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How to say I’m a Writer without actually spelling it

Gargi Mehra is one of the bloggers and writers I follow. I always knew her to be this super talented writer but the fun streak is refreshing to know. Go read this post which is so much fun and she shared another posted link on Writer’s Relief. I read it and back to her post, decided to jump on this bandwagon of fun.

While I am no writer of published book or for that matter wannabe, there are ingenious ways in claiming the pie without actually telling to be One. Here we go:

  1. I keep buying notebooks and colorful pens, staring at the blank screen, scribbling story ideas that gets unwritten and an agenda diary penning Daily To Do Writing, buried over the years.

2. The ink is totally dried on my work station that someone may get wrong ideas that I do weird stuff to them. Silly mind, I ain’t into BDSM and have no intention writing about them in future. No ifs and buts!

3. Always on a spree and can’t resist getting pens or notebooks from the supermarket as if it’s the hottest chick in town. Don’t believe me! Check this picture of the colorful notebook still unpacked since 2020 and splurged many hundreds on the news ones this week. And I thought, buying fancy pens and notebooks is my ticket to be a best selling writer in town or motivation. It’s no gymming.

4. Before you tell me move my ass, I have conducted three writing workshops last year urging participants to follow the 500 rule, except that it doesn’t work on the man who thinks he’s PG WodeHouse.

5. Yes! I still swear by Chetan Bhagat, cigarette after sex Five Point Someone!

6. If you ever scroll my google search engine and before getting me to jail just bear in mind that that I have no interest in Savita Bhabhi or desi hot stuff, it’s plain research for hot romance. Yes! I mean it and have no intention to be caught and cooped in mental asylum.

7. Hate British commas and figure ways to slash repetitive words even in technical writing. Still have doubt about me claiming “I am Writer Without Saying I am a Writer”, I shall rephrase it too.. I am a Writer Without Saying So…” coz the first one was repetitive. See my obsession.

8. Have doubts, don’t google me but break into my Grammarly to see how proficient I am.

9. I got my first Dell Aspiron laptop to write the next best seller romance. Sold second hand to a neigbor coz wanted to dance naked on the street. I wasn’t jailed for that. Howzz that for writing imagination! Got an HP washed with Beer and an Asus making me curse the choicest desis cuss words for its frozen every single day and my window to the world cum screen presently is hanging by a thread to be detached soon like split wide open. It’s been 10 years and still writing the best seller.

10. I need a MacBook next year for well I write and can’t wait penning the book. Plain and simple.

11. The fuck word I embellish is what creativity does and don’t mean it literally.

12. I keep buying ebooks and hard copies, receive in gifts too for that’s where a story can brew in my head.

13. Look at my manuscripts, an abandoned fiction romance draft, restarted the second and lost again, poem collection and trying to save my collection of short stories project thinking it’s water.

14. I can give people prompts to write. I list story ideas and give freely on Twitter.

15. On Facebook, I write lengthily on my status and just name a topic of your choice. My challenge to you.

16. If you ever steal my diary, my guarantee you might end up with a heart attack and giving for free to all my foes or folks hating me. Sweet revenge and seeing unkind entries about you or me thinking about you as Donald Duck, Rakhi Sawant or Kangana Ranaut. See! this is the trailer of what I make of you.

17. I can listen to chote chote peg from Sonu Ki Titu Ki Sweety in search for the next big idea and someone told it breaks writers’ block into tiny pieces pretty much like virginity.

18. Noteapp on my mobile is forever open and if you see the number of poems I wrote, it’s already a book. Now argue with that?

19. I dream of making sentences in sleep only to forget them in the morning,

20. This post about writing is a work of fiction and bears no ressemblance to any ghost, half-human, spirits, living, dead or roaming like wolves. Now, you know where all craziness comes. Say Writer, spell Writer.

Feel free doing it and ping me. Will read.



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Hot on Wheels (11)

Chapter 11

“I am done with this mental ejaculation of you silly women,” Hardik calmly says. Both turned towards him with mouths gaped open as if someone has injected a jab on their jaws. Jimmy’s level of confusion just hit a peak and threw himself on the couch, “OK! Women! I don’t know who is faking what but I just want my CD prize and date. Sort it out among yourselves on who will be my Date.”

