself. The day’s top story talked about a seventeen year old going on a drug fuelled rampage with a shotgun in his school, killing seven of his classmates and eventually shooting himself in the head. The teenager had been using drugs for the past one year and had somehow managed to get his hands on a gun. The police did not have much to go on at that point, apart from the fact that they had found a particular signature mark on the drug packets as well as the gun found on the kid.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He knew that it was him. He knew it was his stuff that was responsible for this mayhem. He knew it even before he got to the part that made his worst fears come true. He did not know what to do now. It wasn’t the fear of this coming back to him. He had enough contacts and reach to make it all disappear and untraceable. He understood the power of money and its hold over human greed too well to know that he could make it all go away. What did haunt him was the guilt. He knew right from the beginning that the path he was treading was eventually leading to where he was today, but he was surprised at how unprepared and affected he found himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He decided to not work today. For the first time in many years, he took a day and off, made a few calls and went back to bed. Not surprisingly, he couldn’t go back to sleep. The demons from his past haunted him and the news only made them stronger in his head. He just lay there, looking at the ceiling, talking to his imaginary friends – the only ones who truly understood him. He could always be who he really was in front of them. He wailed and cried out loud and felt no shame, because they were his own. He tried to tell himself, and his friends, that he could not have possibly seen this coming, that this was a freak accident and that he was not responsible for any of this. But deep down, he knew that the only person he was kidding was himself. There was no redemption from this; there was no escaping the consequences of his own actions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">He tried to get himself to eat something, but nothing would go down his throat. He tried to drink enough to forget about everything, but somehow even his strongest scotch couldn’t have the desired effect today. He felt sick and depleted and just wanted to get away from it all. He stayed indoors, in a dazed and confused state all day, and the longest day of his life showed no signs of coming to an end.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">Fresh air, some fresh air would do me good, he thought, and checked his watch to show the clock telling him that it was past midnight. A new day, technically, he thought, and the outdoors could only do good. He put on his coat and walked outside the building into the long, deserted street, seeing imaginary faces and hoping to mingle amongst them, become a part of the crowd and lose everything that was bothering him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilJyJLnbVwaYEAoDdDG76wRC7c76g0yh9ShPf5SnoWkgohU8BGI7k8XhinQ3Sx6Dv3OI5hZw4ba5NbPrAMBCSfhEL44O6ljoHPllI2Spzw6XzkcFV88UWuBorl6fLSpamtttJbxB6wC9A/s1600/q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilJyJLnbVwaYEAoDdDG76wRC7c76g0yh9ShPf5SnoWkgohU8BGI7k8XhinQ3Sx6Dv3OI5hZw4ba5NbPrAMBCSfhEL44O6ljoHPllI2Spzw6XzkcFV88UWuBorl6fLSpamtttJbxB6wC9A/s400/q.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">And here he was, strong and powerful today, walking down the streets of the city, yet feeling hollow inside, in the weakest hour of his existence. He had always known that power and money came along with their own set of troubles, but he did not know that they would drive him to the point where even he’d hate to be alone with himself. He lit another cigarette and seeing that this was only getting worse, decided to head back. He had walked a lot tonight, and maybe his body would give in and finally allow him to sleep.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">As he neared the end of the dark alley, he felt a sudden push. Before he knew it, he was down on the ground and a pair of anxious hands was holding a gun to his face. I need all your cash now, screamed the guy, bringing the gun closer. He could sense that the assailant was not in his senses, maybe a drunk or a junkie, trying to scrounge enough for his next trip. Having been in the business for enough time now, he knew an addict when he saw one, and he had a feeling that his attacker was knee deep into the habit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The street light flickered above the assailant as he threatened to blow his head off. He had enough on his mind today. He decided to give in and tried to get up so that he could reach for his wallet and empty its contents. However, in a rush of blood to the head, the paranoid junkie felt that he was trying to make a move, and in a moment of fear combined with excitement, pulled the trigger. The noise from the gun reverberated through the neighborhood in the pitch black silence of the night as the attacker dropped the gun and ran away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">In the flickering of the street lamp, he could see the gun that had brought him to his end. It bore the mark that all his guns did. He could have laughed at the sheer irony of it. He had often wondered what people think about during their last moments- family, friends, love or karma. In his last moment, all he could think about was how he had finally found redemption. And he died with a smile on his face.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;">*Picture courtesy: Ankit Mavchi. To see more of his work, visit </span><a href="http://ankitmavchi.com/">http://ankitmavchi.com</a></i></span></div></div><div><div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1">
</script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2011/06/redemption.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments></div>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-85771108557196548522011-06-05T02:34:00.004+05:302011-06-10T17:30:14.606+05:30Saved & Destroyed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Their eyes met across the hall, and there was an instant connection. Both of them knew that things would never be the same again. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She was standing in the centre of a large group, with all eyes upon her. One just had to look at her for a moment to realize why. She was gorgeous, in the classical sense of the word. Dressed in a black dress down to her knees, she had flawless skin, deep eyes, luscious lips, an enchanting smile and a body to kill for. Everybody wanted to talk to her, to be near her, to have her attention – even for a microsecond. She seemed to have the confidence of a woman who knew that she was beautiful and yet the carelessness of a rebellious teenager.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was standing in a corner, content with a large scotch in his hand and a big frown on his face. He hated social gatherings, and was here only because he had to. In his line of work, he had been through worse. At least they had an open bar here. He had always been a man of limited understanding. Things like social customs and practices, love and relationships did not come easily to men like him, and he had come to terms with that. Love was for the weak, he often told himself and prided himself on never falling for such a fallacy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If only he had never seen her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As he was downing his third glass of scotch that night, he heard one of the most beautiful sounds he had ever come across – It was the sound of her laughter. He turned around, searching for the source in the sea of faces around him. Unsuccessful, he blamed the scotch for messing with his head and ordered the bartender to fill another one up for him. As he finished another drink, he heard it again, and this time, he saw where that majestic sound came from. If the sound of her voice took his breath away, the sparkle in her eyes and the glow on her face made his heart skip a beat, quite literally. He wasn’t sure what he was heady from – the scotch or her beauty. Either way, there was no going back now.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Focus, he told himself. He was there for a purpose, and he intended to make sure that nothing would distract him from that. He believed that we’ve all been put together on this planet for a reason. The world and its intricacies might seem puzzling to most people – a giant cauldron of a personalities brewed together. Most spend their entire lives trying to get to the end of this question, and ironically, reach their own end before that. He was not one of them and this feeling satisfied him to no extent. He had never considered himself to be smarter or wiser than others – what he did pride himself upon was the fact that he knew his own strengths and limitations. He might not know everything about the world, and he was wary of that, but he did know everything about himself. And that was something most people around him were unaware of.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As she went around from one corner of the hall to the other, talking to people, smiling and exchanging pleasantries, his eyes never left her for a second. She noticed that but pretended not to. He noticed that about her, and this drew him all the more towards her. As she did the rounds, she felt his eyes follow her around the room. It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to something like this, but this time, it felt different. There was something different about this man – a wild, magnetic quality that was drawing her to him. She had always felt herself being in control about everything around her, but this was unusual, and yet weirdly arousing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She felt that she had to get away to get her senses back in order. She excused herself from the banality of the conversations around her and retreated to the small but private gallery outside the hall. The stars were shining down, as she sipped on her glass of bubbly, and letting the cool wind blow her beautiful hair. She looked perfect in the pale moonlight – as if the angels themselves had descended on earth. As she closed her eyes, she found her mind wandering, thinking about him. The sharp, black eyes spoke volumes to her. She sighed and opened her eyes, and there he was, standing next to her. For a second, it seemed that she was imagining all of it, but her loudly beating heart seemed to think otherwise. