Here's to the World of Shot-Stories: One-gulp tales and single-swag sagas, if you will. So sprinkle the salt and hold on to your lemon wedges. WARNING ALERTS! 1: Consume contents at your own pace. Do NOT succumb to peer pressure. 2: The stories come in different sizes. How many you chug depends on how much you can handle. 3: Orange juice in your shotglass will also make you ditzy. 4: Yes, it IS 'storiez' with a Z, cause the darn S was already taken! 5: And seriously, Don't READ and DRIVE.
Jamie Lannister's Valyrian steel needed no whetstone. The blade was accustomed to sharpening itself whilst slicing through skin, flesh, tendon and bone in one single stroke. But what good was steel to a man with no sword hand? The man who had sworn to be the King's guard and eradicate every enemy of the throne was now sitting near the stairway, with only five fingers to count.
"I don't have my right hand, but at least I'm not Theon Greyjoy!" he winced, thanking his stars for not having met Ramsey Bolton. He continued drifting into sleep, whispering "Cercei. Cercei," as he imagined the pleasures that he could continue to experience with his left hand.
Tyrion walks in, feeling faint and squeamish as he discovers Joffrey's love for violence against anything that moves. He looks at his amputee brother and squeals "Winter in coming, but that doesn't mean you need to as well!" as he brushes off images of his naked medusa-headed blonde-haired evil sister making love to his brother.
"By the Gods of the 7 Kingdoms, Jamie, you can't possibly tell me you still want her! Incest breeds vermin. With the release of Joffrey from your loins, you very well know that science doesnt need to evolve and prove that you shouldn't engage in coitus with your twin!"
Cercei enters with a scroll, beaming and mocking Tyrion, knowing full well that she was holding King Robert Baratheon's Will between her fingers. She cracks open the wax seal and sits there with raised expectations.
To My Lady, I, Robert of the House Baratheon, know that you, Cercei Lannister, My Queen, have served me well. The wine on my lips curbs me from running around circles, so I'll be brief. In your time here at King's Landing, you have tried many things. Gore. Check. Sex.Check. Gore whilst having sex. Check. check. Sex with me. Check. Sex with twin brother. Check. Sex with other Lannisters. Check. Check. Blond children. Check. Check. Check. Ordered mercenaries to kill enemies. Check. King dead. Check. Ned Stark dead. Check. Joffrey dead. Check. Tywin dead. Check. Valar Morghulis. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Plot twist - You can fuck and kill anyone you want Cercei, but the Emmy still goes to the Imp. You therefore inherit 10 Gold Dragon coins, to enable you to enroll in the best acting class at Westeros. Signed without sarcasm, Your Dead Husband
Clinging to the contours of her calf muscles,
the fine thread-work of motherly innocence
dipped its silk, and licked the surface
of those still grey waters.
The voices in her head had made their peace,
when the argument met with a quiet scream.
The blood on her hands had curdled
from the blood of her womb.
Squinting to salvage the last tear in her eye,
she ambled stoically to the middle of the lake.
and saw the rejected duckling
murmur softly in the glistening black waters.
The broad-laced wide-eyed bodice
sprawled around and braced her frame.
Pivoting on one foot, she swiveled
to bury the remains of her seed under her sole.
Swirling on ripples of unwashable guilt,
she tried her best to spiral downwards,
and wished to drain away
through that wide gaping manhole.
But the black swan sat there cursed
to a cold world sans imagination,
for never again would she find herself
tumbling down that rabbit hole.
So she’d wait there after midnight, behind a curtained wall frame
Stealthily whispering whistles to call out my name
Dragging fearful memories with every stride
I’d take refuge in an old cupboard and hide
Peeking through the chink as she came
Her silhouette would burn with a platinum flame
Long soggy hair-strands would veil her shame
Soft sobs broke into screams as she cried
So she’d wait there after midnight.
This was the home she had hoped to claim
One that was etched with her future last name
Black-sooted droplets of tears had dried
She had longed to be an army man’s bride
He’d promised her the stars, but he never came
So she’d wait there after midnight.
Porcelain perfection had managed to white-wash some of the grief. Wrinkles of helplessness that were cracking across her sallow skin now seemed like a chalky blur. The ghastly pale outlines of her moon-face were intercepted by two craters of sighted sadness.
She poked open a new box of pomegranate red, and pulverized other shades of ruby, granite and plum into one thick paste of promised happiness. The brush strands dipped generously into that bloodied concoction, outlining new lips of joy over that stoic face.
He was her only son. She cringed at the thought of holding his lifeless 12-year-old body.Flashes of his drowning face kept clouding her eyes.