“It’s me. No question about it, “RJ Ginny repeated herself as if she suddenly turned into an actor repeating well-rehearsed lines.  “Except that we don’t fake orgasm,” Geet let off. Hardik walked towards the coffee machine and pressed the button. He held the hot plastic cup and walked towards the trio. Geet jerked herself towards the coffee holder in a swift movement and he lost control trying to save both damsels in distress and coffee. The plastic cup volleyed in the direction of two legs spread open on the couch showing his asset, zipped tight in the denim. Jimmy yelped, “Dude! What is fucking wrong with you?” He looked like a mess with the hot liquid spurting and covering his denim and flowing, unable to save his inside.

Ginni couldn’t stop laughing at the shell-shocked guest at the radio station. “Dude, did you just coffee pee all over the place in the radio studio. Gotta be breaking news had Arnab Goswani spotted you.” He jemmied towards Hardik but couldn’t move with the slim-fit jeans getting stickier. 

He strutted with difficulty and moving away from the couch and shouted, “Ok! I am off from this asylum and weird shit hole called radio station in the company of monkeys. Fuck you! Fuck your date! Fuck your hamper! Fuck you guys.” The emasculated guy trotted slowly as if somebody hit him in his private. Geet winked at Hardik. He knew she faked the tripping on him and on the spur of the money Ginni had to call out, “Jimmy dude! A promise is a promise, 98261******.”

The lovers couldn’t believe what she just did. Geet was ready to pounce on her friend and break her face after she turned all her efforts into waste. “Woman! Have you gone off and so fucking desperate that you want to be on a date with that weirdo? Are you some Lara Croft trapped into the body of Ekta Kapoor’s Nagin character? Or wait! I have a better idea and you aspiring to join politics? Smriti Irani is your idol. You are Tulsi Virani, except you are tired of getting laid and you fancy the spilled coffee for his liquid. Craving for ice cream scoop.”

A middle finger flung at the flustered hero, declaring self-love on radio for his honey. “You, yes you, I am speaking to,” Geet turned into a wounded tigress. He turned around to see if there was another male inside the station. “I am speaking to you. What’s up with this hero giri of declaring love to me on air?” What was the need for you to dash into the radio station? You’ve messed the whole thing.” Hardik made an apologetic face at both women and drooled over Ginni, giving her sos look. “This man in distress wants to ask about your virginity,” Geet teased her friend.

Ginni lit a cigarette and asked him, “Wanna smoke?” He lifted his finger to take a stick from her pack and she wrestled it away, “Cigarettes are like condom. You should always bring yours… Arre I’m just kidding.” She lit the smoke for him. Geet was amused watching them.

 “Dude! Are you in love with me?,” the RJ asked. “Oh! No! Somebody please fuck me. I am meeting you for the first time.” She winked, “Obviously you are cuckoo and ladoo for her,” pointing fingers at Geet. He didn’t know where to look. “Dude, you actually called not her but me on radio…”

He blabbered, “What? She is you. I mean you are not her…I mean it was Geet I spoke on radio. It’s her voice na.”

“Arre dakkan. I am Ginni. She is Geet.” The latter chipped in, “Even if I was her, what’s the need for you to land in this studio. You have no fucking idea how things would get so horrible,” She was in no mood to hide the ex-fiance and started shouting at him. He tried to protest.

“Dude, you just shut the fuck up? You have no fucking idea how you actually royally screwed my ass on radio…almost.  I was called to do an audition with her. The radio was looking for someone and after giving the exam papers, I drove here in the mad Pune traffic, almost hitting someone dead. Yes! It was me on air but just like a cunt you had to blow things up. Who are you? Some fucking Jesus Christ! Saint Valentine or what…majnu ke aulaad that you had to call on radio. Some Mother Theresa or Anna Hazare that you were worried that someone would kidnap me.”

“What? What did I do?”, he made a doe-eyed face.

“Yeah, right you are Babe Amte…I do all the fucking and you sit and watch, asshole,” Geet was furious. Ginni tried to calm her down and stood between both of us. The last thing she wanted is her friend hitting him. Angry woman wouldn’t relent and ignored the human woman, “Yaa dude! You just screwed my fucking audition and the first thing pretending all hero calling on the radio declaring your flame…dude in front of everyone,” she was incensed.

“Are we playing Kabutar jaa jaa? What next do you plan to do? Clip the wings of a random pigeon with a love letter and send it to my home?”

“Why would I do that?” he replied in monosyllable.

“Yeah! You couldn’t hold yourself to spread some raita so much that you had to follow me all the way to the radio station. You expect me to be so happy and showering you with arati…Sardani bohot khush hogi na and shabhashi degi. What are you thinking? I was a damsel in distress…akeli ladki khulli tijori and you have to play superman saving me. No! Actually not superman but Shaktimaan.”

