Whatitees Guide: The Dictionary of Crap

Disclaimer: If you are currently reeling under a bad stomach ache, and/or are making frequent visits to the loo, and/or constipated, I’d advise you to to not read this now, and maybe come back a later time. This is not for the weak farted hearted and certainly not for the constipated. Because when the shit hits the fan,some people run and some people wonder what’s happening. So keep a loose motion tablet next to you. Please. 

I say it is about time.

About time we broke the shackles of convenient morality. About time we came out of the closet and let it out in the open. About time we redefined the dictionary and fought for inclusion of this word which has been so used, abused, misused, demeaned, and thrown around like an old rag with utter contempt. That which has allowed billions of people around the world express myriad emotions – Anger, happiness, love, frustration, elation, ecstasy, orgasm, denial, horror – with just one word: CRAP! Sometimes shit!

And yet, we have not recognized the selfless way it has weaved itself into our way of life without asking for anything in return. Oh! The beauty! The beauty!

It is about time we give it the respect it duly deserves. And I have taken the mantle of doing so.

Here again, with a dramatic re-entry and continuation of what the latest reviews on http://www.crappyguides.com have to say about, I present to you from the house of the Whatitees Guides:

The Dictionary of Crap.

Please imagine the mandatory trumpets, bugles and drum rolls, as is the norm with all my posts. Here goes:

Crapilicious crapi-li-cious

– adjective

   1. highly unpleasant to the senses, especially to taste or smell:

             a crapilicious dinner, a crapilicious aroma.

2. highly unpleasant feeling growing in the stomach after consuming such foods where the chicken (or brinjal, as the case may be) is seen to be floating harmlessly in red colored oil:

              I had such a crapilicious paneer butter masala in office yesterday, my boss could hear the rumbles in my stomach from his cabin!

Crapugedera crapu-ge-dera

– adjective

   1. when you come and go out of the cricket team and don’t get picked even for an IPL team despite the lowest starting price.

Crape diem cra-pe di-em

      Latin. Run with the newspaper in hand the moment you hear the rumble; as opposed to delaying it while increasing the CO2 content in the atmosphere. Seize the moment; don’t think of the future.

Crapuscular crapus-cu-lar


1. of or pertaining to crap: crapuscular feeling

2. dependent on or affected by crap: crapuscular feeling

3. having well-developed crap: crappy

Crappendix cra-pen-dix

-noun, plural -dix.es -dic.es

1. supplementary material at the end or beginning of a question in an MBA class, an article, a document, a book, a long speech, a training session in office post lunch, a blog such as this or any other text usually of an explanatory nature which will make you feel crapuscular.

2. an appendage which makes you feel like pulling out your hair.

Bon crapetit bon cra-pe-tit

-interjection. French

Used as a salutation for a person who has been affected by the Fourth Law of Motion. (I wish you) a crappy appetite.

Crapsule cra-ps-ule


1. a small soluble container, usually made of gelatin that is needed to be taken when someone has just wished you bon crapetit.

Craptitude cra-pti-tude


1. an inherent ability to endure when s**t happens. Man, he had the craptitude to have two plates of chicken masala even when he was constipated!

2. display of intelligence while attending to the call of nature. You know what, he is so intelligent, he has the craptitude to solve an entire ET crossword when he is in the loo!

Crapitulate crapi-tul-ate


1. to surrender unconditionally when the rumbling goes bigger and one cannot squirm nor sit nor stand nor take the support of a nearby table/chair/pole/person.

2. to give up and experience utter bliss.

Crapsize cra-psi-ze

-verb (used without object), -verb (used with object) -siz.ed, -siz.ing

to turn bottom up. you get the picture.

Crapivorous crapi-vo-rous


1. of the carnivores and herbivores family.

2. crap-eating. Heard one fly telling another, “you are crapivorous, dude. Bon crapetit!”

Whataycrap what-a-crap


What you are thinking right now for having come all the way here reading all this crap.

Crappendix: I just realized that this was the fastest post I ever came up with. What can I say. Sh*t happens!

Story of a house – II

 Continuing from part I. If you have not read it yet, you have no right to be here.

Pune. Circa 2007. Fourth job. Sixth House.

What do you call something that is somewhere between a 2BHK and a 1BHK but actually is a 2BHK?

Buzzz. A stupid question.That is the wrong answer. You have another chance.

Oh, I know. A 1.2333 BHK with a loo that has no commode. That is again the wrong answer. You have one last chance, you jackass!

Ok, ok. 2BHK with one of the bedrooms locked. That is the correct answer!

So, there it was. An old, but nice 1BHK apartment. Found after a month of incessant searching. Not only of the Google types. And I was to get almost married by an old man and a middle-aged woman for me to move into this flat. The old man called himself the society broker and the middle-aged woman was a friend to the owner / caretaker.

The owner was cooling his heels in Dubai. I keep getting email forwards from him even now. He still does not know about the nail I drove into the kitchen wall, I guess!

So, we are in the woman’s apartment inside the society at around 7 in the evening after having taken a look at the flat. Under the watchful gaze of the woman, her not-so-watchful husband and the old man, I looked around, drank a glass of water and made some mental calculations of the amount I could spend for this flat. Satisfied with the numbers, I broadened my chest, brought a smile to my face and started to speak.

Me. “OK, Ma’am, how much…”

Old man who called himself the society broker. First, tell us. Are you married?

Me. “I am sorry? What..”

Old man who called himself. “Yes.Yes. please tell us, are you married?”

Me. “No, I am not. Could you please….”

Old man who called. “When do you plan to?”

Me. “Sir, this is a personal question.”

Old man who. “Yes. This is a decent society with decent people. We do not want any hanky-panky going on. So, when do you plan to?

I was indignant and amazed at this. Yes, both at the same time. And it is possible. You just need to raise one eyebrow and show a hand gesture which seems to say “what the??”.

No sir. This is a personal question which I do not need to answer. I am as decent as you people are. In fact, more decent than you all. At least I have manners. I do not need your house. This is against my principles and I do not need to get insulted like this.

Me. “Ah. Maybe this year. But yeah, I forgot to tell you. My mother will be coming over this month to stay with me. I am from Hyderabad sir. I have an elder brother and a sister-in-law who stay in Hyderabad. And my mother will come to stay with me. She says she needs a change, and wants to see Pune also. You see, she is getting old….