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was never one to make small talk, and told her how gorgeous she was. She brushed it off with the candor of someone who’s used to getting such compliments all the time. She pointed out how he seemed out of place in this social setting, and how he seemed to relish that fact. He smiled, and told her that he knew she hated them too, but she put up a good front for the world to see. He, in fact, knew that if she could, she’d never be a part of this social circus, but her career choices forced her to do so. She marveled at how wonderfully he was able to see through the mask she proudly wore day in and day out. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She smiled for him, displaying a perfect set of teeth and asked him how he could make that statement. He took a step closer to her and told her that he knew more than she thought he did. As she looked into his eyes, she felt captivated, unable to move. He moved closer to her and whispered into her ears that this was more than just a mere coincidence that they were there, in that moment, in that place, with each other. She could feel the huskiness in his voice and felt herself giving in. She had never felt this helpless before, and yet, never this wonderful. It seemed the start of something wonderful, something she had only always dreamt about.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He leaned in to kiss her and gently brushed his lips with hers. She felt herself ferociously wanting more as she held him close and felt the smell of his cologne on herself. He seemed to enjoy the teasing as he let his fingers trace the curves of her body as his warm breath on her skin drove her crazier with every passing moment. As their lips met, she could feel an explosion inside her head and she never wanted to stop. She wanted him to hold her closer, take him away from everything and escape together into a new, different world. As a barrage of thoughts ran through her head, she could feel his warm, gentle hands reach out for her, pulling her closer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The moment seemed to last for an eternity, and she never wanted him to stop. As they kissed and held each other, indifferent to the other people inside the hall, they could both feel that they were on to something magical here. She was scared that something might happen to this, to them, as it always had to things she had valued before. She was running away from the ghosts of her past and this seemed to be her first step to a brighter future. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As this thought quivered through her mind, she felt a sudden jerk. The sound from the silencer reverberated only mildly throughout the hollow emptiness of the night sky. She pulled back a little, and saw her otherwise black dress turn a shade of maroon with her blood spreading across it. She was yet to recover from the shock when he held her close and fired once more, just to make sure.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The last thing she remembered was the tears in his eyes as he laid her on the ground. This was not his first assignment, and he knew this wouldn’t be his last. But he knew that he would never be the same again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div><br />
<br />
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</script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2011/06/saved-destroyed.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments></div>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-21092911252733646692011-04-13T00:32:00.001+05:302011-06-06T19:33:18.938+05:30The Wrong Side Of The Bed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I knew it the moment I brushed my teeth with shaving cream.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I knew it when I burnt my toast and spilt juice all over my shirt.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I knew it the moment I stepped into the puddle of mud while running to catch the bus.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I knew it when I missed that bus.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I knew it when my boss shouted at me in front of the entire office, yet again, for no evident fault of mine, yet again.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I knew it when my tie got stuck in the copier machine and I was overlooked, once more, during the employee appraisal.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I knew it when after working overtime at the office, the elevator got stuck in between floors and I had to wait in the humid, closed shaft for a good half an hour. And the fact that I’m claustrophobic didn’t really help.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I knew it when I had to walk home hungry and tired because I couldn’t find a ride.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then I saw her. Standing at the corner of the street, waiting for a cab, she looked divine, almost heavenly. She had the face of an angel and a smile that could make you forget all the pain in the world. She had an enchanting, magnetic persona and I found myself being pulled to her, in a way that I had never felt before. It was magical, surreal and yet I felt like I belonged there. Like every moment in my life before this had come together to culminate into this exquisite moment.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I stood next to her, waiting with her. She turned around and our eyes met for a second. I smiled at her and instinctively she smiled back. It was warm and miraculous – like a ray of sunshine, creeping out from behind the clouds on an otherwise cold and dark rainy day. It seemed the start of something special, something unique and yet something so familiar.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. And I’m so glad I did.</span></div><br />
</div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2011/04/wrong-side-of-bed.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-12879023503621616422011-04-13T00:30:00.003+05:302011-06-06T19:34:01.954+05:30A Leap of Faith<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He stood there, looking down the abyss, into the deep, solitary darkness, waiting for it to engulf him in its arms, making him a part of it. Isolation came to him naturally; he was raised that way. To him, it was a part of life, and a part he was always on terms with.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He’d only read about it in the hundreds of books that he’d read and seen it in the countless movies that he’d watched but had never thought would happen to him. He took a step further, took a deep breath and thought about all the nice things that had happened to him.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He thought about his mother who would shower him with all the happiness and joy there is in the world, a love so inexplicable and selfless that it was almost impossible to believe that it existed in a world so cold and cruel.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He thought about his father who would never hug him or tell him how much he loved him, and yet, in a weird way showed how much he cared by being there for him, whenever he was asked to. And more often than not, even when he wasn’t.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He thought about his friends- each one of them. Right from the girl who offered to share her lunch with him in school, to the guy who stayed up all night teaching him before the exams, to ensure that he would pass. He thought about all the times he had been in trouble and at least one of his friends had materialized from nowhere every time and made it ‘their’ problem from ‘his’ problem. Friendship - what a ridiculous concept, he thought, and yet what a wonderful one at that.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As much as he tried not to, his thoughts wandered to her. That girl. If only he’d never set his eyes on her, never been mesmerized by those eyes and that enchanting smile, never fell for that gorgeous face and all the beautiful words spoken by her, things would have been different today. Now he was looking death in the eye and thinking about life. It was tragic, ironic and yet strangely fitting. He held her responsible for what he had gone through, blamed her for the end that was awaiting him with its arms wide open and yet realized that if he’d never known her, he’d never have appreciated life the way he did today. She’d driven him to death while showing him how amazing life was. Women, he sighed.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He took one last look around and took the leap. As a child, he’d always wondered how the feeling would be- to be able to drop down great heights, in one smooth motion. It seemed so graceful and poetic, like a wonderful painting on a canvas. The fear of not knowing what was ahead was gone; the anticipation of a tomorrow was missing. He opened his arms and for the first time, embraced life in the final leap of death. For once in his life, he felt free. And yet captured, in love.</span></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2011/04/leap-of-faith.