He muttered apologies. “Dude! What sorry! You have no idea of this screw-up of declaring flame for me on antenna. Btw, do you know the entire story,” she calmed.

Ginni says, “Dude! I am the RJ and not her.”

“What…it’s getting spooky, this radio station,” he lost his voice.

“Because, baby, when you confessed love, I took over, “Ginni was seductively playing around, flirting and caressing her hair.  “You kept saying I love you to me. I was wondering whether you are human or an elephant. I was feeling hard inside listening to a man so desperate.” Geet’s stomach churned, by breaking into concatenate laughter by listening to her friend.

“Just look at her,” Geet protested against her friend for laughing and at Hardik, “Don’t look at her and buy into her flirty flirty games. There is no cock confusion for Madam RJ keeps getting laid like protein milkshake.” The man and Miss Protein Milkshake choked. “Shocked,” she asked.  

“Except Jim Beam is no aphrodisiac for my liquid. He’s Geet’s ex-fiance and she banged you immediately after breaking it off,” RJ G turned into a rocket and hit an arrow swelling straight into Hardik’s heart.



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Hot on Wheels: Chapter 10

“What is he doing here…noo…noo…noo…it cannot fucking happen?,” Geet turned red and was on the verge of a panic attack. She almost flung the CD lying on the table towards RJ G, “Why the fuck your name starts with G and if it does, why be so cool and peppy?! RJ G. My ass! Just plain call yourself Ginni. It’s not ugly or you getting laid with so many and you don’t wanna be exposed.”

“Relax babe. Just tell me how on earth it’s my fault. It’s him right,” Ginni asked. The guy caked his face on the glass panel, admiring the guitar, suddenly took a fancy to the musical instrument, microphone, cue speakers and audio process.

“No! I mean definitely no,” Geet almost fainted.

“But, who! I have many stalkers and the last thing I want is the new dude fancying me. Let me call the guards,” Ginni flipped open her mobile phone.

“No! No! No. He’s not the guy who called you by declaring love just now. I mean, he is yes, not the one I am screwing. But, this one is someone else,” Geet fidgeted with her hands. She looks dismayed.

Ginni held her friend’s shoulders and pushed her on the sofa. “Water?” she asked. Geet gulped the icy glass of water down the throat. “The guy who called is no stalker, except you have one. He is Hardik. I am having a scene with him. But, Babe I am not in love,” she flailed her hands in the air.

“Okies! Now that we know the guy standing outside the studio is different from the one declaring love for me on air is your toy boy or whatever, studying and fucking together, may I know who is this one staring at both of us?  Geet leaped on her feet, “He’s was my fiancée I ditched for fuckboi. Now, what is he doing here? Why is he in this as in this studio? How does he know that I am here? He is a fucking weirdo, do you know that! Just look at his monkey face,” she shoved her middle finger.

“OK,” Ginni reacted in a monosyllable, “We don’t have a choice, except open the door for him and let him in. Asking what he’s up to. The last thing you don’t want babe is screwing things for you, NOW,” She casually but firmly told.  As amused as she was, RJ walked to slide open the door and he popped inside by offering his firm handshake, “Jimmy.”

“OK! Jimmy how can I help you? I am RJ G.” He gaped at the radio equipment like a toddler at the sight of candies slunk at the supermarket. “I won the film contest and you promised to get me a Valentine date.” RJ G burst out laughing. “Oh! My! Sorry sorry, Jimmy. I forgot for one instant about your Valentine date. Have a seat.”

Geet was hiding in the room behind the studio. Ginni dashed inside and wore a wry smile, “Ok! Problem not yet solved. He’s a listener who won a contest. OK! Sorry! I goofed up.” Geet was incensed, “That’s why you called me to be his blind date and for all the men on earth, you got me this guy. That too, my ex fiancée I ran away from and breaking the engagement praying I to never ever see him in the world.” 

“Now, what do we do?” both of them spoke at the same time. The bell rang. Ginni forcefully tagged Geet along and she reluctantly walked to face Jimmy. Both stared at each other. “You,” Jimmy yelped. She maintained her composure, “You, dude. I can ask you the same question. What are you doing here?”

He looked confused and was unsure what to tell her. Seeing Geet in the most unlikeliest of places felt bizarrely odd and how her parents called to tell the engagement is off. He muttered, “You never called to tell me we are no longer together. I didn’t expect that.” All she could tell was, “Dude! Do you expect me to call and tell that I run away from my own house! What do you expect me to do? Call you and say I am leaving my parents’ home for forcing this stupid engagement on me and let’s do live-in.”