Old man. “Ok, ok. The rent is 7000 per month. And again, no hanky-panky. You seem to be a very nice boy”.

And that was how I did not get to do any hanky-panky for the 6 months I stayed in that house. Because I eventually had to call my mom to stay with me to prove to the old man / society broker / caretaker that I indeed am a nice boy. And my mom not only ensured they know the same, but she also went a step ahead and called the lady over for some nice Andhra snacks / coffee. Not to mention the smiles and small talk they eventually started to share like they were old buddies. smooth stuff.

And, remember I said I had fallen in love? Yeah, that also happened along with a big divine intervention. I got shipped off to Japan. The Japan Diaries has the dope on why I went there. For my Sumi.

We shall not talk about the love story here. Since this is the story of a house. Suffice it to say that this love story spanned across

  • 18 months,
  • 2 countries,
  • innumerable calling cards,
  • countless fights and make ups,
  • lots of pasta, trips, insobriety,brooding, philosophizing,
  • lots of 555s, and finally
  • did not end with us living happily ever after.

Quite an anti-thesis to the DDLJ type stuff we are fed on. Serendipity is the lifeline for a wanderer. I was still trying to unravel myself. But on retrospect, it was the best thing that happened to me.

I learned life’s sixth big lesson. “Love is not blind, deaf nor dumb and needs to have a good memory.”

Confucius is confused between shaadi.com or meetsinglesinyourlocalarea.com.

I hope you are enjoying the story. ‘Cause if you aren’t, then am sure you do not have much to do for you to reach this line. So read on.

Japan. Circa 2008. Same job. Seventh house.

What do you call a place that is somewhere between a 1BHK and a 1BHK?

Buzzzz. A 1BHK with H silent. That is the right answer! Man, are you on fire!

Arigato Gozaimasu! Yes, it was a 1-room-kitchen-bathroom-toilet-balcony. All rolled into one, beautifully cramped-up pigeon-hole and yet spacious enough to do a 2-minute sumo wrestling jaunt with your Japanese girlfriend before you let go of her and she falls over the balcony railing.

And this was the same room where I spent 18 months of fun, cooking, trying out Japanese cuisine, treks (Mount Fuji!) and more, including the points listed above.

Then I intervened – the only time when I did not let the divine come in. I regret that actually. And I shipped myself back to homeland.

Learned life’s seventh biggest lesson. “Love does know boundaries. When in Japan, stay in Japan and earn some more.”

Confucius is feeling better as I came closer to China.

Chennai. Circa 2009.Fifth job. Temporary.Seventh House.

What do you call a place which is between the ocean, some coconut trees, a wide stretch of road, is pink in color and is lovingly called the Playboy Mansion?

Buzzz. Wow! A hammock between the trees and some nude gays running around!

Wrong answer. And what is making you so excited?

“Err. Pink, Playboy. Hmm. Has to be one of the Best Homes I have ever seen.” Yep. That’s the right answer!

And so, “Best Homes”, the name of the apartments on OMR Road, Chennai became the backdrop for one  of the strangest seven months in my life.

Fun, dark, poignant and in all that, made some friends for life. The Chennai Times. Says it all.

And then it happened.The happening that happens at the end before I happen to learn my lesson. Strange, it always happens that way.

Divine intervention and I went back to Pune to my previous company.

I learned life’s eighth biggest lesson. ” A pink colored apartment is not always a playboy mansion”.

Confucius is searching the dictionary and the phone directory for playboy.

Pune. Circa 2009. Sixth Job. Eighth House.

What do you call a place that looks like a run-down 1BHK from the Victorian era?

Buzzzz. A 1BHK in a cosy residential area behind ICT towers on SB Road. Yep! That is the right answer. Am surprised you understood the koschan.

This 1BHK from the Victorian era was a stone’s throwaway from a swanky gym, a Crossword to spend weekends at, nice looking chicks, some malls and which costed me a bomb.

But I did not complain because it was right next to where one of my very close friends from Chennai stayed. Hence, the prospect of continuing the Chennai Times seemed so inviting, money did not matter. And friendship prevailed.

Hmmm. I am so warm and mushy right now. Not so much though when the same guy abuses me these days for not calling him so frequently.

But for the few months I stayed there, before you-know-what-intervened (duh!), the wheels of fortune flipped, hopped, skipped and jumped in such a random and yet heart-warming manner, I started seeing dots everywhere. Yes, dots. Not stars.

Angst, frustration, dogged persistence with the mundane while expecting the turn of a corner, and finally harmony.

Got divorced. The word does not seem to have the strange twang it used to have earlier.

And got an MBA admit along with it. This neither. Of course, because I am an MBA now. Ah. There it is again. Damn!

It’s amazing how easy life’s hurdles seem, when you start believing in these rather insignificant elements of the universe – The dots. Steve Jobs has spoken about it. Rashmi Bansal has written about it. And I am blogging about it. Man! Too much that was!

The divine intervened and I left Pune yet again to head back to where I was born. Well, not exactly where I was born, but close enough. I learned life’s ninth big lesson. “A strange dot twangs and a strange blot swangs.”

Confucius is levitating. He is deeply moved by the depth of this saying. The playboy seemed to have worked.

Hyderabad. Circa 2011. Seventh Job. Ninth House. My Home.

And this is the moment I have been waiting. For almost 172 Hours, 54 minutes, 6 seconds. Since I started writing all this down. Including part I.

Trumpets, Bugles and Drum Rolls. I will take a dramatic pause and imagine myself standing atop the roof of my brother’s beaten down Hyundai with my hands stretched out, a la SRK while you answer this koschan. The last one, I promise.

What do you call a place that

  • makes you walk and drive around in the sun like it was pleasant weather,
  • surprises you by making 7-figure numbers dance on your fingertips,
  • makes you negotiate like you were born to do that,
  • makes terms such as “super built up area” look like you use it everyday
  • makes you a financial planner, interior designer, carpenter, pujari, loan and real estate consultant, all rolled into one,
  • makes you read the “Personal Finance” section of the ET with unprecedented enthu,
  • makes you go on an all-night, mantra-chanting devotional trip, clad in only a dhoti and shrouded in smoke that would singe you down to your eye sockets, and preceded only by a day-long fast that’d get the rats in your stomach run everywhere inside of you, and
  • gets you to pay almost half of your salary every month after all this, and yet

does not make you feel a wee bit uncomfortable?