She had busied herself all morning, preparing his favourite Oyakodon and Makizushi. But it sat there untouched, cold and listless, screaming to be fetched from the dining table. There was nothing more that could hamper her already broken spirit.
Looking back into the mirror, she had lost herself. The mask taunted her world, thwarting every feeling that clotted and festered in her heart. Her caked happiness just sat there unchanged, quietly protecting the turmoil within from the pretense without.
The next client was still waiting for her, shaking his legs with uncontrolled anxiousness.
She wore her pretty clown face, and got back to work.
She rolled up her hair as she walked through a garden patch. Beautiful tresses of black silk were fastened in place by sticks. The groggy green frog sat there croaking by the road side. Cutlery unwound to click away on unsuspecting street food.
Mouth to mouth
I breathe out
And fog up the reflection.
Soundless droplets of mist
Cling to mercurial glass
And sit there, holding on
To words that haven’t
Been conceived yet.
There’s a twinge
In the pit of my stomach
A seed of life
That has promised to sprout.
My innards have coiled down
With a patchwork of bulky nerves
Thatched together to create
That perfect nest.
As I crumple into the sink
And vomit yellow bile words
But no one hears a thing.
I walk into the closet
And raise my tee shirt.
Cupping both palms
Around the navel
I look through its passage
Into that kaleidoscope of life
Where the umbilical
Connects to the netherworld
With those gone away,
With those dead.
I look into its father's eyes
Dilated brown irises
That collapse
With unconditional love
As I resign the world
In silent deep sleep.
She stood there in the cold, dressed in a faux fur coat and leather overalls. Flicking her wrist, she raised the tobacco-stained ochre end to her trembling lips and filled her lungs with pretentious comfort. She stubbed the last ultra-mild under her stiletto and strutted towards his car.
This was not the first time.
He would park his black Sedan at the corner of Mt. Vernon street on Wednesday nights, and wait outside Delilah’s till she had wrapped up for the day. She’d hop in and they’d head to a pre-booked suite at a wayside inn.
Mr. Maloney was a reputed judge who had spent 30 years of his life to serve the law. He was a dedicated husband, a devoted father, and a man whose career panned out without a blotch on his reputation. Tina wasn’t his first escort, but there was something about her that kept drawing him back to Delilah’s. He never realized that his mild interest in this pretty young thing would grow into a form of wild obsession.
For three months they met once a week in discrete motels on the outskirts of Philadelphia, and this Wednesday was no different. They headed straight to the room and ensured that their murmurs of pleasure would be confined within the walls of these unfamiliar hotels.
He lay on his side as she pulled out her well-concealed revolver from behind her garter. She sat there in her corset holding the cold nozzle onto his temples. Closing her eyes, she clenched her index finger and splattered his brains out on the pillow that cushioned his head.
“That’s for Sammie’s sentence!” she breathed with relief knowing that it had taken her three years to bring her plans to fruition. Wiping the threads of blood from her face, she touched the gold band that was still clinging to her ring finger.
The praying mantis walked out without fear, as the sounds of the gun kept ricocheting through paper-thin walls.
Remember the good ol' times? The times post the black-and-white era and the reels that graduated from Eastman Colour? The times beyond sepia prints, 70s winged-eyeliners, conical bras and bird-nest hairdo's?
I'm talking about the times that have made an impression on every 80's child in India. It's called surviving a time warp that's now referred to as B.C. (or Before Cable). An age when Bollywood wasn't just fancy coinage for a film industry - But a way of life.
A time when movies made their way to dinnertime discussions on a daily basis. The epic era of bad hindi films (while some might argue that the said era hasn't ended yet), with movies so bizarre, that their connection to reality is purely unintended!
Films that shamelessly followed a set formula. Where lanky heroes with long side-burns were the norm. When being beefed-up and owning a 6-pack meant you had a promising career as a villain or a visible part of his posse. (Someone please throw Uday Chopra into that decade, NOW!) In fact, despite eating right and hitting the gym everyday, you'd have been tossed around like a toothpick in the hands of Mr. Scrawny BigStar himself.
I'm talking about a decade when Mithun's pelvic thrust was the epitome of all things macho, and an Anil Kapoor roamed topless, revealing his welcro-like back without having to bother about sex appeal (what's that?).
When heroes danced in 2-inch heels, wore their hair to the nape, put on horrendously mercurial Aviator shades, and strut around in costumes that would give Lady Gaga some competition.
When 'stylists' were still called 'tailors', when a 'wardrobe' mean't double doors that open up to a clown's closet, and when 'heroine's outfit' implied a quick-fix from the previous movie's curtains.
Biker gloves, blue pantyhose, red socks and yellow pump shoes.
