Pink

I want to be the rat
that was late for the race
I want to be the cat
that hates milk
I want to be the soul
that got lost on the way
I want to be the worm
that loved silk
I want to be the rain
that never left a cloud
I want to be the tree
that ran to Spain
I want to be the question
I want to be the doubt
But most of all, I think
I want to Pink.
Just Pink my whole life away.

Questions.

I'm only one month old at Mindset. But there are some questions that popped up in my head even before I turned a week old. Some of them I have answers for. Some of them, I don't. Some of my questions are downright silly. Some of them are dead serious. But above all, there are two questions that never cease to confound me, chill my spine, make my life seem worthless until I am reborn, enlightened or both.

Q. No. 1 Why does Yadamma never give me tea?

Q. No. 2 Why does Bundu suck?

Give a dog a good name

A recent snack food advertisement recently brought to light the disturbing fact that not every dog's name is 'Tommy'.

What? Really? I mean....are you sure?

Who are you kidding? I meet a lot of self respecting dogs everyday. And I must assert that very few, in fact precisely 3.25 % of them are actually called 'Tommy'.

In fact, a more familiar canine epithet is in fact, 'Brutus'. Big snarling Alsations, whimpering little Poms, you name it and its name is probably Brutus. Go a little way off and you'll find barking armies of Caesars, Junos, Rubys and Motis. Moti! Now that's a doggy name straight out of Bollywood. Moti is the superdog. The dog that can drive you with its left paw to the hospital while giving you a back rub with its right. What would a movie climax be without a blood stained Moti barking heroically in the background. In fact, I remember an old hindi movie where a Motidog (it's almost a breed by itself) enters a courtroom, tongue out and panting, to deliver a key piece of sniff worthy evidence.

Anyway, while naming your best friend isn't always as all consuming a task as naming your baby, i'd say give it some thought anyway. There's surely more to your dog's life than being just another 'Tommy'.

Burn...

Anger is a beautiful word. It's an even more profound emotion.
It's an emotion most people cant hide and don't hide. Heck, they highlight it. And in its altruistic expression, much of the world we know is born.

I love to see what anger can do to a person, sometimes for a person. Some men wear their anger like a military haircut. Ruthless, unforgiving but deeply flattering to those with the hairline for it. Some women wear it like an expensive perfume, in potent but miniscule doses that hint at danger without ever suggesting it. Of course, there are those who rant and rave. The breakers of fine bone china and the slammers of doors. But the universe is oblivious to their anger. Then, there are those who will pour their anger into works of art and song and all that la di da. But really, anger deserves more original expression. Vent it not.

The truth is that quality anger is really hard to come by any more. What with political correctness and appropriate public conduct and all that, potential angry men and women are a dying breed. They prefer to hide behind glowering eyes and polite sniffles. Barbed words, frown lines and cold shoulders are commonplace. But give me a really really really angry human being anyday. All the world warms up to a fire. But no one has any use for smoke.

Dettol

Roses smell sickeningly sweet. The smell of chocolate makes me hungry. Petrol and diesel both give me a high. But then, so does paper. And the insides of cars that have been parked too long in the sun. And ashtrays and expensive leather.
On rainy days, the smell of wet earth and all that jazz is just great. But I wouldn't go to sleep with a clod of mud on my pillow, would you? And perfume...perfume, oh dah'lings perfume!
Yeah sure, I've got a mini artillery of those bottles. Some are gifts, some are occasions, some are memories, some are mistakes and some are routine.
But what I really breathe for, frankly, is that very sexy smell of clean.

The Al Pacino effect

The first time I watched Scent of a Woman, I was 12...maybe 13.
The second time, I was 21. The years had made all the difference.
I was ready for the Al Pacino effect. More specifically, the Lieutenant Colonel Frank Slade effect.
Of course, one watched Scarface with the appropriate amount of interest and bowed respectfully to Michael Corleone. But nothing, absolutely nothing prepares you for your first encounter with Frank Slade. Hooaaa! Here goes...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VWfKRZYAJ34

(Ok, for those of you who are at mental age 12 and can't appreciate Al Pacino yet, there's hope. You will grow up....someday. The real man may be dead by then. But the tango will never end. )

sunscreen - a love story

He was tall. And she was short.
He could pronounce big words. She fumbled with small ones.
He dreamt about saving the world and changing mankind forever.
She dreamt about pretty clothes and surprise parties.
But they both loved to talk. And they both loved to walk.
So they walked and they talked. Alongside. Sometimes, hand in hand.
Soon, she learnt a bit about rationalism and Nietzche.
And he learnt to tell mauve from pink.
And she confessed that she was a bit of a writer.
And he confessed that he'd never read a book.
Along the beach in hot summer afternoons.
Meandering through traffic and grey avenue trees.
In the absence of a single whiff of breeze.
He walked. And she walked in his shadow.