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-17260011468443205932011-04-13T00:28:00.003+05:302011-06-06T19:35:47.892+05:30A Day Of Firsts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was just another day in my life. Or so I thought, until I set foot in that room.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She was the first thing that caught my eye and probably the only thing I noticed throughout the evening. People came, and they left, but I don’t think I remember anything else from that day. There she was, sitting in a group, apparently a part of it, and yet so detached. Her eyes seemed to speak volumes and her smile seemed to brighten up the otherwise drab room.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For those fleeting moments when our eyes seemed to accidentally meet – accidentally in her case, because as far as I was concerned, mine never stopped following her around the room; my world seemed to stop and I had to consistently remind myself to continue breathing. Every now and then she smiled at me, or so I thought, and I could literally feel my heart skip a beat.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had to make an effort to not go up to her and tell her how breathtakingly beautiful she was, how she seemed to draw me towards her in the most enticing yet nonchalant manner and how going through all the pain and trouble was worth it, because in the end, it got me to be with her, in a moment that seemed to last a lifetime.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess what drew me most towards her was how unaware she seemed about the effect that she could have on people around her. She was mesmerizing, yet cavalier; jaw-droppingly beautiful, yet unfussy. She had a smile that could possibly stop wars from happening, eyes that could show you the deepest of oceans and the highest of skies, a face that could make you believe that angels do exist and a voice that was sweeter than any note that you might have ever heard.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I never believed in the concept of love at first sight. To me, it was always the stuff that helped silly films to get an audience and outrageous novels make profits. I don’t know if this was love, but I knew one thing- Even the idea of love wouldn’t do justice to how strongly I fell for her. I surprised myself, and I rarely manage to do that. I was so caught – hook, line and sinker.</span></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2011/04/day-of-firsts.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-30273520335094685612011-04-13T00:20:00.004+05:302011-06-06T19:41:07.476+05:30Fight Club - A Book Review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgamQ8enQmYFzh-z-sPRzGfUsujrrOY7_SqiFWvBinCsroidk9LjrqBUbeXLT86fDYvYVfqwM2Ewt3K2CTvw1SOgXV4TfTfc_hBBp4RClyqxBglykLuqfA9wYxOBlRNC4IHUD1W7BG6zHc/s1600/product_fight_club_book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgamQ8enQmYFzh-z-sPRzGfUsujrrOY7_SqiFWvBinCsroidk9LjrqBUbeXLT86fDYvYVfqwM2Ewt3K2CTvw1SOgXV4TfTfc_hBBp4RClyqxBglykLuqfA9wYxOBlRNC4IHUD1W7BG6zHc/s320/product_fight_club_book.jpg" width="212" /></a></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><br />
</em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><br />
</em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>#1 - The first rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club.</em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>#2 - The second rule of Fight Club is, you DO NOT talk about Fight Club.</em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess I’m breaking the first two rules of Fight Club by writing about it, but then again, I really can’t stop myself. I’ve been a possessed man, ever since I’ve picked up this book. It has changed the way I think, act or react. Such is the effect Fight Club can have on its readers. I think, for any book to be able to do that, speaks wonders for itself; because after all, isn’t that what a book is supposed to do? Grip and engulf the reader in itself and take him on a journey he’s never been on, show him sights he’s never seen before and make him experience things he’s never otherwise had a chance to!</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fight Club is that sort of a book. Not very voluminous, the book is merely 200 odd pages, but that is all that the author, Chuck Palahniuk needed to make his point about the world that we live in today, and he manages to hit just the right spot! Fight Club stands out and is a work of pure genius because it manages to specifically and accurately hit its targets (such as mindless consumerism, the sublimation of violent urges, the transformation of men into pale imitations of their fathers, etc.) manifesting itself into a great book, and not just another social commentary.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fight Club is centered around a nameless narrator, who works for an automobile company. He is extremely unhappy with his life, his work and about how he’s almost forced by society, to conform and be just like everyone else. He hates how he, along with most people in the world, is being manipulated by the consumerist nesting instinct that saturates his life and has thoughts that all of us have felt at some point or the other.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>“You buy furniture. You tell yourself this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple of years you’re satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you’ve got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug.</em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>Then you’re trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own; now they own you."</em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><br />
</em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Things turn around when he meets Tyler Durden. Tyler stands for all the things that the narrator has always believed in, but never quite had the guts or the vision to back them up. Tyler is a captivating man, who is part crazy, part genius. He lives an anti-consumerist lifestyle, is opposed to capitalism, the social structure and the pop culture surrounding our lives. Together, they start an underground ‘Fight Club’, as a technique of extreme therapy. Soon other men join them and Fight Club spreads. The narrator then realizes that Fight Club is just the first step for the bigger plans that Tyler has – to encourage acts of rebellion and destruction and focusing on nothing less than the destruction of society itself and start, what Tyler calls “a new, better world order.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Along the way, he also happens to meet Marla Singer, a junkie, who he happens to loathe and hate initially; only to eventually fall in love with her. I once read somewhere that every story in the world is actually a love story in one way or the other. If so, Fight Club is the most disturbing love story I’ve ever read, and yet, the most interesting one too.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As most of us know, Fight Club has also been made into a memorable movie, featuring Edward Norton, Brad Pitt and Helena Bonham Carter, and is one of those very rare book-to-movies which have been quite incredible in both their forms. Barring the few changes here and there, the movie has stayed true to the soul of the book. But, if I had to take a call, I’d pick up the book given how it manages to mess with your head, even days after you’ve kept it aside. Such is its hypnotic, twisted nature, such is its parallel, unconnected, fleeting writing style, such is its mockery of our world and the system, and such is the magnetism of its characters and their quirks that it haunts you for a long, long time. If you’ve truly managed to grasp what the book has to say, you’re either going to love it or hate it. But, one thing’s for sure - You’re never going to be the same ever again.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s deep, dark, demented and disturbed. Chuck Palahniuk takes you to a world where there are no-holds-barred, no curtains and nothing to hide. And the sights and sounds are not always pretty, which is what makes it even more enthralling and real. Be prepared to be caught off-guard, to be shocked and to be amazed at the capacity of the human mind to push its limits. Obviously, a subject like this deserved a rough, edgy treatment, and Chuck Palahniuk does exactly that. Words are not minced; ideas are not suppressed and bursts of violence, along with a lot of explicit material, form an integral part of the story. But here, it seems to go with the flow of the book, and hence, only makes the narrative even more exhilarating.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If it were not for the constraints of limited time, space and reader’s interest, I’d go on and on, but fact remains- No amount of words can do justice to Fight Club. It’s not just a book, it’s an experience. The only thing you really need to enjoy the book is an open mind. If you’re telling yourself that you’ve seen the movie and you don’t need this, trust me, you do. Perhaps, even more so. Go ahead and pick up one of the most radical books of our times- the book which prompted a hundred actual Fight Clubs to mushroom across the United States and made making rules “cool” again, and breaking them too. I can’t think of a better way to end this than to leave you with some memorable lines from the book.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><em>“For thousands of years, human beings had screwed up and trashed and crapped on this planet, and now history expected me to clean up after everyone. I have to wash out and flatten my soup cans. And account for every drop of used motor oil. And I have to foot the bill for nuclear waste and buried gasoline tanks and land-filled toxic sludge dumped a generation before I was born.”</em></em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><em>“You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile.</em><em> You’re not how much money you've got in the bank. You're not your job. You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself…You're not your name...You're not your problems…You're not your age…You are not your hopes."</em></em></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><em>“We don't have a great war in our generation, or a great depression, but we do, we have a great war of the spirit. We have a great revolution against the culture. The great depression is our lives. We have a spiritual depression.”</em></em></span></div><br />
