THE DANCERS ARE BACK !

Yes, you guessed it, another random post. Tonight, though, I’m writing (pen and paper) rather than typing. It’s 11:45 at night, and I’m sitting alone in the living room, with my pen and paper. As I write this, I experiment, can I write like a doctor? Wow, I can. Stairway to Heaven is on, the music system in my living room rocks. Just got introduced to the song, I love the way it starts. I refrain from writing the way the music sounds, not knowing whether I should use “na na” or “ting ting”. Ooh, makes me wonder. Yeah, typing the lyrics makes much more sense. Maybe I should start making some sense now.

Going up and down in the lift has always fascinated me. When I first moved to Tarangan [DD’s residence] in my 5th standard, I was awestruck by the mechanical brilliance of the elevator of my building. It was the first time I’d seen ‘automatic doors’ and I was instantly captivated by it. Not being Newton, to think about reason-behind-falling-apples and what not, I just began using it. The two liftmen became my best buddies.
[LOL. The ow-ow-ow-ow-woah-woah part in the song is so funny! Led is brilliant!]
In all probability, I used the lift more than them. Pressing all fourteen buttons to piss the liftman off, to see him stop at each and every floor was bliss. Ah, those days.
[Wow. The guitar solo. Oh bloody hell. This is bloody brilliant. Wow, eyes closed. Now the song has gained pace, gets DD’s head to rock with the beat.]
Those days, I say with a huge melancholic sigh, have long gone. Today, when I get into the elevator, it’s one formal hello to the other passengers, a “Ram Ram” and a pat on the back to the liftman, and then looking at the thingy [for want of the scientific word] where the current floor through which the lift is travelling is displayed. Everyone does it, I’ve found it bizarre, but I do it too. Filling awkward silent seconds usually involves suddenly finding your shoes or your nails interesting. But in the lift, it’s always staring at the thingy, freakishly. The liftman, strangely, also does it, though the way he stares is different, he stares from the corner of the eye, as if he’s eyeing some beautiful chick.
[OYE IT’S SATURDAY!]
The lift is the only place where you get lots of free time, and you don’t feel guilty about wasting it, since you have nothing else to do. Since the 5th standard itself, whenever I’m alone in the lift, I look in the mirror, and I make my scariest expression. Then I laugh at the sight for the rest of the journey, which makes it a tedious task to straighten my expression as the thingy reads “0”[since I do my silly things usually while getting down from the 9th floor to the ground floor]. On other occasions, when my bully-like expressions become too monotonous, I punch the wooden walls around with the mutant knuckles. When I’m bored of that, and this might cause some amount of denigration, but I don’t care, I DANCE. I have two left feet and two left hands; hence you might argue that calling it “dance” is wrong. I do it to make myself laugh, and I succeed. As thingy reads “1”, I stop, making a straight face.

Ha, cannot believe I made you read all that. Now let’s back on topic REALLY. In my 8th standard, when I was going home after school, a plump kid got in, who was in the 5th standard then (I knew because I had played cricket with him), with his mother. What struck me most about this great man was the fact that he was the ONLY person I saw, who refused to go through the usual ophthalmic duty of staring at the thingy.
Innocence of youth? Not quite.
Kid with extraordinary thoughts and self confidence? Nail. Head. Bang.

The next time I saw the lad was at 8 pm. (when the liftman would be at home, bitching about the weird passengers of ‘his’ elevator.) The fact that he was fascinated by the journeys through this mysterious cuboid was palpable due to the cheeky, and somewhat weird, glint in his eye. For the first time, we spoke to each other. I go, “Kaisa hai?”, and he replies “sahi!!” I look in the mirror, and I madke a semi-weird expression. I turn back, apprehensively. His face is a question mark. I begin to laugh. He laughs too. He makes his own weird expression, looking in the mirror, next. I take the forcible cue, and I start laughing hysterically. Respect.
Next time we met, we exchanged mischievous smiles, and then looked away, so as to prevent the woman present from thinking that we had gone bonkers.
We met ALONE after a long time, and this is one of my crystal clear memories, but we hadn’t forgotten. He said, “main lift mein akela hota hoon tabhi bahot faltugiri karta hoon”. (When I’m alone in the lift, I mess around a lot.) I said I do the same. And in a flash of madness, we began to dance. We danced, like nuts, we looked in the mirror. We both laughed like we’d lost it. It was the first time, may I add, that the watchman sitting near the lift on the ground floor might have had an idea of the lunacy going on in the crazy cuboid, because we got out unable to control ourselves. This went on, EVERY SINGLE OCCASION I met him alone in the lift. In the tenth standard, we saw less of each other, or in other words, I saw less of the world, and if we did run into each other alone in the lift, it was usually when I was abosorbed in my book, being a firm believer of my own principle, “The reading during the last 30 minutes before the exam gets DD 30% of whatever he’s scored.” Even after tenth std, if we met alone, we had a little chat about this and that, but we never mentioned our old lunacy.

Yesterday, I met him again, alone. I looked him straight in the eye, he mirrored my action. We stared at each other for five whole seconds, and then we both began to dance. It was SO funny, I cannot believe I’m laughing even now, as I pen down the incident. He had some new moves, I had some myself, and we danced with frequent “Aha” shouts from the man. There were 4 left feet and 4 legs flapping about madly, in the elevator. We are back baby!!