Buzzzz. The comfort and warmth of your own home. Yeah, I know that is the right answer, and the only answer. Thank you and good luck!

The one thought that hit me right in the middle of my medula oblongata when I was going through all the bullet points listed above while searching, deciding and finalizing my own apartment in Hyderabad was just this – I guess I am growing up. I just smiled at myself.

And it has only started. The dots seemed to be lining up.

Meanwhile, I learned life’s tenth big lesson. “Don’t laugh when someone says “rubber wood”.”

Confucius is calling up playboy and is asking about it. I need to call him home once.

Confucius say

“Man who reads long post gets exhausted”

Story of a house – I

Sector 35, Noida. Circa 2004. My second job. My first house. 6 months.

What do you call a place to stay which is somewhere between a 1 room flat and an enclosed space with a thatched roof?

Buzzzzz. A servant’s quarter. That’s the right answer!! And I paid for it every month.

An LG Flatron TV. A wooden bed. 6 AM knock on the door by a nice caring owner with a steaming cup of tea. A few “Bobby Da Dhabas” at a stone’s throw for the daily staple.

And if I threw a few more stones,  I even had a “Waves” mall. For the Saturday night movies. And some eye balm too. Nutshell. Everything what a bachelor, still fresh from staying in a hostel for four years, needed.

Except that one thing. Which you need for the sweat and the heat. The swelter that can make you go crazy. That which can make you strip down to your bare skin in utter desperation. Yeah, a fan. What else did you think?? That rotating piece of machinery, which throws air around and lets you sleep in peace. Especially during power cuts in the middle of the hot summers’ night of Noida.

It was the first insight I had into life’s myriad lessons. “A fan rotates fast.” It was an eye-opener. A silver bullet. Confucius would have wanted to say this. And I moved on.

Andheri, Mumbai. Circa 2005. My third job. My second house. 6 months.

What do you call a place that is somewhere between a servant’s quarter and a 2BHK?

Buzzzzzz. A 1BHK!. That is the right answer!

I also had 3 housemates. One of them was my first running buddies. And the last also, I guess. We used to run every night post dinner after 10 PM. I never understood then. I do not understand now, either.  But we ran after 10 PM.

Probably it was all part of the bonding process between housemates. Turned out we were the only ones to be bonding. ‘Cause the other two already had mates with whom they did more than just run. One of them was always on the phone. The other always returned at ungodly hours in the night.

And I always woke up with yellow wall paint peeled off from the ceiling.

This had nothing to do with the bonding process I am sure. A call to the house owner always ended up with

  • him saying that he would fix it, BUT
  • he would add that amount to the rent, BUT
  • we always refused to do that, AND

I ended up waking up with the yellow paint peeled off from the ceiling.

I learned life’s second big lesson. “A ceiling paint never peels. And it never falls all over you during the night”.

Confucius wants to hug me right now.

I was on the verge of moving out. And at around the same time, like a divine intervention, I was shipped off to Bangalore.

I learned life’s third big lesson as well. “Ceiling paint and software services are not related”.

I can sense Confucius confused.

Bengaluru. Circa 2005-2006. Same job. Different place. Third house.

What do you call something that is between a 1BHK in a village type place and an IT park and is only 10 minutes to reach from?

Buzzzz. A road! Yes, but a little more specific? A road, tarred in places and not so much elsewhere! That is the right answer! This has nothing to do with the post, though.

Easily, one of the best times I have had. In fact, third house = 2 houses. And that includes a motley crew of my engineering buddies. Waking up to strange guys lying sprawled in the living room, French toast and beer for breakfast, night outs and “power cut” intoxicants, fighting, laughing, et al. It was called The Mansion. And we were called the Homies. We listened to everything that sounded like music, cooked anything that looked like food, partied anytime, cracked poor jokes, swore at each other and generally hung around with no hassles at all. Cool stuff, really.

Oh. And I even started to fall in something called love. Will talk about that later.

While I was about to transform into a real Homie, the divine intervened once more and I got called back to Mumbai. Actually, Thane. Most people say it is not Mumbai. Whatever works.

I learned life’s fourth big lesson. “A Homie always drinks on Mondays”. Yo, Confu bro! Wazzup!

And I moved on again.

Thane. Circa 2006. Same job. Fifth house.

What do you call a place that has a semblance to what you call a “house” and looks like a poor cousin to Hiranandani?

Buzzzz. A 1BHK apartment in Rutu Estate. That is the correct answer! By the way, Hiranandani has got nothing to do with Rutu.

This 1BHK was one of the places I could call my own. Well, technically it was mine because I was the only one who lived in it and paid the rent. And it had everything. My own bedroom. My own TV. My own loo. And a fully functional kitchen where I had one of my very first encounters, among many with an entity called Dosa.

It was my first tryst at staying alone. And strangely, it did not feel strange to me. I guess I had grown up, although I could never get that Dosa to look like one.

Oh. Talk about growing up. I also went on a date once. You know, the kinds where you do not know if it’s a real date? Or you’ve been made part of a romantic scene of a Hindi movie with cameras all around and you just don’t know it yet?

Going by the general definition of a “Date”, it was all smooth and copybook. Like the bullet points I have written below.

  • I took a sweaty bus ride
  • I waited outside her place for half an hour
  • I took another sweaty auto ride. This time with her.
  • I spent the evening sitting by the beach with coconut water and listening to her talk. Mostly about herself.
  • Meanwhile, I held on to my drink, all the time wondering if watching a movie with pizza had been a better option. Do not get me wrong. She was a nice, pretty girl. But remember the point about the movie scene?
  • I took a sweaty bus ride back

Copybook and nice. Really. Only thing, it happened only once. Because, between this one and the next one that was being thought of, by her, she said something about her parents looking out for her and something about me deciding soon. I do not remember the “something” because it was around 3 AM when she said this. But I distinctly remember me not going to office the next day.

I had a bad stomach. And I had not even made Dosas.

Meanwhile, divine intervention happened. And I moved again.

I learned life’s fifth lesson. “A bad dosa or a bad date will cause a bad stomach” Confucius must be hungry.

I am hungry too. Will continue in part II. This is just to keep the curiosity alive. And kill the cat.