<br />
</div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2011/04/fight-club-book-review.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-11786996437799891452010-05-31T12:38:00.005+05:302011-06-07T00:47:43.301+05:30Dear Facebook<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dear Facebook,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's almost been a year since we've been together, and on this day, I decided to take some time out to tell you how I really feel about you; about us. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Truth be told, I was quite happy and satisfied with my ex, Orkut. Inspite of the fact that It did offer limited possibilities, it was all I wanted back then- easy-to-be-with and friendly, although it did start letting fake accounts and websites spam our relationship. Just when I thought we were getting stronger, Slapster happened. I just couldn’t stand being slapped around anymore and eggs and tomatoes being thrown at me by random people. The final blow came when it decided to change its appearance. The minimalism and straightforwardness, which I fell in love with in the first place, were just not there anymore and I knew it was time to move on. It tried hard to get me back.<span class="Apple-style-span">it tried to offer me interesting sessions with the application of new techniques, more flexibility and options, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">but I knew we were over. And then, you and I met.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I remember the first time I saw you. To be honest, I wasn't really sure whether I wanted to be with you or not - You were a little intimidating and a bit complicated. We’d met earlier too, but at that time, since I was with Orkut, I didn’t think too much about you, but there was something about you that made me want to come back. You welcomed me with open arms and with time, I opened up and started understanding you and how you work. I shared my pictures with you. I let you have a look at my notes. We liked each other. We even poked each other every now and then and I couldn’t spend a day without updating you about my status.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Though things went faster than I’d expected them to, you quickly became an integral part of my life. Soon I reached a stage where my day wouldn’t be complete if I hadn’t spent a few priceless minutes with you. Minutes turned into hours, and hours into extended periods where you almost became an addiction. I do remember thinking it was going a little overboard when you started suggesting friends to me, and asked me to reconnect with people, and that’s when I got a little disillusioned. We had a minor disagreement over privacy issues and that was our first fight.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 367.55pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I got carried away, and that is when I started branching out. There was this phase when I thought it was almost over between us. Life was a haze and I tried everything that came my way. MySpace, Ibibo, Linkedin, Bigadda and the likes came and went by, only to make me realize how much you meant to me. I did have a little thing for Twitter, but I came clean with you and returned to you, a wiser man.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our relationship has been one hell of a roller-coaster ride and I’m glad that we’ve survived and stay stronger than ever. I can’t even imagine a day without you and I hope I never have to.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lots of love. I'll always 'Like' you.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2010/05/dear-facebook.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-7151463686200743452010-05-19T00:22:00.004+05:302011-06-07T00:48:16.944+05:30I Wannabe A Rockstar!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today I saw the rise and fall of a rockstar. In a matter of two hours. Right before my eyes.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was during a 'Satsang' organized at my place. A particularly north-Indian affair, those who aren't acquainted with the idea, please have a look at </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1SsG-EjNlU"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">this clip</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> from Delhi-6.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, the mandap was in its place. The dhols were set. The sweets were brought and arrangements were made for the kids to ensure that they do not disturb this mind-blowing, once-in-a-lifetime performance. The amplifiers were ready to accentuate the loud wailing, err, singing by some of the most killer aunties of my building and the stage was set for an epic showdown of the most screechy, loud vocals the human brain can possibly comprehend.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Slowly the crowd started pouring in. What initially started out as a meek Silk Route concert slowly gained momentum and reached Iron Maiden proportions in no time.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The opening act was by one of the meeker aunties, who was a little conscious about her vocal abilities. Obviously the stage does not appreciate consciousness and hence she received a weak response from the crowd.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The next aunty to take centre stage was more aggressive in her approach. She started with a crowd friendly, tuned-to-a-hit-bollywood-number bhajan which got the crowd on its feet, making even my eighty year old neighbour do a little chiggy-wiggy. Moreover this singer was also lavish with her "Jai Mata Ki" chants, which obviously struck a chord with the crowd. I could almost see Mexican waves around the hall and we had a full house on our hands.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The next singer, before beginning her act, stood up, bowed to the crowd and without any signal, started dancing. The dholwala, who's obviously been to a lot of such performances, joined in and gave a beat which would even bring back Michael Jackson for a little moonwalk. R.I.P Michael.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One has to be at such places to fully understand and soak in the awesomeness of it.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Just when I thought it couldn't get more epic, He walked in. Dressed completely in white, snazzy overalls, with a smile that would put most supermodels to shame, he took centre stage and with a small shake of his head made all the women swoon and all the men jealous. He snatched the mike from the singer, who most willingly obliged and we were witness to a performance most people would kill for.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He was my cousin's two and a half year old son. We've all heard that the world is a stage, and we're all actors. But he took it very, very seriously. Within a period of few minutes, he had the audience eating out of his hand. Everyone was hooked and they just couldn't get enough. It was amusing and wonderful at the same time. He was dancing to the beats, miming the song, although I still fail to see what he understood. He even had the audacity to pull a two year old girl sitting nearby, to stand up and dance with him. She wasn't interested, and that is when I realized how some things just run in the family.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For those moments, he was a rockstar with the audience going crazy after every move that he made. He acted like one too. He enjoyed the adulation and the adoring looks. He started picking up flowers from a basket nearby and started offering them to the Goddess idols and the crowd loved it. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">However, just like any other rockstar, the fame got to his head. The once blue-eyed boy started to repeat his movements. What once drew an enthusiastic cheer from the crowd could only manage a few sympathetic claps. He tried to get his game back on, but it was too little and too late.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This obviously did not go down too well with him, and he got a little out of control, just like any other rockstar. He started doing abysmal moves. The flowers he once offered to the Goddess; he now began to throw and hit the audience with them.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This was where the crowd snapped. Just like any other has-been rockstar, he was booed and carried away from the stage. Just like any other rockstar, he fought until he was carried away forcefully.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today I saw the rise and fall of a rockstar. In a matter of two hours. Right before my eyes.</span></span></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2010/05/i-wannabe-rockstar.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-41556793703344941242010-04-11T20:24:00.007+05:302011-06-07T00:48:52.141+05:30Tiger Tales<a href="http://www.bharathreddy.info/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/save_the_tigers_poster-p228787556915123876tdcp_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s been doing the rounds on TV. It’s been taking up a lot of space in the newspapers. It’s been widely thrown around on the internet too. We’ve been asked to talk about it, blog about it and maybe even make videos on it. And now, with utmost enthusiasm and dedication on the part of our vigilante reporters, we have discovered the truth. And it’s ugly and shocking. OK, maybe not as ugly or shocking as </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Rakhi Sawant.