One might argue here, that this is surely too stupid to be true, and that the DD with his trademark blank expression is not capable of such things. What do I say? Well, the lift brings out another side of DD [who has so many sides, it’s difficult to decipher what-agon he is, taking cognizance {yes, I love the word} of the fact that he cannot count more than decagon.] This is the side only the mirror of the lift gets to see, and of course, the dancer mate.

<< That is me, making one of the expressions I make in front of the mirror. I'm kind of looking like one of those middle eastern tough blokes. I cannot believe I'm pasting that pic in my blog, but it goes with the random spirit of this post, so bleh..

Thus, when you’re alone in the lift next time, make the most of it!
Anyway, I won’t reveal the name of the guy, because it’s our little secret!



The dancers are back, and they’re here to stay!!

DD : MY FEARS.

NOTE : The worst fear will be added some time later. This is a compilation of my other fears.

That photo is me faking it, trying to appear like some brave kid. :P
Right, after a long break, and after deciding to bunk college tomorrow, or today taking cognizance of the fact it is already 3 AM, I decided to pen down something that’s been bothering me for quite a long time now. With my parents sleeping, and my dog finally asleep too, I am now free to write. This, do note, will be an extremely personal post, so people who do not know me personally might as well take a break.

Firstly, this is not some complex topic with double meaning, when I say fears; I mean, bluntly, things I am scared of. You will see my bulky frame, and you’d think, on seeing me, I’m this brave kid who fears nothing. NO I am not. I’m a bloody coward. I have plenty of materialistic fears. “Nothing in life is to be feared, just understood”. Shut up, will you!?

Be aware that I’m not at all proud of what I’m going to write about now. I want to face my fears, but I cannot, I never could till now. I’m just going to start naming them now. You might accuse me of terrible pusillanimity but I wouldn’t care less.

FEAR 1: Lord Vold**ort :
That guy is a bloody genius. He’s never failed to give me the butterflies. My fear for You-Know-Who started right from the first book. I am and always was used to reading novels at night, before I slept. This, mind you, was before I saw the character of the Dark Lord in the movies. It was when I was in the fifth grade, I believe, when we had just shifted and I was just getting used to living in a separate room. It was the part where Harry, Quirrel, and the Dark Lord meet together in front of the Mirror of Erised. I remember reading that part, and on reading “Let me speak to him, face to face” and “he lies, he lies!” I got so terrified I jumped up from my bed, shouted “aaarrghhh” out loud and barged into my parent’s bedroom. My Dad, on hearing me, was already up, and had the quizzical look upon his face. I slept in between them that night! Next day I completed that part, in broad daylight. Chamber of Secrets had no problem, nor did Prisoner of Azkaban. Goblet of Fire made me shiver. Bloody stinking jobless twerp Wormtail, “The Dark Lord shall rise again!” I went “Mumma!!!” I refrained from ejaculating another “aargh” as I was considerable older, grade 7, I believe, by then.
“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, will renew your son.” *shiver*
“Flesh of the servant, willingly given, will revive your master.” *brrr-brrr*
“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will, resurrect your foe.” * “aaaargh”*
So much for being in grade 7 and all that tosh. There it came again. Into my parent’s room. Spent the night there. Some time passed. The next night, I opened the manifestation of some of my worst fears, the chapter “The Death Eaters.” That wasn’t what made me clutch my blanket over my head though, it was the thing written on the previous page, “Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes, and a nose that was as flat as a snake’s, with slits for nostrils…Lord Vold—ort had risen again.”
“Aaaaarghh”, I went. Jumped off my bed, went to my parent’s bedroom. A prepared Mum looked at me, “Give me the book, I’m throwing it away.” Went back into my room, lied down, went ahead, with part of the blanket over my head, and the bedsheets wrapped around me, sitting like you excrete faeces in an ancient Indian toilet. I looked like one of them hooded Death Eaters, myself.
“Voldem—t raised one of his long white fingers, and put it very close to Harry’s cheek.” BANG. Book slammed shut>>I-pod>>Hey Jude>>Slumber.
This went on for some time, till finally I completed the chapter, and the chapter “Priori Incantatem” with the ipod in my ears for the whole time.
Seeing the movie Goblet of Fire was scary too, with the character of Vol--mort coming right against the camera, I remember distinctly shifted my butt behind in the seat and closing my eyes and trying to shut my ears off too.
Book Five, had some scary parts. Book six was very mysterious. The past of the Dark Lord not only made me fear his power, but also respect his shrewdness.
Book seven was damn scary too, and this part almost made me cry.
“‘Harry Potter’, he said very softly. His voice might have been part of the spitting fire. ‘The boy who lived.’
Voldem—t had raised his wand. His head was still tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear.
He saw the mouth move, and the flash of green light, and everything was gone.”

HP killed him in some time, and one of my fears, though NOT MY WORST FEAR, was destroyed. That said, reading parts of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named consternates me to this date. All hail, the Dark Lord.

FEAR 2 : MY OWN STRENGTH.


<< My mutant fist! Be scared, be very scared!

