Beer in your Ear

The two most annoying sounds from my youth had to be the alarm clock and Hotel California. Growing up in Bangalore pubs, you could almost set your watch by the good Hotel ... they played it every half hour.
It got to a point where we carried a placard to the pub: Hotel California closed for renovation. Luckily, the bloke who manned the DJ console, when he wasn't serving beers or drinking them, had a sense of humour. He just swapped HC for Bon Jovi. That's when we poured beer into our ears and turned deaf.

Cricket and coconuts

The Tams went to the Valley, the Andhraites went half way, the Kannadigas tried to create their own Valley in Bengaluru (few of them on Hosur Road into which whole cars disappear). Us Mallus went to the Dubai branch of God's own country. Of all stereotypes that exist in the world, we rank right up there with our Gujarati and Sardar bretheren.
We are generally good plumbers, tea sellers or toddy tappers who struggle with simple tasks like pronouncing simple.
We have been accused of many sins but never of being good at cricket. It's tough to strap pads to lungis, so we never quite bothered with the gendleman's game. Of course, the occasional Mallu madman slips out of hospital and plays cricket and gets slapped by the occasional sardar but cricket doesn't really rock our houseboat. Didn't anyone explain that to you Shashi Tharoor?

Rhetoric

When was the last time you believed. Yeah, I thought so.

Life and cigarettes

Every morning when I step out into the London freeze to smoke my first cigarette, I see my neighbour jog into the mist. It should make me guilty except that I know that we will both die one day. Where is the justice, really.

Burn

You will scald a little but it is important to keep the candle burning. The pain is important, it will remind you everyday that the light you saw in the distance was just a flaming lie.

Face of Fear

As BA487 knifed through the Catalan sky for an emergency landing in Barcelona, I saw the face of absolute fear. In the midst of hysterical wailing and rabid anger, she sat across the aisle from me. She didn't look terrified, she wasn't fervent in prayer, she just sat back in shell-shocked resignation.
We all survived BA 487 with not much lost than good humour. As we waited to be evacuated post touchdown, I looked across the aisle at her. In the midst of hysterical laughter and conspiracy theories, she sat there in absolute acceptance.

My Name is Anil

Mr Johar, my name is Anil and I want my £10.50 and three hours of my life back.

And Mr.Johar, his name is Advait and he wants his money back too. He is clearly in deep post-Khan-Johar trauma.