The encounter was getting bizarre. She wanted to press the sanitizer lying on the table on his face. Oh! Somebody, please save me. The God that doesn’t exist. Hail! Hail! She wanted to cry. RJ G walked inside and a guy followed her. He stopped at the sight of Jimmy. The new entrant smiled, “Dude! Do we know each other? Cool studio, by the way. Do you work here?”

He went on a spree asking Jimmy so many questions. He looked flustered.  Geet wanted to bury her face and nearly collapsed, looking right, left, left and right. On one side, Hardik entered, and on the other, Jimmy. Both looked as if some bromance a la Dostana gonna happen. The lover boy’s eyes veered towards Geet as if she committed the perfect crime. “So! Finally! I catch you with a random guy. Are you into threesome and it feels like sandwich sprinkled with pakoda and gobi munchurian?” he broke the lamest joke.

“Dude! I am not nonveg,” Geet protested. “Me too,” Jim and Ginni repeated in unison. “Do you know each other?” Jimmy asked. “Do you?,” Hardik countered. “Of course, we do.” Both men laughed. Four faces went blank for this eccentric and strange introduction.

Jimmy felt uneasy and spoke in slurred motion, “She was my…” Ginni jumped in quick and acted as the savior, “He’s my guest. I mean both of you are.  Jimmy, you haven’t yet won and competition with Hardik.” Geet and Hardik turned to Ginni, “What!!!” It was Hardik’s turn, “I mean, who are you to host a competition between us? Some Pehelwan sitting in a radio studio.”  She winked, “Well! Guys! Battle of sexes. Who gets to take me out for a dinner date? Geet is the RJ. I am the girl to play around.” 

The whole scene was getting too confusing for the three of them, except Ginni leading the game. “So, whom did I speak to for this filmi contest?” Jim innocently asked, “I thought it was you!” “It was her, baby. I know you guys are confused. Wohi toh game hai. It’s called the musical chair of love,” Ginny brewed a storm.

Hardik confidently brushed the confusion aside, “Arre! I am not confused. I know! Spoke to Geet on radio. Geet is not Ginni and Ginni is not Geet.” Both girls pressed their lips and the last thing they wanted to do is murder this spoilsport. He is resembling right now the guy who burst the surprise birthday party balloon.”  

Jimmy doubted this whole saga unfurling right now. He is feeling like a tennis ball flung in different directions on the court. It was beyond his wildest imagination to meet the girl who broke heart and engagement, seeing her inside a radio studio and the cherry on cake is she was acting like an innocent chick kinda abla naari turning into an invisible RJ. He has just been ghosted. He let off, “Where did all that came from? I thought we spoke on radio,” pointing his fingers at Ginni.

Something was wrong. He felt like the unwanted Prince, pretty much like Lord Ram in an alienated Ayodha and the trio playing Kaikeyis without the banwas. Geet stared at Hardik. He has become immune to her growling of tooth, eyes and fiery look. “Shut up! Fucking shut up everyone,” Hardik yelped.

Everyone went blank silent in the studio. Geet wore an astounded look and shocked at the guy she loves dominating both on bed and everywhere on the planet. He miraculously toned down, “Ladies and odd gentleman, yes you Jimmy, what do you think you are Jim Beam whisky. We will get drunk on your charming and innocent look. The girls will start singing Jimmy…Jimmy…aaja aaja. I just fucking want to know what you are up to here! I am going mad with everyone so fucking confusing everybody. Why are you here? Who the fuck are you?”

“And, who the fuck are you?” Jimmy countered back.

“What are you doing here I may ask,” he continued.

Hardik gave him I don’t give a fuck attitude, “India is a free country, except you are lust love kinda bhakt, dude. I am following this girl. Any problem,”

Jimmy laughed sardonically, “I mean, why on earth would I give a fuck? I won the radio contest and one among those two promised to give me a hamper plus a date with any one of them. You can go fuck yourself.”

RJ G popped in and after all, those two guys have left her with no choice. “Ok guys. We have a serious problem. I am the date. Geet is not. Let’s sort it out or else both of you guys get out of my office.”

“Your office,” both guys sauntered. “Ok sorry, sorry! Her office, not mine. But, right now, we are here and both of you are the outsiders.



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Hot on Wheels: Chapter 5

Geet was surfing through prospective matches on Tinder. She saw his profile. She swiped to another match. She wanted to make him jealous and a reluctance to push away his feeling. The thought of him making a formal proposal haunted her endlessly and spent nights staying wide awake.  The bell rang. She was in her denim shorts and traipsed lazily barefoot to swing the door open. 