I know this sounds bigheaded, but what the heck. This is something I fear, and if any bullies are reading this, buzz off! As you’ve read and seen, I’m a big guy :P This has many advantages. You can intimidate people, you can push yourself through crowds, you can block people effortlessly while playing football, etc. It has its disadvantages too. You tend to break things. I’ve had so many such experiences. I had got into this fight [which was my only big fight] with my neighbour from my old colony, when I was around nine. He was a year younger, and I remember beating him up real bad. I was myself surprised to see the damage I’d caused. I reduced him to tears in no time. It’s something I regret to this day. I remember going back home and crying my eyes off, since the guy was my best friend, then. I decided then, and people don’t really know this, that I’m never going to indulge in a physical brawl of such intensity EVER again. I rarely ever lost it after that. After that, the only relation DD has with physical brawls is when he is on the sidelines, cheering the two fighters, or being the basic cause of the fight and slipping away in the end. That said, I’ve still had one or two bad incidents. Those friendly pushes on the back from me have sometimes led to people falling down, not causing much damage, but still indicating how much damage this mutant can cause. Especially Chinmay Deval, I have to hand it to the guy, he usually bore the brunt of my physical oppression! All of us still love to trouble him once in a while, but that’s nothing serious, he’s just an awesome punching bag. Anyway, all this eventuates in me laughing off those manly punches on the back, the arm etc.

<< That's Chinmay Deval!


The football field is another worry. When DD plays football, it’s 5% skill, 95% strength. I’m usually the guy running around like a headless chicken, and the guy loves to give the ball a nice sweet kick, and a guy who absolutely relishes physical challenges. Playing football in a really physical way gets that blood rushing through the veins real fast. Before any football game I play, I pick those strong people, and being a defender, I stick close to them, ready to give them a legal ‘shoulder push’, which somehow has NOTHING to do with the shoulder, EVER. Usually the sight of this raging bull running towards you at full speed sets people off and they get rid of the ball. Some people stay, and that sucks. I’ve had many incidents on the field. Momentum = Mass x Velocity. When this heavy kid runs at you with that speed, and you don’t move, it’s difficult for the kid to stop. I remember going to play with my cousin’s friends, [my cousin, by the way, has the similar intimidating physique like me, so we love scaring people together when we’re on one team], I was gutted seeing those people, all of whom were atleast 3 years elder to me. My first physical challenge, I crashed against one of the players, and made go down on all fours. My brother who was on my team started shouting “Dive!” but I knew that challenge was bang out of order. I couldn’t stop myself. A guy had the ball, and I wanted it.
That’s not the end of it, I’ve broken SO many things at home. I should’ve made a collection of the things I’ve broken. Vases, photo frames, glasses, and if you search my cupboard, you’ll find a carefully sellotaped laughing Buddha without an arm. Most of it was courtesy my football. This eventuates in excess anxiety. Now, when Mum asks me to open a bottle she can’t open, I start to fret. Those dirty tiny medicine bottles, I know if I excess to much pressure I’ll end up breaking it. The most annoying thing is using my pen drive. I cannot fix it into the port without at least 10 feeble attempts, followed by a frustrated push which fixes it in. Thus my strength, is another thing I deeply fear, though not HALF as much as my worst fear.

FEAR 3 : ACNOWLEDGING PEOPLE.

A usual day for DD contains waking up, getting ready, getting into the lift, saying “hari om”[I don’t know why, but I love saying it] to the liftman, walking out of the building after a brisk “ram ram” to the watchman, walking to school[unless the car is free], mouthing “hello’s” to all the people around me, including car-washers, dog-walkers, morning-walkers, drivers, other watchmen, other schoolmates, the guys from the jents parlour, Suresh the gift shop owner. Finally I reach school. Then DD’s routine is high five-ing all the guys, smiling at the girls, and saying the monotonous ‘good morning’ to the teachers. The break involves even more hello/high five/smile/nod-ing at the various people around, with the eyes spinning making sure no one misses the acknowledgement. Getting back home at 1:30 in the afternoon involves even more nodding-and-smiling, bye-see-you-tomorrow-ing to the mates, and waves to the acquaintances, and also a bit of Namaste-auntie-ing and Hello-uncle-ing, since I go past those women who go to their grocery shops etc, another batch of hari-om-ing and ram-ram-ing to the watchmen, who by the way, are the ones from the second shift. Going to play in the evening involves a LOT of hi-ing to my playmates, and also those invigorating HELLO!’s to the senior citizens sitting and chatting, none of whom I know personally. Taking my dog for a walk at night again involved “jevlat ka?[had your dinner?]”-ing at the watchman, and HATT!!-ing at the stray dogs.
See what I mean? It’s bloody vexatious, if that’s the word I want. Acknowledging people just impedes my normal way of existence. Very often, the only thing I desiderate during my public appearances is wearing a mask so that I don’t have to acknowledge all the people I meet. I was going to write ‘all the people I know’, but I refrained, because half of the people I acknowledge on the streets are perfect strangers, who I’ve pulled into my life by my smiles and other greetings. If DD meets any person’s eyes for more than one second, and the person doesn’t shift his glance elsewhere, something within DD forces him to display his 32, and cajoles DD into greeting the person on further meetings.
Thus, public appearances make me start fretting. This isn’t the only thing. Somehow I feel this guilt if I miss acknowledging one person. Have a look at me in the break, my eyes are constantly moving here and there, making sure I miss no smiles or nods or pats-on-the-backs, with the only assuagement coming from staring at my feet, ensuring that anyone who looks at me thinks I’m ‘unavailable for greetings’. If anyone acknowledges me with a smile or a wave, and I don’t reciprocate, it absolutely kills me. Thus, acknowledging people, my third fear, scares the crap out of me. This is my shortest post yet, but, as I say, what the heck.
Coming up, finally, my WORST fear.