That's the way, aha aha, I like it, aha aha.
Bibs are not meant to be worn there, Ms. Kapoor!
Note 1: Curtains can be replaced by anything colourful or unusual. Even birthday streamers will do, so long as she looks like she's emerging out of Draupadi's forgotten costume, or a 7-tiered wedding cake.
When all-natural and voluptuous was considered beautiful. When women like Amrita Singh played lead roles (up until the point where she started resembling the hero's younger brother.)
When hotness quotients were defined by Rekha in her avatar as a cool vengeful fauxhawk-wearing momma with a face-lift... and a tummy-tuck (erm, but the darn crocodile only bit your cheek, lady!).
When skinny little Sonu Walias could fall off the stage (or the villain's life, or the face of the earth) if Ms. Ample Hips obliged.
When villains were put on a different kind of pedestal.
Firstly, the bad guy = bad GUY. (If you were a woman and a bad one at that, you were either Bindu, Aruna Irani, Shashikala or a slut. No grey shades there.)
Coming back to our typical villains, they came in different sizes of obviousness, cause subtlety is for wimps!
They either had a physical handicap (movies with Prem Chopra, Shakti Kapoor, Gulshan Grover, Danny Denzongpa and their ilk), were subject to some unexplained abnormality on the face (hairy moles, scar across eyelids) or were just downright ugly (Cause if you're ugly, you're going to be pissed with mankind, right?).
On the rare occasion that life had chosen to be less mean to them, they'd sit on a skull throne all dressed up in alien clothing and a bad haircut (e.g. Mogambo, Shakaal, Dong) expecting the audience to cringe in horror!
Mogambo, khush hua!
Note 2: The villain's plans could involve hijacking a 2nd-hand cycle in a busy market area, but even such a seemingly irrelevant plan would've been strategized sitting in a helicopter that can land anywhere unannounced [air regulations not applicable].
Note 3: Our man, Scrawny BigStar, might have never set eyes on a dumbell in his life. However, when thrown into the fighting arena, he can take down 5 WWE wrestlers at one go. He's not called 'Jay' 'Veer' or 'Winner' for nothing! (Hint. Hint.)
Note 4: The hero might be a chauffeur or a vada-pav stall owner, but he (almost always) has the supreme wisdom to outwit the villain who has been planning to release weapons of mass destruction around the world since he was born!
I'm talking about that time frame in Bollywood when actors of today, like Emran Hashmi and Mallika Sherawat, would've been jobless for years! When everything around was symbolically suggestive.
Lip-locking and making-out was inferred when flowers (out of no where) would rub against each other. If flowers were out of stock, they'd replace the frame with oranges falling off the actress' body.
[Disclaimer: The video below is more than suggestive symbolism. Yikesss @ Jeetendra! You just killed 'sweet-limes' for me, forever!]
Flower on flower mean't happy times, but bee on flower mean't rape. Other symbols for 'rape' in that era include over-boiled milk (talk about corny imagery!), a goat staring at a butcher (again in the middle of no where), or an old creaking ceiling fan (erm, I'm still trying to figure that one out!) that continues to whirr till the end of what seems like eternity.
A time when animals seemed to have meatier roles in the film (pun unintended). Movies that brought 'ichaadaari nagins' into our collective consciousness such that you'd anxiously wait for every girl with light eyes to transform into a snake.
In fact snake movies broke lose a new genre of creativity to include plots that were as original as having Aruna Irani breast-feed a snake for reasons so bizarre, I'd rather you go and watch it for yourself!
If that's not all, we have Amitabh Bachchan calling a dolphin his mother; a pet pigeon who helps Anil Kapoor in robbery; and a pomeranian who behaves like the 11th incarnation of lord Krishna by saving Madhuri Dixit from marrying Mohnish Behl in Bollywood's longest marriage movie (Ok, so the last one was in the 1990's but they don't change overnight now, do they?)
With all their antics in place, these bad movies have made their mark in the most unexpected recesses of our minds. While some of us might pretend we hate that stuff, there's no denying how we automatically parrot dialogues and songs from movies long forgotten.
I just hope and pray that this disgusting Jeetendra-Meenakshi song was NOT a part of my earliest childhood memories!
This one isn't so much about telling a short/shot story as much as it is about commenting on one.
And so I digress...
Indian television serials make for mass devolution (which is actually putting it very lightly. When, in fact, what I actually want to say is that making, acting or watching any of these shows is the quickest way of becoming a neanderthal).
Agreed, this isn't a 'eureka' moment of sorts. Even a monkey with half a brain and no patience would know that it would be worth his while to count the grains of sand trickling down an hour glass instead of trying to follow a non-existent plot on prime-time.