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (</span><a href="http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/videoshow/5771178.cms"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Must Watch Video</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">)</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://icanhascheezburger.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/funny-pictures-tiger-does-not-appreciate-being-called-kitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://icanhascheezburger.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/funny-pictures-tiger-does-not-appreciate-being-called-kitty.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The disappearance of tigers has been a widely written, widely read issue of late. But what you’re about to read throws an entirely different light on it. Our reporters have gone to extreme lengths to bring out the hidden facts to you, and by the time you finish reading this, your world will never be the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1411. That’s what they keep saying. A figure that is less than the number of times Pamela Anderson’s got a surgery done to some part of her body. A figure that is less than the number of times Katrina Kaif has denied that she’s actually Salmaan Khan's girlfriend. A figure that is less than the number of times Shahrukh Khan says “I’m the best” per hour, to himself and to anyone who’d care to bother. A figure that is even shockingly lesser than the number of time Shoaib Malik has denied getting married to Maha/Ayesha “Aapa” and eventually going on to divorce someone he claimed he'd never married in the first place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Shocked, outraged and not to mention, completely jobless, our reporters decided to get to the bottom of this and carried out a thorough investigation behind the rapid disappearance of our national animal. Putting our differences of caste, creed, religion and choice of IPL team aside, we joined hands to rationalize this irrational development. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The first phase of our study revealed that this downward trend started sometime around 2005, which is exactly the same year a movie was released with some of the best actors of our times. Sample this, Ajay “Golmaal” Devgun, Viveik “Prince” Oberoi, John “Jism” Abraham, Lara “Blue” Dutta and Esha “Kent” Deol in one big mishmash, fultoo timepass flick. Add a dash of Shahrukh “Verrry Smart” Khan, Malaika “Item” Arora & a bunch of tigers, just to blend in and you’ve a recipe for a popcorn munching, cola gulping marathon epic flick. Or so you might think.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.planetbollywood.com/Pictures/Posters/Kaal/kaal7P.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="125" src="http://www.planetbollywood.com/Pictures/Posters/Kaal/kaal7P.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In a surprising turn of events, our reporters got in touch with Mr. Shera Waghbakriwala, the world famous interpreter of the tiger language and what he has discovered is nothing short of disturbing. After studying the living, eating and mating habits of 933 tigers over a period of 6 years, he has arrived at some serious conclusions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.planetbollywood.com/Pictures/Posters/Kaal/kaal7P.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A record 670 tigers committed suicide after watching their sad and deprived portrayal in “Kaal”. Out of the 670, 450 did so intentionally by fasting themselves to death as a mean to protest against the outrageous movie and the other 200 did that because they were plain embarrassed to be tigers after what they witnessed. The other 20 just died because they couldn't stand Menaka Gandhi anymore.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Recent events have also shown the tigers to be depressed about life, given how they have now been associated with Tiger Woods, Shiv Sena, Kolkata Knight Riders, Om Shanti Om etc, giving them all the more reasons to kill themselves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.magxone.com/uploads/2009/08/Vivek-Oberoi-Filmfare-India-August-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When contacted about this, Ajay had no comment to make as he was busy buying new sunglasses and flower print hawai shirts for his new “Golmaal” movie, which he said was a very different and “hat-ke” role than his previous "Golmaal" movies. The reporter couldn't supress his laughter and hence, had to leave.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<a href="http://actor.bollysite.com/albums/ajay-devgan/ajay_devgan_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://actor.bollysite.com/albums/ajay-devgan/ajay_devgan_8.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Viveik Oberoi blamed Salmaan Khan, yet again for the sorry state of the sheep in India. When corrected and informed that the question was about tigers, he seemed non-perturbed and maintained that be it sheep/tigers/lizards/women/global warming, Salmaan Khan has been responsible for all of it. He wanted to say more things but it got difficult for him to take his foot out of his mouth. Literally.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://bollywood.celebden.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/thumb11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://bollywood.celebden.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/thumb11.jpg" width="183" /></span></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">John Abraham gave his shocked expression, which was the same as his happy expression, which was again like his angry expression, showing his splendid acting skills and maintained that he trusts only performance that he can measure and gave the reporter a skin whitening cream and offered to give a pair of his yellow undies, clearly showing a lot of "Dostana" to him, after which the reporter had nothing more to ask him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lara Dutta didn’t remember ever doing a movie called "Kaal". Just like she didn’t remember when the reporter asked her about Kelly Dorjee. On further probing, Lara however did admit that the Tigers in “Kaal” were "much more sensitive" and “far more touched by humans” than the Sharks in “Blue”, after which the reporter couldn’t help but giggle like a little girl and make a hasty exit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Esha Deol had nothing to say apart from reiterating that maybe tigers were dying from drinking impure water. Hardly had she finished saying those words when her mom and sister appeared from nowhere and offered the reporter a glass of Kent RO purified mineral water. The reporter tried to wriggle out of the situation but the Deol family i.e Dharmendra, Sunny and Bobby stood blocking the way, holding hockey sticks, in good Punjabi spirit obviously. Abhay Deol wanted to be there, but he was away shooting yet another independent, pretentious arty film which no one cares about anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEew5D4nehCuLXEbWUPIjziBqB-SJEeg-Ec9hpNvYuDKTAeyAU5Kp6OjU5-gMNtYdSRSvsfqCg4tPDtaWWdazydL8jM21pTgcxm0Rtg4VQJH8XJplx19U0CVQMFkX90HRGlp_6lrzdqIQH/s668/shahrukh-khan_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEew5D4nehCuLXEbWUPIjziBqB-SJEeg-Ec9hpNvYuDKTAeyAU5Kp6OjU5-gMNtYdSRSvsfqCg4tPDtaWWdazydL8jM21pTgcxm0Rtg4VQJH8XJplx19U0CVQMFkX90HRGlp_6lrzdqIQH/s668/shahrukh-khan_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEew5D4nehCuLXEbWUPIjziBqB-SJEeg-Ec9hpNvYuDKTAeyAU5Kp6OjU5-gMNtYdSRSvsfqCg4tPDtaWWdazydL8jM21pTgcxm0Rtg4VQJH8XJplx19U0CVQMFkX90HRGlp_6lrzdqIQH/s668/shahrukh-khan_0.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Shahrukh Khan took the news very seriously and instantly tweeted to his followers to stop using Tiger balm as he was of the understanding that Tigers were used to produce it. When explained the entire fiasco, he did a “Rizwan Khan” and quoted from the movie, “I’m verrrrrrrry smart.”</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The reporter tried his best to get in touch with Malaika Arora about this, but she was away shooting yet another item number in some obsolete film. Arbaaz Khan offered to speak for her but the reporter, obviously having some self respect, chose not to listen.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Aamir Khan and Mahesh Bhatt had something to say about this, but since this is not the first time they’ve had something to say, even though it may have nothing to do with them and this will definitely not be the last time, the reporter promptly ignored them too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://hindimoviesong.net/Blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/coffey-with-shahrukh-khan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://hindimoviesong.net/Blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/coffey-with-shahrukh-khan.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Last but not the least, the reporter went to the producer of the film, Karan Johar and asked him how he felt about these shocking revelations. Karan sipped on his cup of coffee and said that he would remake “Kaal”, this time with Shahrukh Khan in multiple roles: as the hunter, the hunter’s love interest, the guide, the trees, the car as well as the tiger. He signed off with the parting words, “It’s all about loving your tigers.”</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As you read, 17 more tigers have already committed suicide on hearing this. </span></span></span></span></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2010/04/tiger-tales.