******** To be Continued********

******** Yes, will be Continued********

******** Quadrata Continuendum********

******** El Continu********

******** Continuum Mechanicos********

******** Your call is important to us. Please be in line.********

******** Your call is important to us. Please be in line.********

******** Your call is important to us. Please be in line.********

5.so what?

When you walked starry eyed, through the hallowed portals with a suitcase in your hands, did you already forget?

Did reality slap you into what you thought was being “pragmatic”? Or did you just conveniently shove it under the carpet of your self-defined sense of rationality?

Insanity is the eccentric’s rationale. What was yours’?

That small bubble you created, losing yourself in a mocked up maze of well-dressed suits, intelligent gibberish, and esoteric phrases that you conveniently thought was the real deal.

All hidden in the garb of passionately written paraphrases and forgotten away neatly in a folder. A state of denial. Comatose.

Did you try to peel through this maze ever? Take a deep, hard look at yourself in the mirror beyond checking if the shave you just had was smooth? Or if the jeans was fitting you properly? Did you ever stop and ask yourself, why? Did you ever pause? And ask yourself the one nagging question that people journey through their lives trying to answer?

Or did you just brush your hair aside, check the tuck of your t-shirt and walk back into the maze?

I bet you did just that. If you didn’t, you must have been asleep.

A portion of your life, albeit a small one, spent running through silent corridors, into well-lit amphitheaters, caffeine induced sleepless nights, 15 minute power naps, sleeping through inane presentations, debating and discussing like you were the intelligent, final word and the occasionally frequent moments of insobriety. Or sanity, if you will. Words which serve as the backbone of businesses. You used them as punchlines. As dinner time jokes to show how “uber cool” you are. And how stupid they were.

You fought hard to look like you did not care. You fought hard to sound intelligent. You rested your self-worth on laurels won before and sought approval. You loved talking and laughing about people on moonless rooftop nights. Drunk as you were. And you loved being cynical. As if that was the latest fad. You ploughed through countless sheaves of paper and books, solving problems. You learned by rote. You learned by force. You suffered the ignominy of an imbalanced sheet. Then “bounced” back from it by posting it on Facebook. With a smiley. And then strutted around with a bloated sense of self-importance when you saw you were just five marks, and thirty comments better.

You learned by rote. And forgot just as easy.

Decimal numbers became a matter of pride. Or shame. You cared. You feared. You ignored. But you did not pause to revisit that paragraph where you had written why you wanted to be here. You went with the flow. Like you were plugged in. You pushed for every decimal point. You laughed at every decimal point. You sounded blase about it like you never cared. You kept quiet about it like it was your own little secret. But you never ceased to fight it.

And then epiphany struck. Natural numbers and nattily dressed suits. The next program in the matrix was loaded. Being basic was passe. Talking big was the norm. You forgot to look in the mirror. Except to check for the crease on your suit. And you fought hard for those numbers. Ironically, every additional zero seemed to keep you afloat. And you did not bother to see that you were riding on a balloon. All it needed was just a little pin prick. You rode high and floated above all. You had a smile on your face. And you forgot why you were here.

You became Jack’s bloated sense of conceit.

You never stopped to question. You never stopped to ask.

What do you really want?

You conveniently forgot. Like a piece of crumpled paper. And drowned it in the sweet taste of sin that very night.

You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis.

You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.

P.S : Last few lines are Tyler Durden’s. I might just be a paranoid schizophrenic.

Chronicles of Boredom

Disclaimer: Slightly longish. Read if you are bored. Read if you are not bored. You should care about who Tyler Durden and Jack are. At the least, get to know about them. Google or Wikipedia. Happy reading.

Boot laptop. Stare at it for 2 minutes. Sometimes 3.  Till it cranks up. Unwilling. Unwitting. Like the “old hag” syndrome. Myriad “Tyler Durden-ish” thoughts run through while that happens.

This is your laptop. And it is ending every minute. I am Jack’s virus in my system. Need to do something about this. PCTools? Kaspersky? Iobit Security? Will buy a new one when I join work. What kind of laptop defines me as a person? A really cool, gaming laptop? Sony Vaio – the professional types? Windows 7 with a Debian Linux – double boot? He was right. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. It’s all going down.

Legs start to shake. Involuntarily. As if to wake me up. Alright.

Windows Outlook, Mozilla Firefox. And? Ah, a computer scan as well.

Which one? Intelliscan, Deep Scan or Custom Scan. Hmm. Let me see. While I think about it, Turbo Boost On with Advanced System Care. Ha! Good. Reading Technology section of ET in the loo has its benefits.

Ok. Deep Scan it is.

Forgot. DC++ as well. Peer-to-peer movie downloading software. Leeches and seeders. Peer networking. Read it on B-school websites, right? Well, this is the actual stuff. Look for Mephisto, Burra. Damn, they are offline. Will download later. Close.

Windows Outlook 2010 loading up. Loading Add-ins 1-8. What the hell are these add-ins? I don’t ever use them.

Mozilla Firefox up. Facebook loaded. Gmail loaded. What else? LinkedIn loaded.

Windows Outlook 2010 loading up. Loading Add-ins 1-8.

Check Gmail Inbox.

  1. Cleartrip – Save Rs.2500 on flights and hotels.
  2. iimjobs.com – jobs posted today.
  3. Crossword bookstores – eWords for the month of March 2011.
  4. MakemyTrip Alert – Honk Kong’s buzz and Ladakh’s serenity. Take your pick!
  5. Exciting Lives – Naughty gift ideas!
  6. Simplymarry.com – Connect us with Facebook, talk to your partner in private and get 20% discount on premium membership!

Facebook. Forgot! No messages. No wall posts. Check “what’s on others minds”.

“Some lives are connected by the vast expanses of time and space and they will be embalmed in the callings of the ancient where the echoes of the ticking of a clock will reverberate throughout the ages…”

WTF. Next.

“I know my heart yearnssssssss for youuuuuuuuu. I am waiting my dearrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!”

Ugh! I think I just got a dose of diabetes. And sugar as well. I am Jack’s asinine Facebook update. Is that what they call Keyboard Stutter? Next.

“All Indians – dys is a must watch. Or else what! Next.

Ok. Gmail check again. Refresh…………………..Refresh again. Spam (3). Check Spam.

  1. C S Account Services – You are a weekly winner. Redeem your ticket now!
  2. Does your Mr. Winkie need upgrading? Our offer will interest you.
  3. Preethi – Your special one is waiting for you.