DD's visit to the Royal Jents Parlour.

Okay, this is my first ‘random’ post as such. As Californication soothens those eardrums, I’m suddenly full of blogging energy. If I don’t write now, I’ll surely burst.

Okay, the following are carricatures drawn by yours truly, Dhruv Da Vinci, during the maths period. The pictures are EXACTLY what I feel during my Maths period. Before accusing me of having suicidal tendencies, try bearing one hour of quadritic equations. The picture have NOTHING to do with the post. It is VERY random.


Note: I’m all for the law against homosexuality to be annulled, I find it silly that there’s actually a LAW preventing something that’s natural.
Beware : This post makes NO SENSE whatsoever, so read this only if you’re REALLY jobless.



Today, at 11 am in the morning, I had this random thought of going to the barbers’ and experimenting with my hair. Went off in my green tee and shorts, reached the saloon, where the signboard, “ROYAL JENTS PARLOUR WITH A/C” gleamed into my eyes. With a smirk, I walked in. This parlour, by the way, isn’t one of the fancy ones, I’ll be blunt, I’m a cheap guy, and you won’t get any other place where you get a haircut for Rs 40 walking distance away from my place. Also, these barbers are all bhai types, they’re considerably smaller than me in size, but their lingo etc is really cool. Thus, the jents parlour is my natural choice. Walked in, not having a slight idea as to what adventures were in store for me in that cosy place. Smiled at one of the regular barbers, he gave me the usual “kay re… sutti ahe? College suru zala? ” [what ho, you’ve got holidays? College started?] this, by the way, is a question he’s asked me ATLEAST 9 times, so I replied in the affirmative. I saw that he was busy with a customer, and the other regular barber wasn’t available. So I was basically stuck with this noob who must be 19, judging by his innocent smile and his pink full sleeved shirt. What did I know, how much trouble little Mr. Pink was going to cause then.




I asked the noob whether he could cut my hair such that my long sidelocks stay, like Afzal Khan, and also ensuring I have enough hair on top to experiment. He gave me a “is-that-Latin” look, and I looked at the regular for help, who explained to the noob what I wanted, in them barber terms, which was Latin to me. The customer went out, and the regular told me he was off for Lunch. So it was me and the barber stuck in the saloon. I enquired whether he was new, and he replied in the affirmative. Since I couldn’t find anything else, I closed my eyes, not knowing what else to say to fill the silence. Suddenly, he goes in Marathi [and I translate], “Sooo, do you want it real shorrttt?” His tone scared the shit out of me, it was one of them seductive tones! I told him to keep it short. He went on cutting, but I noticed the ‘gentle strokes’ he made on the skin. I consciously pulled my shorts below my knees. As if that wasn’t enough, the guy started to lean on me. No, you don’t get it. I was sitting, he was LEANING on me. His WHOLE body in contact with the left side of my body. From my shoulder to my knee. My elbow got the worse contact [yuck] and I tucked my elbow in for the rest of the haircut.


As he went on cutting, three guys came in. One of them was being forced by the other two to shave off his beard and his moustache. Since I’m jobless, I’ll type out their interesting conversation. It was in Marathi, and I will type in Marathi, with translation done below. They were these cool punks, 40 year olds, the ‘been-there-done-that types.

“eh lavkar kaap re dadhi hyachi.”
“nahi re ! shanth rah!”
“eh chup re salya. Chikna kar re hyala”
“eh bhain---- halu nakos, kabootarasarkhi vadhli ahe!”
“aaaaarrrrghhhhhhhh”
“oink oink” (<“eh phone bandh kar! Kapuday tyala!”
“badh thev tujhi ----, tujhya mulishi nahi bolat”
“mad------- mulivar jau nakos chu----“
“Bloody hell” (that was me whispering to myself)
“Sidelocks poorna kapuuuuu?” (my slimy barber)
“nahi nahi, hey barobar ahey” (> > me)

Translation [I’m soooo jobless]

“Oye, shave his beard, quick!”
“No man, shut up!”
“Shut up dude *undefined term*”
“your sister *undefined*, don’t move! Your beard is like a pigeon!”
“aaaarrrgghhhhh”
“oink oink”
“Switch off your phone! Let him shave it well!”
“shut your ---. I’m not talking to your girlfriend.”
“You mum *undefined* don’t pick on my girlfriend *undefined*”
“Bloody hell!”
“Should I shave off ALL your sidelocks?”
“No, no, this is just fine.”

Paid the forty rupees, and ran away without looking behind. I got everything in that one hour at the saloon, from homosexual advances to threats to life. After I wore my spectacles, by the way, I found out that the guy being forced to shave was actually the liftman in my bulding.

What a day. Bleh.

The best day of my life - Anfield.