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-66223885633330102032010-03-12T01:34:00.004+05:302011-06-07T00:49:38.380+05:30Desire<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I had my eyes on her for a long time. Honestly, I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that I’d even had dreams of having her and fantasized about the possibility a thousand times.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’d been on a break for a long time and I was sure that it would require something out of this world to get me back to do it again, and she was, well, perfect and undoubtedly the most beautiful thing I’d seen in a long time. My desire to have her was only accentuated by the fact that I couldn’t; but that day, I felt that she was mine. Finally.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She sparkled in the light, so perfect yet completely unaware of the effect that she had on people around her and today she seemed to feel the same way about me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Although she didn’t say a word, I could sense that she wanted me as much as I wanted her. She seemed to call out to me to touch her, hold her, feel her and the temptation was getting stronger by the minute, until it almost became a physical force, something I just couldn’t handle anymore. I gave in and reached out to touch her for the first time. It felt so magical, almost heavenly and most importantly, so right. I could sense a shudder run through her as I did that, which only made me grasp her tighter.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’d played this moment over and over in my head, so many times, that the entire experience seemed almost unreal, like a dream, but I didn’t want to snap out of it, at any cost.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was smooth and wild, in the perfect portions. I have to agree that it got really sweaty at times, but none of us seemed to be complaining. What started out as a smooth and gentle movement together turned into a blur of urgency and frenzy in no time.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We were both insatiable and just couldn’t get enough of each other. With every move, I could feel closer and more connected to her, like we were always meant to be together and what was happening, was always meant to happen.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I finally had to let go of her. My mind seemed to tell me that it had been hours since I’d been with her, but my heart told me that it had been just moments – definitely some of the most precious moments of my life. It had been a breathtaking, once-in-a-lifetime experience.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With a heavy heart and trembling fingers, I put that beautiful pen back into the shelf and walked into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. Writing all night can definitely get you very tired.</span></span></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2010/03/desire.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-50027780596017389002010-02-28T00:48:00.015+05:302011-06-07T00:50:15.985+05:30A Trip To Remember - Part III<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I’ve always been a person of limited sensibilities, which is just another way of saying that I understand very few things.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">There are some things in life that make complete sense to me and need no rationale behind their existence, like a parent’s unquestionable love for his child, A R Rahman’s music, Sachin Tendulkar shattering every record possible, Elvis Presley, Manchester United, The Beatles, Bryan Adams, Priyanka Chopra and so on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">At the same time, I just cannot figure out certain things or the reason behind them, like Windows Vista, the I-Pad, the success of movies featuring Akshay Kumar, Size Zero, Rahul/Rakhi ka Swayamvar, Barrack Obama getting a Nobel Prize, Abhishek Bacchan getting married to Aishwarya Rai, Abhishek Bacchan getting an award, Abhishek Bacchan being called an actor and so on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">It may not work for everyone but this is how it has always worked for me. Simply put, I’ve always been able to categorize the events, happenings or relationships in my life into one of these categories – Those that make sense or those which don’t. This trip, at the very outset, fell somewhere in between. I was never sure where this belonged, and five years down the line, I still don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">As planned, we hit the road by 5 PM and set out on the craziest thing either one of us had ever done.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I think it’s fair to introduce the most important and active character in the story- My Bike. My parents were nice and gullible enough to give me one when I went to Kota. Their rationale was that unlike most of the other children who had cycles; I’d spend less time travelling and more studying. I can’t even begin to tell you how wrong THAT went. I like to feel less guilty by telling myself that since I’ve never been much of a listener, I probably got it mixed up as I spent ALL my time travelling and hardly any..you know..studying. Common mistake. Aal eez well.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I got a shining, new silver Hero Honda Passion, which was a BIG deal, back in the day, for a tenth standard kid. I was given the liberty to splurge on my bike and I did, by installing a Sports-bike handlebar, alloy wheels and wider tyres. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Like most guys, I was dreamily in love with my bike. To the extent that if, like Spiderman, I was asked to choose <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">between my girlfriend or my bike, I wouldn’t even blink before choosing the latter. It was just perfect- the right look, low maintenance, completely in my control and was equally nice to all my friends as well as my mom. I think I have my reasons quite clear. For some reason, I can sense all the guys in the world, reading this, are nodding their heads in agreement.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">The first hour of the trip was pretty relaxed and we covered around 80 KM. Dusk was upon us and the light was fading rapidly. From this point onwards, the villages started and things got a little tedious as the road, sometimes, went through the middle of the village.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I don’t think it would be fair to say that there were potholes in the road; rather a more accurate description would be that there was some road between the potholes. And absolutely no lights. None. Zilch. Nada. Zero. Animals, children and other villagers wouldn’t really care if a bike or a car’s coming at 70-80 KMPH. When they’ve got to cross the road, they’ve got to cross the road. Period. I almost crashed into a couple of villagers and said a silent prayer every time we had a close shave.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Meanwhile, Mr. Devansh was happily chattering away, sitting behind. He was in very good spirits- singing, joking and extremely proud of the fact that he came up with this ‘brilliant’ idea. “Imagine, years down the line, when you think about our friendship, you’d look back at how awesome and fun this trip was.”</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Awesome. Check.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Fun. Check.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Big trouble. Double Check.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">We were cruising along fine until we had the first ‘incident’ of the trip. As we were leaving one of the village roads and approaching the main highway, due to bad/no lights, I couldn’t sense a HUGE pit dug in the middle of the road. We were riding at around 60 KMPH and went right through it- Me holding on to the bike and Devansh holding on to me, for dear life. We were plain lucky that I could manage to handle the bike and we came out of it, without any major damage to us, or the bike. Or so we thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Nevertheless, we continued our quest for the Holy Grail, that elusive McVeggie. The rest of the journey was pretty much uneventful, barring a petrol pump selling ONLY vegetables and a creepy lady, completely in white, asking for a lift.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">After travelling non-stop for about 5 hours, we managed to enter the city of Jaipur by 9:30 PM and after expert guidance by Devansh, reached McDonalds by 10:00 PM.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Only to find it closed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">On asking around, we were told that due to "reported terrorist threats", the city police ensured that all shops shut shop early that day. Score. Lord Murphy One. We Zero.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Devansh looked like someone who’d lost all his life’s savings in one shot. I turned around to tell him, “So, I guess you aren’t really LOVIN' IT now, are you?”, only to be almost thrown off the bike.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I learnt one of life’s most important lessons that day:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.5pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Never fuck around with a guy who’s been denied his McVeggie. Never.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 9pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
</span></div></div></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2010/02/trip-to-remember-part-iii.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-43789389605502313912010-02-28T00:45:00.009+05:302011-06-07T00:50:40.771+05:30A Trip To Remember - Part II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">“So, if we leave now, we might hit the highway by 5 PM. That way we can make the 250 Km journey in almost 4 hours, as we’d obviously ride at around 60-70 Kmph and we should be able to reach Jaipur by 9 PM max. Perfect time for dinner. I know where exactly McDonalds is.” Devansh said, in one breath.<br />