Okay. Delete Spam.

Windows Outlook 2010 loading up. Loading Add-ins 2-8.

Check Facebook again. Refresh, refresh. Nothing. Zilch.

Now what? My head again. A steady high pitch drone around me. Drowning every other silence. Numbing the senses. Numbing the mind. Comfortably. I know my eyes are open but my mind’s steadily drowning itself. In its own nothingness.

Blue sky. The vast expanse. A crow flies by. Alights on the window grill and cocks its head inside. Eyes lock for a brief moment. Recognition? Mockery? It looks away with a measured, dismissive nonchalance. Then flies off. My eyes rest on the grill. I know I am alive because I can sense my chest heaving. Slightly. The drone starts to fade away. Not too high. Not too low. Just there…………………legs start to shake again. Involuntarily.

And then a shrill harmonic interruption. Ground Zero.

Is there a class today? Don’t know man. I don’t think I’ll attend. Just the one anyways.

The sunlight beams on to my face. I look up with a glint in the eye. Something starts to hum in the head. Sunshine, on my shoulders, makes me happy. I am Jack’s irrelevant song in my head.

Windows Outlook 2010 loading up. Loading Add-ins 6-8.

Damn you Windows! Mozilla Thunderbird was much better. I had themes. I had colors. AND I was seen as different. Geeky. Cool. Good times.

Anyways. I always had a short shelf life for things that interested me. They called it a paradox.

Wow! Now that is a beauty. An original thought. Very Jack-Nicholson-in-The-Departed types. I think I should post that on Facebook. Oh yeah, can post it on Twitter. I have a Twitter to Facebook integration. Face beaming in self-pride and gloating. Who are “they”, by the way? Never mind.

1:00 PM. Yep. Lunch. Not much. Just a little to take care of the growing girth. Strange. Never heard of anyone putting on weight in a hostel! Well, it is not the food i guess.

Windows Outlook 2010 loading up. Loading Add-ins 8-8. Opening.……………………………………………………………………

No emails. Yeah. That figures.

2:30 PM. Yep. Sleep till 5:00 PM. Tea, snacks. Placement talk. Crap talk. MBA talk. Look bored.

What am I really doing? With my life, i.e. An earth-bound misfit. It is like a world I created and entered by chance. Not choice. Lost opportunities. Stumbled upon some. Misguided decisions. Half measures. Lost love. Cliched life.

Oh hell! Do not open that door.

Walk back to room. I need to blog. I am good at it. I think I can become a writer. I am good at photography too. I have so many likes on my Facebook album. I mean. That must count for something, right? I think I can become a journalist maybe. Yeah. I like traveling too. Yeah. It all fits in. This is more me.

That is what the good-looking lady in pants told me too.  And all good-looking ladies in pants are right. Even if they are wrong, it is a question of choosing more of the wrong that is right. Right?

Well. That can go up on Facebook too. I mean, Twitter.

Reality Check. Please.

Just because some good people read your crap and say it is good, doesn’t mean you apply to Asian School of Journalism. Or dream about being Chetan Bhagat. With a good-looking wife. Well, good-looking wife, I can dream about. That is alright. A good-looking wife in pants. Yeah! I am Jack’s …. Ok Forget it.

And Facebook? Well, if the “Like” button were not there, you would be a nobody. So, rest it.

Alright. Back to the room.

A movie? Whose Line is it Anyway”? A novel? D:/Term IV? Pending assignments? Look at shelf of books. Look at D:/Term IV/Project Management. Assuage guilt for a while.

“Whose Line is it Anyway” it is! Yay! I am Jack’s irreverent memory.

9:00 PM – Dinner. Placement talk. Crap talk. MBA talk. Look bored. Come back. Finish the rest of Season 2, Whose Line is it Anyway. It’s getting over man. Damn!

11:00 PM. Sleep. Wake up for a jog at 5. Wake up for a jog at 5. Wake up for a jog at. Wake up for a.Wake up fo. Wake up. Wake. Wa…

8:00 AM. Bright and sunny. Sun streaming through. Yet again. Damn! Ok. Get up. Breakfast will get over.

Boot laptop. Stare at it for 2 minutes. Sometimes 3.  Till it cranks up. Unwilling. Unwitting. Like the “old hag” syndrome. Myriad “Tyler Durden-ish” thoughts…………………………………………………………………………………

The Chronicles of Boredom. Continues. Pretty much the same. 

I am Jack’s bored blog. What’s that smell?

The Manilogues – I


Dekha hai pehli baar man in the box

where were you roobaroo

And so the tone was set for the first leg of our Manila trip as part of the International immersion module for our batch. A motley crew of around 40, after battling it out for over two weeks with a barrage of classes, quizzes, night outs, and even the guilt of nonchalance, was all set to let their hair down on our first leg from Jamshedpur to Kolkata Airport, en route to the pristine beaches of Manila and AIM. Half of this crew was the “Taiwanese” junta, who were going to Fujen University, Taiwan.

By the way, they lovingly call themselves “Taiwan ke haiwan”. Very cliched and tacky no? Of course, we were not to be left behind in the tackiness game and our punchline has been “Manila mein raslila”. There are other versions too.

  • “Manila mein ghatshila”
  • “Yenla Manila” – This is the Kannada offshoot.
  • “Man illa. Only Woman”.

Nice no? Ok, the last three were my inventions, but am sure they are infinitely better than the raslila thingy!! Hmpff!


So, back to the trip. It all started with a voting system that happened in the 1st term where we had to put in our choices for the country and university we wanted to go to. In fact, a big takeaway from the perspective of management education, per se, has been the capability with which we, as techno-managers are able to think outside the box, manage conflicts within disparate groups, get in best of the breed solutions without creating dissonance and ultimately norm ourselves towards a consensus, getting a buy in from all parties concerned.

To cut a long story short. Google polls. I probably have not participated in as many polls as I have after coming to do an MBA. Consensus building, they say.

Note the sarcastic take on management jargon? Eh? Time for a pause with a gloating smile here, pliss.

By the way, me thinks there is too much sarcasm for MBA education in my posts. Do you think so too? I think I need to do a poll on this. Hmmm.