Her Mom stood right in front sweating and pushed her aside “Hatho (move way).” She couldn’t believe her eyes at the shadow that stood behind and hiding a smile. “You,” Geet yelped. “How dare you? Beggars are not allowed. We don’t give alms.” Hardik stared at her. “How could he?” she thought, “Patao Mom. Now, this is too much.”

“Don’t listen to her beta. Come inside,” Her Mom cajoled Hardik. She gave a stare to Geet, “Just look at you. He’s our Mehmaan. Such a nice boy. You ungrateful girl! This is how you treat God.” She was at a loss of words and saw packs of veggies in both his hands. He was panting and couldn’t wait to drop the bags on the floor. Geet’s Mom pushed her hands away and Hardik followed inside. He left the bag in the kitchen and walked past Geet to make his exit, pretending that she didn’t exist. She was flabbergasted. At this moment, her mother run after him and held his hand, “Where are you going? Have some chai! No! I don’t want to hear anything and just ignore her. She can be like that. How much you helped me in this crowded Khan market. You are now one of us.”

She wanted to kick both him and Mom out. Now, what was the need for Mom to drag him inside and what’s up with him carrying her bags? Is he plotting to be over-familiar? First, Mausi’s apartment and now this. Geet could no longer handle this situation. Mom broke her thought, “What are you wearing? Chee chee! A short and showing your legs like that. Log kya kahenge (What will people say)? We have no Sanskar (culture). Go and change yourself.” Geet didn’t protest and walked to her room when Mom shouted, “Wear something decent and you need to make tea, bring mithai and give us company.” She ignored, walking inside her room and overheard Mom asking, “Haan beta! What’s your name again?”

“Hardik aunty.”

“Haan Hardik beta. Such a good boy and such good manners. You will make such a perfect husband and a dream for every in-law…so Sushil,” she turned towards the door. Hardik thought that aunty has gone bonkers and speaking to some UFO. Geet was walking with a tray full of mithai and tea which she plonked on the table as if saying to the guest, stuff everything inside and go die, you moron. She saw Mom’s head tossing and turning to the side of the door, wondering what happened to her just now. The doorknob twisted and turned by itself, and on the spur of the moment, Geet’s father walked inside.

He slouched on the sofa. “Meet Hardik, such a sushil boy, I tell you. I was walking in the crowded market and almost tripped when this boy came and asked lovingly, “Aunty what happened?” I was feeling dizzy and he made me sit on a stool, bought water for me. He came all the way to drop the vegetable bags inside.”

“Beta, you thought that I have gone mad, na. I don’t need a clock and already know the time Geet’s father would walk inside. It’s been a habit for 20 years now and knows the time he will walk in.” 

“No wonder such sweet Heer Ranjha love,” Geet was sarcastic.  Geet kept staring angrily at Hardik. He avoided her gaze. “Where do you stay Beta,?” Mom asked.

Hardik pretended to hesitate and spoke in a low voice, “In Mumbai uncle but I study in?”

Geet stopped him, “I mean he must be studying in Mumbai…obvious na, must be at Xavier’s or something.” Uncle shot back at her, “How do you know he studies at Xavier’s. Do you guys know each other?” Her face went red and almost stammered, “Dad! I mean since he stays in Mumbai and most study at Xavier’s since it’s posh.”

“Oh really! I didn’t know there is only one college in the city,” Geet’s Mom told. Her Dad chipped in as if questioning her, “But, you study at Fergusson College in Pune?” She went blank. Hardik was secretly pinning that this moment would disappear. Both of them felt a lump in their throats.  First random sex, second studying in the same college, third hot pursuit and then, almost getting caught by Geet’s Mom in a familiar apartment and now sitting on the hot seat.


“Yes, aunty,” he replied in monosyllable.

“You haven’t eaten anything. Don’t like sweets kya. Geet ke Pappa can wolf everything. You will not make a good father if you don’t like sweets,” aunty said.

He took a motichoor ladoo and popped in his mouth when aunty said, “Beta! Have you thought about the future,?” looking at Geet’s Dad “So, what I was saying Ji? Such a Sajjan boy. He will keep any girl happy by just saying yes or not. How I wish, Beta? We want a son and not damaad.”