It is said that life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. One such moment was 28th October, 2007. The two hours in ANFIELD have dilated the importance of my life. This may sound a bit far fetched but the best time I’ve ever had is in that very place, Anfield, watching Liverpool against Arsenal. I would rather have people take away years from my life than take away 28th October, 2007. Yes, Anfield, the fortress of LFC, the toughest place to play an away game, and the atmosphere created, which is second to none. I’ve heard people crying out about “living in the present”, and that “a five minute delay in dinner is more important than a moment of sorrow ten years ago”, but the fact that it is crap was manifested by the Hillsborough Memorial which stands alongside the Shankly Gates at Anfield, and is always decorated with flowers and other tributes to the 96 fans who lost their lives. At the centre of the memorial burns the eternal flame, signifying that they will never be forgotten. That’s the first sight you see, other than excited scousers everywhere. What happened during those two hours at Anfield is very hazy, but I will do my best to recollect it.

I had planned a trip to Liverpool and it was decided that my father and me would go to Anfield on the 28th day of October to witness the match against Arsenal. I remember waking up on 28th October, what a feeling it was! The only feeling in my mind was “how many minutes to go?” We went around Liverpool and visited the Liverpool Museum. I still remember how I felt about time going like a wounded tortoise. The only thing I was interested in on the day prior to getting into Anfield was looking at the Arsenal fans, giving them “the Red look”. [No gunner really bothered, but a girl of my age pointed at her crest!]

And then it came. The time I was going to enter Anfield. We got off the taxi, and woah! All of them Scousers around, with their red jerseys on. People selling flags, banners, some of them selling tickets too! The atmosphere was brilliant. People were ogling at their Liverpool magazines, arguing in loud voices about who should be played. This is where I wanted to be. I could stand there listening to their Carra-like scouse accent for many months together. But that wasn’t why I was there. We went ahead. Dad’s always claimed to “like” Liverpool but not being “addicted” or “obsessed” by it like me. If that atmosphere did not rouse a strong passion for Liverpool F.C, I’d say his heart was made of stone. I could see his face. His mouth was wide open, gaping at the ‘family’ in Red, with everyone talking to each other, shouting out songs once in a while. Finally we reached the Shankly gates, sparing a moment reading the names of the 96 who died.


We watched the scarves and flowers and bouquets kept. Never did the Shankly statement about football (“Some people say football is as important as life or death. I assure you it is more important than that.”) seem so near to a wrong statement, as at that moment, when I viewed the Everton, Chelsea, and scarves of many other teams kept. After mouthing a quick swear word at The Sun, I entered what was ANFIELD. The hair on my neck was as erect as thorns. The feeling was brilliant. The place where Bill Shankly once walked, placing my feet over where Stevie, Carra, and the lads walked. Dad and I were speechless. We gazed at the ‘He made the people happy’ statue of Shankly himself. Yes, this is Anfield, I felt. Didn’t even pinch myself, if this was a dream I would love to be sleeping forever. We then waited for the team bus. The real tension of the game was building, with the usual know-it-alls blabbering about how they had heard that Voronin had got on the bus and would be playing. Courtesy Dad’s height and my width, we managed to find quite a good place from which we would be able to see the Liverpool players when they would arrive. I was six feet away from the place from which they would enter. The wait for the team bus was evidence to the fact that we weren’t just 40,000 people who had come to see a football match. We were a family, who had come to cheer the warriors on. No one was shoving or pushing. People were happy wherever they were. Some humorous folks had some witty lines against the stewards on horses, which were pushing us back, away from the players. We all held our ground, and that was the first sign of the unity around. Then the bus came. There was excitement all around. I could see eyeballs popping out, bodies being raised on toes, and the short guys jumping up to have a glance. The bus stopped.

Man oh man! I was there, some feet away from people who I literally worshipped in every sense! The door of the coach opened, and down came the tactical genius, Rafa Benitez. We cheered like nuts, I hadn’t heard such a huge eruption ever [Of course, that was before I actually saw the match!] Rafa had the typical European acknowledgement expression, where you tuck your lips in, such that only your chin is seen. With a quick wave, the man walked off to the dressing room. Steven Gerrard, another huge eruption. Carragher came next, and his was the loudest cheer of them all, louder than Stevie! Then slowly all the lads left the coach, each to be greeted by many huge cheers. With a quick wave, most of them walked off, with excitement in their eyes, the inspired glint, which promised us they were going to give their best, and our loudness, which promised them we loved them whatever the outcome of the game. Babel had a particularly strange walk. He came in with his headphones on, his head jingling to what I presumed was Dutch rap! He did not wave, he raised his head for a stylish nod!
Dad and me decided not to wait for the away team coach, and we walked ahead to enter the stadium. After our tickets were thoroughly checked by the guards outside, we went ahead into the tunnel which led to heaven. As we walked on through the dark, we couldn’t stop ourselves. Dad said “Yeah man!” and I pumped my fist in the air and gave him a high five. We went ahead in the dark for a few steps, and then suddenly there was a blinding flash of light.

Wow, heaven. I’m a proud atheist but if there was anything near to the “blessed place you go to after you die”, this was it. I was absolutely ecstatic. The stadium was almost empty then, since people were waiting for a “special” welcome for Arsenal players! I couldn’t help myself. Shit, I had gone nuts. The following photo shows my feelings on entering the place.

I felt I would wake up from this dream anytime. I rotated my eyeballs around like a completely bamboozled kid. I remember the part when Harry Potter enters Diagon Alley, I felt like how he must have felt. I looked around. The Liverpool crest which was gleaming from the top of all the stands. The banners hung around. The seats in the dugout, blessed by the backsides of some of the greatest players and managers to ever exist. Many of the people have suggested there’s nothing like singing in the packed Anfield crowd, and that the Liverpool supporters are the best in the world. FACHT! Not delusional at all.