Prologue again

Anyways, as I was saying. We had a poll on which universities we wanted. Now, “want” is an overestimated word in here. Some got the university and place of their choice. Some got the place and not the university. Some got the university and not the place. Some got tired of this and opted out of this choosing to go back home. And some just did not care. The last segment (Jargon alert!) would have gone to TIM, for all they cared,  if it was close to their hometowns. Or better, if there was a virtual International Immersion Module!

TIM – Timbuctoo Institute of Management. Flagship Program is their 1-month International EGMBA where the focus is on Timbuctoo’s burgeoning tourism industry which has grown by leaps and bounds just because everyone goes to this place when you do not have anywhere else to go. Good program, I must say.

Anyways, so finally the score looked something like this :

6 universities, 4 Countries, ~ 115 casualties, and 23 of them to Manila (Asia Institute of Management, Makati City).

I am one of the 23. Hence the title of the post. If you didn’t get it by now, you probably went to one of the other three places. Or just do not get what “play on words” is. Or you do not visit my blog often. Or you are an MBA with no sense of humor (sarcasm alert!!).

Anyways, a few emails later, a poll on who would be the team leader and a lot of emails hence on how to get ourselves transported to Kolkata without getting our asses kicked by the Maoist fellas, a bus was booked. And nope. No redbus, no yaatra.com and none of those “<dash><your><mine><his><and what not>trip” websites catering to provide buses between Jamshedpur and kolkata. It is the good ol’ “call up the travels, haggle on the price and book a bus” MO that works here. Hence, post a lot of debate on whether we should take a volvo or not, we ended up with a non-volvo.

That’s ’cause he did not have a volvo. He had a “Pahari Maa”. The name of the luxury bus, i.e.

And that is how, we ended up with a mish mash of the “tones” I mentioned earlier.

By the way, that was an indication of how I was listening to songs that were playing in the iPod shuffle I was using and the music system in the bus. And believe it or not, there was this mish mash through out. Except when we stopped the bus to pee.


So, post a not-so-eventful bus trip we reached the Kolkata Airport well within time for check-in. After a not-so-eventful wait for the flight and a not-so-eventful boarding (of course, discounting the pretty Singapore Airlines hostesses) at 11:30 PM, we and the flight were set for the long trip to Manila. Again, except some nice turbulence, 2 really nice scotch-on-the-rocks for me, and 3 really nice conversations with a pretty air-hostess that seemed to last for hours (she came quite a few times to my seat actually, asking me if I had the belt on, if I needed a drink, and if I wanted some food…ah. The caring) , the not-so-eventful flight reached Singapore at an ungodly hour of around 3:30 AM. I think it was pretty much of a “walk in a hangover” for me, as I do not remember much of what I saw loitering around in the airport. Also, I think I am was am was in love with the air hostess. What was her name, dammit?

A not-so-eventful 4 , 3 hour wait later, the sleepy 23 boarded the Singapore Airlines flight to Manila. With a new set of prettier air hostesses waiting for me us. This time I had to sleep. I mean, on my seat. Alone, i.e. Ahem. Remember I was sleepy?

Ok. It’s over

And 3 hours later, we reached Manila. Philippines. Where else? A not-so-eventful 5 wait later, we met our AIM representatives, Frenzy and Chick. No, he was not in a frenzy. And she is very nice.

Post getting to know whether they were faculty (I think Koschan Nair has resurfaced!), we set out for the AIM Conference Center, at Makati City where we were to be put up.

A nice cup of hot tea, some Filipino biscuits, a quick tour of the institute by “Frick”, a hot, warm bath, an orientation to the 3 weeks of stay on what we would be doing, and with Juan on our heels, we were all set to immerse ourselves internationally in Manila!

P.S : As a first step to that, we got a crate of you-know-what. Just to immerse ourselves.

P.P.S : I have read Law. I will not be thrown out if I do not mention you-know-what….I guess?

Bye Bye lizzy…

I know we’ve had a love-hate relationship. Since my school days when I used to study under a table lamp and you would sneak up to me from behind and sit on my table. When my dad would lovingly laugh at me for being so scared of you and would tell me not to bother about you. When I spent sleepless nights imagining where you were in my room and hide under my blanket. Waiting for the first break of dawn.

In fact, as far as I remember, it has been more hate than love, actually.

Probably, the only time I have had an iota of affection for you was when I was told by my mother that you bring a lot of luck. That if I saw through your eyes, and touched you on your forehead, you would bring me peace of mind. Of course, she also said a lot of other stuff about you being a form of god and how you are actually revered by so many people.

But you know what. I went through hell taking deep breaths and preparing myself to face you. You scare and creep me up so much. So, I agree I do not know a lot about you. But that is the way it has stayed. Even after so many years. And yeah, I did touch your forehead. Traveling miles away from home, and jostling through a sea of people. Just because my mother told me to.

I know I’ve always shunned you away. Even though my friends welcomed you in their rooms. Saw you through their windows without a hint of disgust. Hell, they even let you into their bathrooms. I mean, the bathroom! For heaven’s sake! Where you spend the most private moments, immersed in thought, planning for the day or just preparing for that case study you are supposed to analyze in class. And there you are looking at them with that steely gaze of yours’.

Anyway. Peace. I have no intentions of knowing what it was exactly that you did in their bathrooms.

I have seen you stare at me. I don’t know what it is that you expect of me. I have tried to be patient with you. I have tried ignoring you. But you always seem to intrude in to my life. At the most important moments. Such as in the mornings, after that customary cup of tea and all I would want to do was read my  morning newspaper and then rush for office. Or after a long day’s work, I just want to watch some good ol’ TV with a cup of tea, and there you are. Looking at me again. I mean. Seriously. What is with that look of yours’? Is it anger? Is it fear? Is it love? Or do I not matter to you at all? Not that I care, but what the hell is that look??

Anyways. Now, why would you want to interfere in my life like that? I have never hurt you, have I?

In fact, I have had to change my life because of you. During those days when you accidentally came into my room,  I have had to re-orient my furniture! Just so you could live leave peacefully. Without any bad blood. And this, after a long day of classes, quizzes and all I wanted to do was plonk on my bed and crash to a dreamless sleep.

Dreamless, did I say?. I have had nightmares after that. But did I ever complain? No. Never.

Well. Now, I am leaving for a few weeks and would hopefully not see you in the foreign shores I am headed to. I might come across your friends, but I am sorry I cannot carry any message for them, because I have no intention of talking to or looking at them.