Geet almost tore apart her hair with so much drama and felt like she was watching live her mom’s favorite Ekta Kapoor’s K-serial. She gently moves the palm hiding her face and moving the hand away, repeating the movement twice. She pushed the sweets tray towards Hardik’s face and saying in Hindi, “Poora Halwai ki Dukaan hai. Khaye na (Eat na). She bowed her head down and hiding her face repeatedly like a Sharmilee Dulhan (shy bride).” Her parents didn’t know where to look and stared at each other. Geet grinned in the direction of Hardik. He took a mouthful of gulab jamun in her mouth, syrup drenching on the sofa and flowing between his tooth.

Geet was eyeing the movement of her parents’ lips and stopped her mother at the right time, “Arre! Spare the poor guy and you are questioning him as if he is seating on Kaun Banega Crorepati’s hot seat. You don’t need to go home to your Mom or what. She will be worried.”

Hardik told, “Na! It’s alright.”

She forcefully put the mug in his hand and told, “Arre drink na. Have more mithai jaldi. You are our mehmaan (guest) and bhagwaan (God). You need to go home. Your parents must be worried.” Geet wanted to get rid of him. “Hardik! It’s too late now. I think your parents must be genuinely worried. You don’t have a house or what.” He didn’t protest.

“Ok! Aunty! I must be leaving now,” he touched the feet of Geet’s Mom and Dad. She thought, “What the fuck was that, man.” Geet’s Dad stopped him, “Hardik, just give me your phone.” Both of them were confused. “Keep coming home. I just saved my number on your mobile.” Geeta’s mouth was wide open and took a gulab jamun inside, not to arise any hint of suspicion.   



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Day 29: A wine story

I absolutely love red wine. A late entrant to the world of carefully picked grapes in the vineyard and turned into a confessed lover. The wine love story started way before Diwali when in a conversation with a friend who is now settled in Australia, he recommended wine to breakaway from whiskey. When college friends suggest something and liquor, you just go with it. I love Australian wine.

There is no stopping and enjoy a wine whether French, Australian and South African or Chile and Argentinian. Amazing stuffs. The only one missing is Port 7 Indian wine. When it comes to my alcohol, I prefer buying the original one and when back to India, enjoy local ones but the only condition is that absolutely hate the idea of alcohol be it whiskey, wine or Vodka imported from Europe but bottled locally, in this case, the place am currently in. This milawat wreck doom and is often a poor quality of alcohol.

I am disgressing. It should be my struggle with opening a bottle of wine and not flaunting about the connoisseur alcohol that I am. In my entire life on earth, I have never been able to pull open the cork and ended up breaking the corkscrew. No confidence to open a bottle of wine and the only option is to push the cork deep inside the liquid making a splash, took me good one-hour sweating blood and tears. The solace is buying wine with a cap twisting in a matter of second, to ease it out.

Some crazy discounts going on wine coming from France the last time I visited the supermarket and the deal was too good to be true, grabbed two bottles at steal away prices. Taking a risk with the screw and bought a corkscrew for a good 200 bucks. Needless to say, I googled on how to open a wine bottle and followed the entire step by step tutorial on YouTube. The expensive corkscrew didn’t help after the deep cut and twisting inside the bottle for doctor Vishal failed the surgery with needle left inside the lid skin.

Again Google baba was consulted to save the day. Wrapped a towel towards the end of the bottle and start hitting on the wall. It didn’t help. Patient was in terminal stage. Hit bottle inside the shoe. Didn’t work. Operation failure! The sharp knife scythed its way deep inside the cork skin like anesthesia. The biggest failure on earth. Straddled inside the kitchen and alley towards the washroom. Spotted a sharp screwdriver. A surgery taking almost two hours but we were not yet there. Screw driver inserted inside the middle of the screw and the bottle’s bottom. Screwdriver ended up with a twist.  Miracle! Miracle! I felt like dancing and the apparatus pierced towards the edge and slowly lifted the cork. Quarter battle was won.

The tired hands twisted, right to left and center. We weren’t yet there, me and my bottle. Knifey came back into play and like a magic pill, the corkscrew bearing minor scratch was lifted open. Wine was ready like clean blood poured and flowed into a slim glass, giving serum. A life of wine was saved. Finally! Yay! I deserve the Nobel prize for finally able to open a bottle of wine with less than perfection in a lifetime and grooved to dance steps. The man made it. Two hours can do not just wonder but lots and loads. Enjoy the perfect wine story.




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Political satire: A tale of Aam, Kaam and chooske

Mango brand ambassador! Aam Aadmi ambassador! Alphonso is never alone, you see! Our mango breed will dance to chinta cheetah chinta tah tah and threatening each other with, Jo mein bolta hoon mein karta hoon jo mein nahin bolta hoon mein definitely karta hoon! Simple, doing kaam to get the aam.