As the people increased in number, the fact began to manifest itself strongly. The crowd was all chirpy, and the DJ played We Will Rock You, by Queen, and we did the *clap-clap-bang* beat courtesy the chairs ahead of us. I thought then, this loudness is what results from 40,000 mad supporters! I was so wrong, then. It was nothing like when You’ll Never Walk Alone began playing. The famous track by the Scouse band, Gerry and The Pacemakers, which was adopted as the Liverpool anthem, to be sung before kick-off. Till the YNWA, the Arsenal fans had their say, but during the song they were as quite as mice, completely enthralled by what they were seeing and hearing. Perfect. As the music for the anthem started to play, everyone became silent, and stood up on their feet. I stood up and got my scarf out, spread out in front of my eyes. The following photo captures the moment.


And then we started to sing, I sang the anthem loudly, I already started to have a hoarse throat, but sang proudly, with wet eyes, the anthem had meant so much to me. Then we sang the last bit of the anthem, which was followed by a HUGE round of applause as the Red Army entered the field. The game begun and it was excellent, especially with the shouts and the cheers around. As Adebayour went to ground, we whistled madly. Every Gerrard pass was followed by his song. The noise when two bodies hit each other was excellent. There were many Oohs and Aahs when Riise cleared the ball away, with a huge THUD. Then came the free-kick.

It was near my end, Kuyt neatly touched the ball and Steven Gerrard banged it in. We were on our feet, jumping like nuts, and the scousers yelling ‘F—k ya, Gunners!”, “GET IN THERE!” and me yelling “YES YES COME ON!!” repeatedly. It was mad, I could have died due to the sudden noise then, but I couldn’t have cared less. Liverpool was shaking. Gerrard had scored. He came running to where I was sitting and leapt in front of the corner flag. I felt like jumping off and hugging him, but I refrained.

Then came the half time whistle.
This is the beautiful picture taken during HT.
Everyone was discussing about who should come on and who should go off. The match resumed, to more cheers. And then we sang ‘The Fields of Anfield Road.’ It was excellent, there was pin drop silence, after one word ended, to be followed by more eruptions. It was crystal clear. The “And could he play!” bit, was brilliant! As the match progressed, I felt ‘ It’s nice that we are one up, but I want to experience the moment when the opposition scores, as people had always talked about how the fans say behind the team during such moments ’ . Someone on the field was listening to what I was thinking, and sure enough, Arsenal scored. Pin drop silence in Anfield, it wasn’t a shock, but no one uttered a word. The period after the goal scored was my proudest as a Liverpool fan. All of us were yelling [even louder than the you’ll never walk alone], “COME ON YOU REDS!” It was followed by the “We love you Liverpool, we do!” when time was running off. The final whistle ended by a round of applause. Looking at the form of both the teams during that period, [When Arsenal was at the top of the league], we were all happy, if not ecstatic, with a point. We walked off, with our voices totally hoarse. I couldn’t talk properly. What an experience. I’ve often been with mates “leaving” one club to support another. Though I was thirteen then, such thought NEVER entered my head. And I’ll say what Steven Gerrard said after the Champion’s League victory, “How could I leave after a night like that?” I repeat, my love affair with Liverpool will never end..

PS - Pictures from the Liverpool museum to be updated later.

Dhruv's Laws of Fartology [Also called as Fartodynamics].

<< Girls fart more than guys!












WARNING: Reader’s discretion advised.

Note : The following matter belongs to Dhruv Deshpande and he alone has rights to use it anywhere he wants. Grant of permission may be given by him alone, to publish the matter in Physics or Biology text books.

INTRODUCTION of the topic.

This is no harlequinade, and if you have a smile on your face on reading the title, please wipe it off. Thank you.
Firstly, farting or flatulence is the expulsion through the rectum of a mixture of gases that are byproducts of the digestion process of mammals and other animals.

“Disgusting”, “manner less”, indecorous” are some of the few adjectives used to describe people who fart. Excuse me, ‘people who fart?’ You fart, I fart, everyone farts. Yet we are embarrassed to speak about it. Look at you, reader, going red around the ears. However old or matured you are, you surely have had your moments when the only thing you desire is for the public to have no ears and noses, so you can fart to your heart’s content.
I have two facts for you, which have never failed to leave me flummoxed, but have to be accepted as reality.

1] Every single person farts. [ And every committed person too! Ok, lame joke. ]

2] Farting is said to be disgusting, and we must not let people know that we fart.

Surprising, isn’t it? Farting is not civil. It is wrong. You may talk about what you do with your partner in the late hours, but talking about farting is, according to people, disgusting.
A clichéd expression, “Disgusting people fart.” DD disagrees.