I would hope that when I come back, I do not find you in my life. In my room. Or in my bathroom. Or looking at me through the windows. Or anywhere in the vicinity of me.

Please do not get me wrong.

I know you find various ways to come back in to my life, and I have blocked you off it. With cello tape!

I have never meant to hurt you. I have never meant to spite you, and god knows, I have never wanted to hate you.

But I just don’t want to love you.

I know I don’t have a heart.

But it is the pain of seeing you that makes me heartless. Bye Bye Lizzy. So long.

The joy..oh, the joy!


The joy. The sweetness of it. Like honey dipped refrains gently flowing down the river. Like the cacophony of the world being washed ashore in it’s gentle notes. Like being buried in the beautiful arms of your beloved and listening to her murmur in your ears. Like the musical harmony of the yin and yang. Like the crescendo of Mozart.

The Nokia Ringtone. I hear it again.

It gives me

  • immense pleasure,
  • unspeakable happiness and
  • an emotional high (Yes, all three!)

that after almost 1 month of patient waiting, dirty haggling over documentation issues, frustration at the world, raving and ranting at the evil that is around, denial, anger, prayer, resignment, resentment, and the occasional serendipitous bliss on account of being disconnected from the outside world, I have finally emerged victorious in my fight against the Goliaths of the telecom world and have got a new number!

Victorious trumpet and elephant sounds in the distance!! Please to imagine!

Although I trade calls with only a select few, however, I invite you all to be a part of my new number and share the ecstasy I now feel!

Those who need to know have already got it. So, please do not ask me for the number in the comments section, unless of course you are a pretty girl and are turned on by any or all of humor, sarcasm, bad jokes cracked in the garb of seemingly decent angreji and a handsome blogger such as yours’ sincerely. Seriously. Look at my profile picture.

Oh, and if you are a girl, please do not visit the first of my Whatitees Guide. I was just kidding.


Hello? Oh, hi baby! Yeah, finally got a new number..No, no of course I was not trying to avoid you darling…I did not have the number…yeah?…what?…you ditching me?!!…what?..why?…hey…hello?? Hello???

Damn you Tadaa DoDoMo!!!

P.S : All names have been changed. Of course. Any resemblance to any cell phone connectivity, activated or barred is purely coincidental. Please do not sue me and please do not deactivate my number again!

Whatitees guide: Anatomy of a B-schooler

I am thinking I’ll turn it into a brand. Of the top of my head, it could be the next BIG thing on TED.  I could probably make educational videos of all the wisdom and knowledge I have been doling out and make money out of it. Or I could hold talks ; I could write books; I could make business models out of it. Probably give it a fancy name too – “The Risky Forces” model or something. And then I could sell it to management schools!  Phew! My head is spinning with excitement!

Yeah, I know you are confused. It is alright. Most people who come to this blog are one of those. And the ones who come repeatedly are, well, more confused.

I am referring to the Whatitees Guide series. I call it the series, because this is the second of the lot. The first one was about how you have 17 simple ways to get a date. If you have read that, chances are you probably are not coming back to this blog. But since I am on the way to becoming an MBA, and I have studied marketing, I know that the customer is a moron. And hence, I am counting on you coming back to this blog. There. I think I lost another one of my readership. Sigh. Nobody takes a joke seriously these days!

So, continuing with the “Whatitees Guide” series, I will be taking a wild leap into the dark and dinghy world of the B-school and it’s inhabitants. Yes, the B-schoolers. The “overhyped-doesnt-know-jackass-but-can-talk-crap-and-thinks-he-deserves-the-fat-pay” types. Yes, your average Joe who cracks an entrance exam, impresses the hell out of the interview panel with phrases such as ” leveraging domain knowledge”, “create value to society” and “peer learning”,  gets an admit and then finally switches over to consulting because that’s the in-thing to do!

Alright. You get the drift.

But I think I run the risk of trivializing the conundrum that is the MBA. And hence, the B-schooler. I guess it is not that simple. And in the transition from the Average Joe (Read: A 2-bit technical/sales guy) to the Above-Average Joe (Read: A costly technical/sales guy, a.k.a, 20 lakhs P.A paycheck), Joe transcends through several forms of the B-schooler. And you do not need to read through countless volumes of HBR articles on human behavior to see these forms. They are right in front of your eyes  – in the classroom!

I submit to you – The Whatitees guide to the Anatomy of a B-schooler!

From the eyes of another B-schooler, who runs the risk of falling in one of these categories very soon!

THE ROCK BANDS – They are everywhere. In every break of the game, inside the classroom, outside of it, in the canteen and even when you are drunk! They hunt their preys mostly alone, and many of them actually hunt on each other without knowing that they are of the same ilk. And then snigger about them on their backside! But they are the rock bands; the one’s who give you the highs and lows of being in a classroom! Here’s a smattering –

The Long-winders

They are also known as the “Disclaimers Gang”. Usually, their questions or comments start with phrases such as ” Sir, I am not quite sure I have understood fully, but just to avoid any conflict or debate on this issue, in my humble opinion…”…..get on with the question, dude! Zzzzzzzz!

The Insighters

They are the cool dudes! The one’s who use long sentences, and cool words/phrases such as “perspective”, “paradigm change” and “core competencies” anywhere and everywhere! Just like that. Sometimes they are full of wisdom and at other times, full of s**t. But they dole out either with equal gusto and passion!

The Last Minuters

These are the rock stars. Who care a rat’s ass what the professor just said, about the class being over and that he would discuss the Porter’s Model in the next session. They just need to get that bug (Read : The question) out of their backsides which more often than not, becomes a bug in the backsides of the rest of the classroom too.

THE STARS – They are everywhere too. But they are implicit. They are subtle. You would easily mistake them for a common B-schooler. But you’d be terribly mistaken. They are the backbone of the Rock Bands. You know that ” You look good, so we look good” phrase right? Yeah, without the Stars we cannot have the Rock Bands!

Koschan Nair

He is the quintessential B-schooler. You’d probably be thrown off-track by the Malayali surname, but he is the Clint Eastwood of the classroom –  Kozhikode, Kovalam and 2 smoking Coconuts! Et al.

The “shoot first, think later” guy who considers asking questions as a major ingredient in deriving the ROI he so diligently calculated while applying for an MBA. He probably has never heard the phrase “an intelligent question” and thinks it is a non-existent entity. He is the one who raises his hands to ask a question first thing in the class, when the professor says a “good morning”! Or so you think. Maybe he had his hand raised all the time. And he just does not know that. And neither did you!