But then again, I confess, I fell for the old-boy charm of a popular yester-years baddy, MB. So going against my grain, I decided to watch the show. (I mean, how bad can it get, right? Worst case scenario, I could just drivel all over tall-dark-and-handsome and then wipe off the spittle).
Neanderthal Alert!!
Fancy-pants-80's-bad-guy-who-shot-white-pigeons-for-a-hobby now plays a shy 45 year old virgin doctor who, I'm guessing, doesn't even strip while in the shower.
And to make a predictable antithesis on 'opposites attract,' is a hyperactive, size 10, glossy haired, I-never-wanted-to-go-to-med-school-cause-I'm-so-cool twenty-something intern whose main purpose on the show is to make the virgin slash voyeur realize that he also needs to jerk off every once in a while!
The pace of the plot is a whole other thing. In the time that it takes the impatient, half-brained, Indian-soap-watching monkeys to evolve into human beings; our virgin doctor might have mustered enough courage to tell his lady love that he is now ready to see her lady parts from afar.
MB, we actually liked you in your bad-boy roles. Not because you were like the guy my mom warned me about. But more cause back in the day, you came up with the most memorable one-liners that set it in stone that a guy and girl could never be 'just friends.'
Now you're just old and creepy, and trying too hard. If you want to justify being a virgin at 45, you've got to take acting lessons from Steve Carell.
Note to MB: This has been the toughest half-celebrity picture search EVER!!. I have an impression to maintain here. It's not easy when I call you drool-worthy and find every other image that looks like you'd fit well under the 'beware of absconding rapist' tag. Please Google yourself and see!
"That's Mrs. Black," he cupped his mouth and hissed into Niki's ear as they saw her silhouette disappear into that narrow corridor on the 4th floor.
Now, now, that is far from making a racist comment. Apart from the fact that she had ballooning eye bags, an adolescent boy's upper-lip, and numerous spots (without the slightest hint of being indicators of beauty) all over her face; there was perfectly nothing wrong with the shade of her skin.
With overalls and underpants and layers in between, she was always bundled up in fabrics of the same hue. Velvet. Sequinned. Fur. Silk. Lace. Black. Invariably dressed like the moonless night. She lived alone, kept to herself, and always took the stairs without so much as exchanging two words with anyone on her way.
What did she do and where did she go? No one seemed to have a clue. Heads turned, actions paused and words halted mid-sentence every time she shadowed in and out of view. Neighbours would huddle from different floors and hang out in the lobby - spending hours on end conjuring stories on Mrs. Darth Vader from Room #402.
"An undertaker's widow"
"A professional mourner"
"Sinister's vampire sister"
"Voodoo witch woman"
"The Devil's goth minion"
"A Cat living her 9th life"
When in fact, she was - A perfectly normal woman, with a perfectly normal name.
She was just waiting to lose the last 10 lbs., to speak with confidence again.
They winced once, just before snipping a bunch of locks right above Leela's shoulder. Thick silky black strands clumped together in a loosened plait as they lay there, defenseless, on the floor.
Maasi began sharpening the razor blade against the waterstone, looking in Leela's direction for a hint of pain. But she sat there stoically, staring at the chipped wall in front of the verandah.
One of them came to her side, while the other parted her scalp. The vermilion in the center was still fresh.
"It'll be over before you know it," they assured her as she sat there, without blinking.
Maasi came ahead with beads in one hand and a sharpened blade in the other, like a devi in her avatar. She smeared some ash on Leela's forehead and continued to dust her scalp with more granules of burnt wood and sand. With a few crisp wrist movements in the opposite direction, the curtain of hair dropped to the floor. Maasi splattered a cup of sandalwood paste to soothe the bruises and puffy hair follicles on that unprotected skull.
The noise had tuned out. The women were retreating.
They would never have to focus on her again.
It took a while to get accustomed to her new demeanor. The sharp jawline suddenly opened into a wide barren forehead, like a delta melting into the expansive ocean. Her tired eyes had lost its soul.
All that was left of the hexagonal diamond pin was a little perforation on her nose.
"It's for your good," Maasi whispered.
"With so many men in the house, you're better off this way. At least you won't ask for 'it'."
"If that is the case, how does this change?" Leela questioned with no change in intonation.
She continued staring at the chipped wall. The eyes were still dry.
Her voice trailed out, hardly leaving her trembling lips.
"They did what they had to, despite him being around. Even though I hadn't asked for 'it'."
'Tis the season for red and green and gift wraps and bling bows and razzmatazz and random smiles and cute surprises and festive lights and uber conjunction-ated sentences!!!