<br />
I kept looking at him, clueless. Not that the idea didn’t appeal to me at some level; it seemed fun and exciting but at the same time I’d heard about so many accidents on the same highway. Besides the bad road conditions, the highway was known for bad/no lights, stray animals as well as human beings casually strolling on it as it passed though a number of villages. Also, thinking about how my parents would react to this idea, that is if they ever got to know about is, wasn’t a very comforting feeling.<br />
<br />
I asked him if he knew anyone who’d ever done something like this. “People do it all the time”, like all his friends were truck drivers, he said. “I know of people who go all the way to Jaipur from Kota, on a bike, just to have tea.” Clearly, Devansh wasn’t one to stick to facts as they were. He liked to exaggerate things when he was on a roll and it wasn’t nice to interrupt him when he did so. I once did that, interrupting him when he launched into a story about one of his uncle’s ability to eat humongous portions of food meant for dozens, alone. I ended up spending the next two hours being given exact details of his family’s food habits, historical roots and gastronomic details. Clearly information I could have done without, but then I learnt my lesson that day.<br />
<br />
In retrospect, the story about how people go to Jaipur to just have tea and come back seems so stupid that I feel like a certified idiot for believing that. But, that was the thing about Devansh. I think he would have done much better as a salesman, going door to door, selling hair-dryers and encyclopedias. There was a unique manner in which he pitched things. I can’t put a finger to what it exactly was– his confidence, optimism or something else but he would wrap you up in his enthusiasm. You could start by vehemently opposing what he had to say, but before you’d realize, you’d find yourself nodding in agreement with him. I’m telling you, he could have made a fortune selling those encyclopedias.<br />
<br />
So, I got up, picked up the heavy Organic Chemistry by I L Finar in one hand and Concepts of Physics by H C Verma in the other, and banged them both on his head, with the intent of knocking those ridiculous ideas once and for all, and walked out of the room.<br />
<br />
Ok, I didn’t really do any of that, but I wish I would have. I ended up doing what any normal 18 year old guy would do at that point; picked up my keys and said “Let’s go!”<br />
<br />
We tucked two shirts- one for him and one for me, toothbrushes, a deodorant, sunglasses, an ATM card, cell phones and their respective chargers in a bag, which Devansh hung around his shoulder and we were ready to roll! As an afterthought, I grabbed my helmet and gave it to him to hold on to.<br />
<br />
I clearly remember that my last words to Devansh before leaving the house were “I swear to God, if ANYTHING goes wrong on this trip, YOU are to be blamed!”. That ever-optimistic idiot grinned and said “There’s nothing in the world that we can’t handle together.” And I smiled back.<br />
<br />
If only we knew what we were getting ourselves into. </span> </span></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2010/02/trip-to-remember-part-ii.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-67541361400921143442010-02-28T00:44:00.007+05:302011-06-07T00:50:58.424+05:30A Trip To Remember - Part I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">Disclaimer: All characters and events in the story- even those based on real people- are entirely fictional.</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“You’re joking, right? Tell me that you are!” I said, sitting cross-legged on the bed, smoothening the creases on my bed sheet instinctively. I tend to do that – call it eccentricity, an obsessive compulsive disorder – whatever it is, I seem to suffer from an extreme case of it. I’ve been like this ever since I can remember and I like it this way. For some reason, a clean cupboard or a neatly arranged table turns me on more than Megan Fox in a chocolate tub.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Anyway, he carried on, paying little heed to what I just said, as if I didn’t exist. Story of my life. More often than not, nobody actually cares to listen to what I have to say. If they somehow do, they almost inadvertently laugh- be it talking about the global economic downturn, the fate of koala bears or Indian politics, like I’m Charlie Chaplin on crack. Ok, I’ve to admit even I can’t keep a straight face talking about Indian politics, but still.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“It’s 3:30 PM right now. We can make it.” He said calmly.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Wait a second. Are you serious? Are you out of your mind?” I almost shouted out. “Yes, for the first question. As for the second part, let’s break it down” said the great one. I hated it when he said “Let’s break it down”. It always got us into trouble. Always.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">I think a little character introduction is required here. “I” am Aatish, your narrator,friend, guide, philosopher and God for the rest of the story. Ok, maybe not the last bit. We all know there’s only One God and as he himself said, which can be loosely translated as, “Once I make a commitment, then I don’t even listen to myself.” and later went on to take off his shirt in a flash.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“He” is Devansh.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Well, if you’re looking for more character details, you’ll find yourself being a little disappointed. Thing is that there is nothing extraordinary about either one of us to point out. We were smart, hardworking and intelligent guys, on our way to a bright future, when it struck us and brought us down to the ground. Honestly, we’re both still trying to come to terms with it, five years and counting. Yes, you guessed it right, we went to Kota. That vast melting pot of talent, known for producing future engineers and doctors on an assembly line. Getting more into this would require another post of its own, so I’m gonna leave it for another day.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">As you might have figured by now, I’m not a very good writer. My English teacher in third grade gave me a “Somewhat satisfactory, but a lot of scope for development” in my term paper, which has been a benchmark of sorts for me till date. I tend to get completely off-track every now and then. In that case, please feel free to skip lines, sometimes even paragraphs altogether and continue reading.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“So, let me get this straight. You want us to take an almost 250 Km ride from Kota to Jaipur, on one of the most accident-prone and ill-managed highways in the country with fading light, on a bike? For what joy?!” I asked, exasperated.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">He looked me in the eye and said with utmost seriousness “Dude, I wanna have dinner at McDonalds.”</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">How could I argue with that?</span></span></span></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2010/02/trip-to-remember-part-i.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-87833629835934575292008-06-27T16:45:00.011+05:302011-06-07T00:51:37.115+05:30Reality Hurts!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4v-KRROFgcREBsqdObUsQXqYJwNvg8cvnt6OcOkptqkLVsUiJFQH1mU8IYI7hA9VKCo7VMBL3-oAK12PPNimkwU4UjU8s_Z4kJvxP4IeH1ll1pbOJoSHQjh9ME-HUugXNfzOYG8cVHqo/s1600-h/mtv_splitsvilla.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" height="209" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216518634797212178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4v-KRROFgcREBsqdObUsQXqYJwNvg8cvnt6OcOkptqkLVsUiJFQH1mU8IYI7hA9VKCo7VMBL3-oAK12PPNimkwU4UjU8s_Z4kJvxP4IeH1ll1pbOJoSHQjh9ME-HUugXNfzOYG8cVHqo/s320/mtv_splitsvilla.jpg" style="display: block; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;" width="320" /></span></a><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There was a time when I used to enjoy watching music channels such as Mtv and Channel V when I had nothing better to do.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
There was a time when VJs such as Cyrus, Nikhil, Purab, Shehnaz, Vinay and others used to keep us glued to the tube and happily absorbed for hours together with their chattering, which was often pointless (agreed!!) but also fun and entertaining.<br />
<br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Enter Mtv and Channel V’s “Youth Campaign” and the dream comes to an end.<br />
<br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Recently both the music channels have undergone this image makeover to appeal to the youngsters across the country. According to the heads of the channels, what do young people in the country want? Young, petite and more importantly ‘hot’ VJs ready to wear clothes which hardly count as clothes in most parts of the world. VJs, who have the same IQ as their waist size, who cannot tell a pineapple from an apple, the kind who’re easy on the eyes, so what if they’re unbearable on the ears! But then if you notice all the CCD’s and all the food courts in the various malls across the country only ‘show’ these channels while playing music of their own. Guess this is all a part of a big conspiracy in itself.<br />
<br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Anyway coming back to the topic, recently our youth-oriented channels have started their own versions of reality television in various forms such as Roadies, Get Gorgeous, Teen Diva, Splitsvilla and so on.<br />
<br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">All these basically involve disturbed, attention seeking young men and women from different parts of the country fighting it out for their own five seconds of fame on national television.<br />