Koschan “Allota” Nair

A close relative of Mr.Koschan Nayar. Some might say a brother. A close one at that. He is also known as “Allota”. It is not a reference to any accessories he might be carrying for his early morning ablutions. But you’d know why he is called “Allota” if you saw him in class.

He is the “shoot first, keep shooting, will think later if I get the time” kind of a guy who considers questions as THE ROI he had calculated earlier! “Follow up” is second nature to him. His alter ego. Or maybe the schizophrenic dual personality the interview panel never had the time to identify because they were busy answering his questions!

Maikelaal Partha

He is the dude. He comes out with amazing phrases such as “repeatability and reproducibility of strategy”, worthy of being published in a paper and maybe being quoted by the professor in another class! He does not flinch from coming out with his own trademark “insights” and very often runs the risk of overrunning all the band members of “The Insighters”.  He is the next MBA Guru (after you-know-who), the hardcore Financial wiz, and the Strategist – all rolled into one potent combination!

Claus Partha Seshan

As the name suggests, he is probably of Indo-German origin. With a distinct South Indian touch I might add. As a South Indian, I can say this with adequate amount of confidence, that we, by dint of not finishing our lunch/dinner without curd rice, are quite inquisitive by nature. We get our curious genes from there. And if curd or curd rice is not available, rest assured, you shall be riddled with doubts, questions and comments of an incessant nature!

“Aavtar” Claus Partha Seshan

He is a close Indian relative to Claus Partha Seshan. For some curious and yet obvious reason, his middle name is actually the first. He of course does not bother about curd rice for lunch. All he wants to do is catch up with the professor when he wishes to have a quiet smoke and a tea by the tree, and talk to him about why Accounting cannot be neither art nor science. He is the evolved avtar of his mellowed down brother.

Well, I guess I have pretty much summed up the B-schooler. It is really amazing how this anatomy has not seen any change over the years. Even when my brother did his MBA from another premier B-school, he had similar characters there as well. And 10 years down, we see the lineage being carried over generations.

However, on a more serious note, these are also the stars who come out with the most innovative and insightful solutions to the most difficult problems. And that is an ode to the quirkiness that they demonstrate. It is what makes them unique. And hence a part of the elite B-schools they are in.

In some circles here, I am already a part of “The Disclaimers” band and let me justify that by saying that all the characters above are totally real with fictitious names. Most of them are good friends of mine and amazing personalities. A few of the lines and instances quoted are real, and much more than that, funny as hell! However, this was intended to be as part of my efforts to try and tickle the funny bone. And I would expect and hope the reader to have one. More so, if the reader happens to be one of the above!

P.S : While all my efforts in the last few lines above have been to make some amends, however, I get the distinct feeling, at 1:54 AM in the night that I would be questioned severly by Mr. Koschan Nair tomorrow!

Of Salsa, mad-ads and brainfarts!

Why did they have Salsa and not a Kuchipudi or a Bharatnatyam dance event?

No, contrary to what you might think, Google does not have the answer. Neither does Yahoo! Search, or Bing or Ask Jeeves. But this has to be one of the most insightful questions / thoughts I have came across so far in my XLRI stint.

And where else could it have occurred except during one of our nightly jaunts to Bishu-Da’s “Tea-coffee-nimbu paani-gobi/anda/aalu paratha-general bakar” joint. Yep. You have general bakar as well to consume. That is free of cost, of course. We also call it Consulting, once in a while.  By we, I mean the MBA types – the groggy eyed, laptop carrying, jeans and T-shirt clad “cool dood” who can talk about Indo-China Economic relations with as much ease as he would talk about why girlfriends behave the way they do.

Ever heard the phrase  “Ignorance is bliss” ?

Of course, the same applies to the groggy-eyed-with-mascara (?)and-eye-liner, Jeans and T-shirt clad “cool doodettes” as well. But then when they talk about why boyfriends behave the way they do, well, they are usually right. Yeah! The phrase applies here as well.

Anyways, so we had just returned from the library after a grueling 2 hour session of

  • walking up to the library,
  • doing some arbit fundebaaji with some batch mates,
  • opening laptops and checking for some blog comment updates / Facebook updates,
  • cribbing about the food, assignments and our present conditions,
  • doing some more arbit PJ-cracking,
  • getting all the relevant reading material, and then
  • copying in abstracts as part of an assignment for one of the courses.

Well, I still do not know why we did the last bit, but suffice it to say that they are the “occupational hazards” of doing an MBA. Once we were done with all this, we found ourselves naturally walking over to Bishu-da for a cuppa tea and some more of the above.

And naturally again, there we see some pretty looking ladies and some pretty, good looking, well-dressed guys all gathered around, obviously for some kind of a party. Which is when we realized it was Salsa night for the 2-year MBA crowd. We, the 1-year MBA junta were also invited. But I guess when we have people doing the tango everyday with their wives, a few others nursing broken backs and aching legs, and the rest reeling under the effects of quizzes-assignments-projects induced insomnia, Salsa does not figure too high on the to-do list.

And all I could think for an answer to this question was – Maybe it is a case of “Two to tangle, and one to Tango!”.

However, a little birdie did tell us that some dance enthusiasts from our batch took part in the same Salsa event on an earlier occasion. I know it is sightly unbelievable, but you should have come to GMP’s first party of the academic year – Amnesia. Although a lot of us were doing the Big B/Nakka Mukka/Dhagala lagli version of the Salsa, but the talent was evident.

Speaking of talent, can you imagine of a better event than mad-ads to let out that constipation occurring in that top story of yours’, time and again?I cannot, and I’ve been taking therapy!

If you want to check out an original brain fart, you can enjoy it here. Three of us took part in an Ad event conducted by the MAXI, called LegaliZe.

Do not ask me why they had a ‘Z’ in the name and not a ‘z’. You can come up with a brain fart of yours’ and not let me know.

Anyways, here goes – the first Ad I took part in – creating a surrogate advertisement for “Guns”.

Must say – it stinks, but it was the best feeling ever! I do have Eno, if you need one!

P.S : Credit needs to go where it is due. Also, another way to say – the question was not mine. So, do not kill me. Hence, the P.S is in Bold – Italics! It was asked by one of my good friends who is a batch mate here at XLRI.