ABOUT THE EXPERT.
I, Dhruv Deshpande, am [probably] the first person to go deep into such a topic. I have, and I will continue to study this topic in detail. Who knows, you are possibly reading an article of a person who later may be referred to as “Dhruv Deshpande, Professor of Fartodynamics.
You may think, looking at my young age, that I will not be able to enlighten you matured folks about farts. Wrong. I am 90% sure that I have carried out each and every experiment (on a personal level) that can be carried out with farts. In my fifteen years as a human, I’ve tried things very few can even dream of. I have farted in public. I have farted in my classroom and ejaculated an “It was me!” I have farted in front of my family which led to being scolded as if I had committed a heinous crime. After controlling farts in malls, movie theatres, football fields, swimming pools, PUBLIC restrooms, restaurants and in my own house, Dhruv Deshpande stands up and says it’s enough. (You can remove the swimming pool part from the previous sentence.) I strongly believe that I am not alone who suffers from this weird biological process that everyone refuses to talk about. My friends, my family, my extended family, my maid, my dog and many others know that I have been very open about excreting, farting etc. It is this openness that has helped me unlock almost all the mysteries of Fartodynamics. I have to give credit to my experience, experiments and finally my grey mater. The quest for learning EVERYTHING about fartology is not a destination, but a journey, and I will narrate to you all that I have learnt on the way. Anomalies in my study will be corrected as soon as they are detected. I believed that there was a need for a deeper study of farts and I have come out with astounding results. I hope, my friends, that my Laws Of Fartology, will help you preclude the pandemonium that follows farting. The following, are the results of my intense study.

DHRUV’S LAWS OF FARTOLOGY:


Note: I will not give you information which you can find in books or on the internet. There are always two sides to a coin, the books will show you the safer side which stays away from facts so as not to cause any damage to the mind of the reader. I may not mention the exact gases being released, but I will give you information which is actually important, unlike the text books. I am being brutally honest with my laws, so I feel it is my responsibility to mention that this is not for the faint hearted.

1] Farting is a biological process, with bits of chemistry and physics involved.

2] Noise is inversely proportional to smell: More the noise of a fart, less is the smell released. The noiseless farts, which I refer to as the silent killers, release the most disgusting smell. [Exceptions mentioned in 10 e.]

3] The gas released during a fart comes through one and only one point inside your butt: This one took a particularly disgusting experiment, I must say!

4] The above law also proves my theory, which was my first fartology theory; you CANNOT fart on a flat chair unless you tilt your backside to an angle of 45 degrees or more to the plane of the surface of the chair.

5] Shitting is indemnified by farting if and only if you try to shit to hard, without having a strong urge or necessity to shit. The fart released is not a silent killer, but one with a loud noise.

6] Farting is indemnified by shitting if and only if you already possess an urge, however strong, to shit, and you exert pressure on your buttocks for a long time, which results in the peristaltic movement to release faeces.

7] If you shit irregularly, you will fart irregularly: The experiment to prove this law was carried out on a personal basis.

8] If you fart a lot continuously, your butt will pain.

9] When you fart, it is not only your point of release of gas that plays a part, but the muscles around your buttocks also contract and expand while farting.

10] YOU CANNOT STOP A FART. Do not be disheartened, my friends, I will get you out of this mess. This is a huge problem regarding farts, but if you’ve farted as many times as I have, you tend to find loopholes in everything, DD is here to help. See, technically, farts are gases released through the rectum. That is the definition and we cannot change it. But yes, we can bend it. Gas is released from the rectum, that doesn’t mean it is released outside your body totally. You will fart, but there will be no smell released, nor will there be any acoustic evidence of the fact. I will first describe my experience with what I call “The Unfart”. The name is given because you do fart, but the effects of farts do not exist. When I try to control my farts in classrooms, etc, I am unable to do so. But if I press my butt in to cover the point of release, and also refuse to tilt 45 degrees, however strong the urge, there will be a slight rumbling near the stomach and also a vibration through around the buttocks. There will be NO noise, but a slight vibration which only you can feel. Remember, you can Unfart ONLY when you have an uncontrollable urge to fart.
How to Unfart:-
a. Press your buttocks inside. [Tightening the thigh muscles helps during the above task.]
b. If sitting, press your buttocks strongly against the surface, ensuring that the point of release is totally covered.
c. If standing, walk slightly bending your back behind such that your butt moves forward, and move your knees to the opposite direction, which ensures that your buttocks will join to cover the point of release.
d. Control the urge, however strong, and do not open the point of release.
e. DO NOT cough or sneeze when you are preparing to Unfart. If you do so, the point of release will jerk open and the fart will be more noisy and even smelly, the only case when Law 2 of fartology will be proved wrong.
f. Stand/sit as still as a statue three seconds before the moment you feel you are about to Unfart. Remember, you cannot control the time when you can Unfart. If you decide “I’ll Unfart now!” then we might possibly have to remove ‘Un’ from the previous word!
g. No Unfart is complete without wiping off all the evidences of a fart. Thus, remember not to have the ‘Fart-look’ or the relieved countenance upon your face. Ensure total innocence. Keep your face absolutely straight. Exerting too much force upon your face may eventuate in uncovering of the point of release of gas. Thus, a straight face is of utmost importance.
If you are unable to Unfart, then the best thing you can do is not act weird, and you might still escape.

These, my dear students, were my Laws of Fartology. I hope that they help you in your life ahead to prevent farts, and to fart well if you cannot Unfart or if you don’t find the need to Unfart. Remember, friends, whatever you do, fart or Unfart, do enjoy it.
This is Dhruv D, Professor of Fartodynamics, signing off… :)

Fashion, my chief grievance.