<br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The latest to hit TV screens across the country is an all new reality show (yeah,right!) called Splitsvilla on Mtv. The concept is simple : twenty girls fight it out for the attention of two guys. Regular ‘dumpings’ take place and the last two girls standing take home the prize ie. The two guys and a truck load of money in this case. I happened to come across this ‘innovative and refreshing’ show while surfing the tube and just almost fell off my chair laughing at the various snippets I happened to catch.<br />
<br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here are a few samples:<br />
<br />
Scene#1: (Inside the hotel, with a gang of girls doing what they do best: gossiping)<br />
<br />
Utterly Brainless But Hot Female1 (UBBHF1): I think he is extremely dumb but his bod is fab!<br />
UBBHF2: You think so? I think he’s pretty smart, I mean the other day he filled the entire railway reservation form all by himself and trust me, that’s no mean feat!<br />
UBBHF1: Really? Damn, guess I got him all wrong there.<br />
UBBHF3: You guys can just keep dreaming. I’m going to win this and take him back to Mumbai. I don’t really like him but then this has lots of money.<br />
UBBHF2: Can I keep him if you don’t like him? I’ll obviously return him later to you.<br />
UBBHF3: Sure sure. I was going to keep him only for like three days anyway. Maybe all of you can share him from time to time.<br />
*Giggle* *Giggle*<br />
<br />
Scene#2: (On the ground while the regular dumping ceremony takes place)<br />
<br />
Brainless Host (BH): UBBHF1, UBBHF2 & UBBHF3, you guys are in the danger zone today. Two of you are going to be dumped today. Guys, tell us who is it going to be?<br />
Totally Retarded Too Full Of Himself Guy1 (TRTFOHG1): I think UBBHF1 and UBBHF2 are really hot but they’re not intellectual enough. Just the other day I saw UBBHF1 reading an Ayn Rand and UBBHF2 discussing the teachings of Buddha with someone. So not cool!<br />
TRTFOHG2: You’re so right Bro! Real men don’t like books or discussing such heavy stuff. We like bikes, booze and women and considering that, UBBHF3 totally takes the cake: she likes all of them too!<br />
TRTFOHG1: She’s into women too? (Winks and high-five’s TRTFOHG2!) That’s so cool! Way to go Bro!<br />
BH: Sorry UBBHF1 & UBBHF2, you’re just not ‘cool’ enough for this show! Pack your bags.<br />
(Camera focusing on the faces of the contestants, tense music from the 70’s on)<br />
<br />
The saddest part of the entire story? Guys and girls across the country religiously following the proceedings on such mind-numbing shows, making it a ritual to discuss this over cups of coffee in over-priced coffee shops and other such hangouts. People who choose to not watch this brand of television are subjected to contempt and mockery, making them some kind of a social outcast.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Ahh, what times are we living in??!!</span></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2008/06/there-was-time-when-i-used-to-enjoy.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-59980364061607168832008-06-14T15:09:00.007+05:302011-06-07T00:53:45.064+05:30Aamir - A Must Watch!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcG-EJNH7L4wxZjiHszjDts2XTjp6m6yEtzATGK9wCB-Rqi501r87oxtJSBO26dCsmrgNCp9-kDpXQddkZHowZujzwQp5EYX__vyvIfhctGlj_qgVK-fpifKMFND32HA9PA_MyBBrxi8g/s1600-h/aamie.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211669897753928306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcG-EJNH7L4wxZjiHszjDts2XTjp6m6yEtzATGK9wCB-Rqi501r87oxtJSBO26dCsmrgNCp9-kDpXQddkZHowZujzwQp5EYX__vyvIfhctGlj_qgVK-fpifKMFND32HA9PA_MyBBrxi8g/s400/aamie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Directed by Rajkumar Gupta</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Starring : Rajeev Khandelwal</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not the kinda title or credits that would make you wanna go into a theatre and watch it, eh? well trust me you have no idea what your're missing here!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*If you wish to read on, let me issue a spoiler alert here as the next few lines tend to kinda give away the plot of the movie*</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the best movies our film industry has turned out off-late, Aamir revolves around a young muslim doctor Aamir who after studying and practicing medicine in London for the past few years decides to come back to India after the London blasts and the aftermath thereby. He thinks he's coming back to his "own" country but sadly realises he's not welcome here too, which is pretty obvious by the way the authorities at the airport choose to deal with him just because his name is "Aamir" and not "Amar" for that matter.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once outside, he's led on this crazy trip by a person on the phone, who claims to hold his family and gives him a set of instructions to follow, following which he would let them go. This sets off Aamir's journey into the bylanes of Mumbai, to places where he'd never thought he would visit and sights he never thought he would see.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are no songs, there is no heroine, no "item numbers" to titillate the first benchers nor any dream sequences shot at picturesque locations in Europe. Its a thriller with the twists and turns at the right moments to keep you glued to your seat.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The camera work is excellent, editing has been razor sharp and the background score is topnotch.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a very subtle way, the director makes you think about issues normally unchartered in Hindi cinema. It makes you want to venture out of your comfort zone. It offers an altogether different perspective on the so-called "terrorists" exisiting in the world and there's so much more to it than what it appears on the surface.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Kudos to the first time director for taking a bold step, defying convention and making a movie he believes in. Similiar sentiments for the first time actor too for pulling off such a role almost flawlessly. Heaven knows we need more such actors and directors in the Hindi film industry to break the stereotype.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">From the box-office reports till now, the movie hasn't really garnered much apart from a lot of critical acclaim. I can only hope the audience warms up to good cinema pretty soon and give such producers and directors the incentive they so rightly deserve!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It took me more than an hour to get back to normal once I saw the movie - such is the impact it creates.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Enough said, I'd really recommend the movie to everyone who likes Good cinema.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cheers to "Aamir"!!</span></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href="http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2008/06/aamir-must-watch.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3852752378182569383.post-73193470244964031812008-05-21T23:18:00.009+05:302011-06-07T00:55:20.539+05:30This Is Who You Are To Me.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyqS94XQ8-1o8Out02sm43SNDIEkeI1xbtoGXD-k-mQPCVYuMWjAlT4yF6qojGBF_Pv29ki3ErQcEtIuCIp0BTjd0cUMnQA2ZtRhpPx3ggT5-ob2p5fRE3aA3GOX9i0EJDi_mUUaJtEo/s1600-h/rrr.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207343299235952834" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyqS94XQ8-1o8Out02sm43SNDIEkeI1xbtoGXD-k-mQPCVYuMWjAlT4yF6qojGBF_Pv29ki3ErQcEtIuCIp0BTjd0cUMnQA2ZtRhpPx3ggT5-ob2p5fRE3aA3GOX9i0EJDi_mUUaJtEo/s400/rrr.jpg" style="display: block; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;" width="266" /></a><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The person who came into my life when I was extremely broken,</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Even though I may not have shown it,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">She saw through my lie.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The person who took a chance,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">That chance was me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The person who made me see,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It’s ok to love again.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The person who I can talk to about the life I’ve lived</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Because she’s lived it too.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The person who made me strong,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But also showed me weakness wasn’t wrong.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The person who restored my faith and made me believe.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The person who makes me want to trust,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The person who makes me feel love,and not just lust.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The person who saved me from myself.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My everything,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My all,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My reason,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And my savior.....</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This is who you are to me.</span></div></div></div><br />
<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1"></script><fb:comments href=" http://morally-impaired.blogspot.com/2008/05/this-is-who-you-are-to-me.html" num_posts="2" width="600"></fb:comments>Ashish Shahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10896577922702283135noreply@blogger.com0