Ever game for an aam lesson! The Khiladi man who has an Indian born Canada confused passport has taught us how to suck a ‘mango man’ choos ke. Akshay Kumar knows how to suck his mango in an interview with Vikas Purush aka Prime Minister of India Narendra Damodhar Modi! Just to think, the Kumar could have faked a Hera Pheri doing the biopic of Vivek Anand Oberoi, teaching us how to suck hard on the mango. After all, it’s a matter of chooske. Mango is King for Kumar is Mango. Now, what must Arnab Goswami be thinking, going crazy and running ballistic on this famous interview of Modi-jee! Janta jawab chahta hai.

Image source: Google/

I am already jealous of Akshay Kumar hanging above my head with his trademark, “Jalee na…Jalee na”. It’s freaking me thinking that the action hero has turned into bhoot, faking Modi with, “Bhaiya aur Beheno” holding a mango straight to my face. Katrina Kaif surely knows how not to suck a mango this summer and now Akki just stole her mango! Ab bechari Katrina ka kya hoga to entertain us. You know what Akshay Kumar! It’s hard as fuck to imagine you teaching us men how to choos ke, munching the mango. And, I thought the only Aam Aadmi was Arvind Kejriwal. Just think…think…Katrina crying hoarse in her fake British accent protesting in Hindi, “Yehi to scam hai…mein iss mango brand ambassador ke haqdar tha aur hoon.”

Now, will Akshay Kumar let me suck my yellow mango in peace! He just spoilt the whole thing for me and thinking already like a straying man to move over Mosambi or chikoo to beat the summer. Fruit Kesari should be a better option this Diwali with banana! I swear! Aam sucking is conjuring special skills and gotta hone my talent for it. What about the freebies! I should be getting a National award or Padma Bhushan for mango sucking behavior or maybe Twinkle Khanna should gift man of the house a special crate or devote an entire chapter in her next book on The Mango Man. I tell you, monkeys are the perfect ape of men and will now leave the bananas for humans, running after mangoes choos ke. We can always slit mangoes to eat.

Now, Raveena Tandon must be cursing herself for no longer being the mast mast gal for choos choos ke aam will now be serenaded with, “Tu cheez badi hai mast mast.” The I-phone must be fearing competition like Shakti Kapoor ‘aooing’ for we may soon have mango smarty panty phone competing with apple. Karamjali, imagining poor Apple cursing not luck but Akshay Kumar! Fear not radiation for ice bucket wallah may just lick mango walah phone thinking easy access to the Met Gala of fruits playing Rajneeti! Wait! Thank the sky Akshay didn’t shout, wah Modi Ji wah Modi Ji! Till then, choos ke ya kaat ke, take your mango pick without the mangola for heat buster and make sure apna Khiladi doesn’t burst your bubble.




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Day 44: Half, quarter bottle and stumped!

A squirrel-like feeling, eyes popped open and swirling from one end to the other, turning into a cricket ball in a flash. Tube light moment. Fired imagination, an entire half and quarter bottled popped open at the club which we had no honor to see. As long as it’s pure scotch and alcohol flowing in the vein, this feeling of being hit by a harmless sniper running havoc and turning the brain into war zone.

First peg uncorked and still not outmaneuvered, gotta roll the ball, spin and close to hitting a sixer. Alcohol makes you the one batting and you are never out for just scoring. No pun intended. No inference to sex, you dirty minds. I am comparing alcohol to cricket since we were sitting in the restaurant facing the stadium where cricket and golf are regularly played. Time for the second round and being surrounded by friends. Stumped but not yet out. High time to run for cover and overs, yet to have the first sip in the second round when another glass staring at me, telling, “Take me for hire and heat it up, baby.”

The company of friends and a doctor who would constantly babble, making jokes one after the other, insisting that we hear all of them, thinking he is the Umpire high on beer. No need to create runs for the third peg poured and the head is swirling and dancing to murder someone thinking that every known man walking past and showing attitude is Donald Trump. Peg number four, five, six and seven are spins and curse yourself why the fuck on earth pretending to be a fast bowler and the Scotch the ball that you wanna hit. Surely, the alcohol does or doesn’t think you are a catch.

The time has come and now the alcohol has turned from friend-to-foe pretty much like India turning into Mumbai Indians vs Delhi Daredevils. The overs are soon getting over and you gotta make the runs before the dream run ends. Zigzagging at the club in front of fellow guests unaware what you pulling and imagining the celebration of a major win at Wankhede Stadium and the guests who don’t give a fuck about you are fans cheering.