Note: Before you start frowning as your eyeballs move below, do take cognizance of the fact that these are merely my own perceptions. If anyone is offended by anything written below, I’m sorry. I really mean it. [*Tip of the nose enlarges, Pinocchio style*]

I’ve always been baffled by words like ‘fashion’, ‘trends’ etc. I’ve heard hundreds of people talking about how a particular material is the ‘in thing’. What is fashion, anyway? To me it’s pure insecurity. I surely don’t think it’s a “phenomenon that changes with time”. People don’t walk out in public with their atrocious jewellery, shoes, clothes, hairstyles etc merely to ‘show it off’. Fashion, as stated by Paulo Coelho, and I quote, “is merely a way of saying, ‘I belong to your world. I am wearing the same uniforms as your army, so don’t shoot!” Hearing people and especially children of my age cry about wanting new clothes to ‘blend with the latest trend’ has never failed to gain my abhorrence.

Today a normal household consists of fathers working hard for every rupee only to spend it on their teen children, who are crying about wanting new clothes, not due to necessity, but because their friends have new clothes. The mother competes with her friends till she has a more expensive wardrobe having famous brand names. [I confess with a sad heart, that this particular thing happens to some extent with my mother too, though she denies the FACT.] Older teens and adolescents dream of becoming Paris Hilton and roam about in freakishly bizarre clothes to gain attention. People are willing to get their hands on such stuff, only to throw it away after a few months, when some freak wears some particularly weird thing, and he is referred to as the ‘trendsetter’.
I’ve always smirked at those hypocrites on TV, who insist that their ‘style is being comfortable’. Sheesh, judging by their expressions and looking at what they are sporting, it is crystal clear, I daresay, that they would give anything to strip naked, away from the public eye, and scratch themselves all over!

Fashion always goes above my head.
Take girls for instance. The following phenomenon totally beats me and I’ll never figure it out: Why do girls wear tees with stuff written exactly on the wrong place, if you know what I mean? Ah, I don’t mean one four or five letter word written either, I mean those tees with two or three sentences written in small print. Do girls want people to read that or not? I mean I’d say even if girls write their passwords on that place, I’d say it would be safe at least from males. If any girls who sport such tee shirts are reading this, I will now disclose to you a secret: IT IS NOT POSSIBLE FOR MALES TO READ WHAT YOU WRITE THERE! I mean, for God’s sake! If we look, that would be indecent!
Another thing is high heels. I’ve seen my own mother walking and although she doesn’t limp and claims she is comfortable, the fact that any woman is uncomfortable wearing heels is for anyone to see judging by the way they walk.
With lads, I’ve noticed this new trend of wearing loose jeans so it slides down and reveals your undies to the observer, and if the observer has woken up on the wrong side of the bed, butt flashes aren’t rare either. If such males are reading this, please, sirs, confine your exposing to your bathroom or your bedroom! How in the world is revealing buttocks in public fashionable?
All the mentioned trends, and many more have never failed to leave me inebriated. I shudder at the thought of how people keep up with such things. Fashion probably tops the imaginary list of “1000 most naïve ways to spend your money”.

I am hence very proud to say that I’ve never been influenced by ‘fashion’. I’ve never asked for new clothes from my parents. Fashion comes and goes, but style is permanent. (*Smiles for the cameras*) I’ve always held the view that fashion is some thing you adopt when you have lost your own identity. As Greek philosopher Plato said, and I quote him roughly, if memory serves me right, “Beauty of style and grace is in simplicity.” How true. I’ve never given a deuce about what I wear as long as it is completely ethical. Just today my mother was crying out about how I wear the same two shirts and the same pair of jeans.
My mother and I have had plenty of arguments about why I should buy new clothes. Believe it or not, my mother forces me to buy new clothes! I completely hate it. She has to drag me to shops to buy new clothes! I’ve never understood mom’s complaints about me wearing the same clothes. What is wrong with that? I mean, they are washed everyday, so it’s quite hygienic!
I’ll never understand why she has to force me to buy new clothes, and come to think of it, she won’t either. See, clothes are like girls. (For all the females with their fists clenched, I don’t mean it in the ‘buying’ sense!) You get introduced to a new shirt, then slowly you become comfortable with it and you build a relationship with it. Suddenly having a mother pop out saying “Dhruv, it’s become old, buy a new one!” is extremely disturbing. And my mum is not someone who will listen to a simple no. She is short and doesn’t look intimidating, but her appearance doesn’t tell you anything about her. I’ve never known her to encounter a raging, mad bull, but should the contingency occur, I bet that the animal, on seeing her, would lie down and start shivering. So, she’s always succeeded in ensuring I don’t bore the onlookers by wearing the same thing, and I assure you that if it hadn’t been for her, I would wear the same thing everyday. Although courtesy mommy dearest, my clothes haven’t been similar, my style of clothing always has, for the past five years. Chequered shirt with a blue denim three-fourth or full pair of jeans. I might as well add that it used to always be three-fourth until the past two years when I substituted it will full pair of jeans. That wasn’t because of insecurity due to hair growing on the legs (I’ve found that silly!) but because of an expanding waistline coupled with the fact the I didn’t get myself to buy another pair somehow.
So that’s my style, and it is going to remain that way. Love it or hate it, you’re always going to watch it. You might wonder why I wrote all this. I had to vomit out my feelings, because yesterday was an exceptionally bad day. Mum dragged me to the shop and brought THREE shirts for me. Whatever happens, I want her to read this: I won’t stop wearing my yellow shirt or even my blue shirt. End of discussion.

The Grill. - A tribute.

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