The alcohol flavor riding high on the head and driven home on the steps till hitting the bed, pretending to grab the Man of the Match award but forget your cup…oops glass at the Club. Tossing right and left on the bed, a realization about being sloshed and you were not among Sachin and Virat playing batsmen to make maximum runs but pure alcohol swilling on the tongue and making the brain dancing like Panda, except they are not Congress supporters celebrate Three States. Alcohol, I repeat is quite a babe sparkling hotness. Wink!




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Hairy story of lost sheen, glory and grey

My sabse favorite and prized possession were my jet black hair and beard. I scratch and scratch till bored…what?!!! Fire your dirty mind! It’s ma priceless treasure, the black hair, black beard.  Waqt waqt ki baat hain. I twist my hair lock to scare the shit out of boring homo-sapiens. Till one day, it went into oblivion. Dearies! I haven’t gone bald or shaved it off.

See! My Jawani is going for a toss. I a multi-colored butterfly. Just another way to put it, I am going grey and my priceless black hair is losing sheen, glory, and color. The canvas of my water-color. I got greyish. Sniff! Sniff! I turn into Tommy, the favorite pet in the colony and squatting on the floor to nurse my sorrow. I have gone grey. Fire your imagination. I still have shiny black on my head just that grey streaks are surfacing and popping everywhere like mushrooms. Now, I hate grey. I really do. Aha! The countless trips to the saloon, oops parlor! How I hate to call it saloon? It’s so down market right. Cool people kiss. Cool people don’t go to saloon. The hair parlor must be counting his fortune to may grey under the sun…oops hay with crazy folks like me. Do I look sullen to you? Nah! I don’t. Hide those streaks, remove them from my hairy planet. I take solace. At least, my hairy chest is still jet black. My black hair is my treasure. I should have shaved them off to keep in my secret vault. I told na ki it’s my most prized possession. Possessive bout’ hair and hate it when someone touches my hair. I caress them like soft fur. Who needs sensuality when they have black? At least, not me…na, baba. na, na, na.

Trim that growing beard that will soon be relegated to zilch. I shave it off. I preserve my youthfulness. I don’t give a fuck about realism for wanna grow old with my black hair, black beard kinda shit pep talk. Fuck salt-and-petter. I really wanna kill this moron who’d say that grey is sexy. I wonder how this senseless and intolerant bigot would happily hum this song of illusion on the greatness of grey. Boycott Chinese! Boycott grey in every size, form, shade, and shape. Ban them all. It is beyond tolerance. Don’t give a damn if this abhorred color gives you an ejaculation. Go sexless for I don’t care about it. Tired I am of looking for solutions to make all miraculous grey disappear from my life and skin. I wanna ma magic potion. Flush your imagination down the drain for grey will haunt you. Ghosts are scared of them. Ever wondered why they roam at night. See! It’s black. Black is sexy.

Stop ranting. I ain’t. There is no such thing as aging gracefully. I am eternal but fucking grey is not. My chaddis collection are multicolored, except this banned one like the 1000k note. I shudder to find my new version of demonetisation in my drawer and gotta trust me on that, will set it ablaze, if I ever do. Trichologist! Don’t need your expert advice to decode my follicles. No one says gimme grey, bhai. We say gimme black. I wanna my black back. It’s my toy to fiddle with when I’m plain bored. Hey! It’s no wisdom tooth. Wisdom is passe. The wise old man is sleeping in the grave and no sane mind would wake him up to dole gyaan. Nostradamus is dead.

A silly story of a young man at heart and fighting age to keep his youth unscathed. I am a freedom fighter. I fight with grey to liberate me from its clutches. Who stole my black? I am a peasant, a patriot. Black is my turf, homeland, and country. Don’t uproot me. No man’s land. Waqt ne kiya kya sitam. I am timeless, cool and sexy. It’s not my oft-repeated line. Let me fly in my black jet and zip past the commoners who come to terms with grey. I don’t. Any issue with that? You can fuck off and do whatever you can, all that I care. I adore my black. Grey is a deadly ghost. No one told you that! Now, that you know, just get rid of them, color them in pastel color, pour red ink if you want on your head and wipe off the grey patch. Make your parlor guy or babe go crazy like Lord Hanuman hunting for Sanjeevani. Black is the miraculous poppy plant. I wanna smoke pot of black like the sadhus and be an aghori black. You racist? How can you hate black? It’s the coolest. Now, you know why the world fucking hate Donald Trump blurting nonsense. It’s grey. Just wipe it off the planet.