1411?

Now that is bound to upset some people. Because the correct figure should be 1414. Yes, how could they leave out the three that rule the city of Mumbai - the three that have been roaring very loudly in recent times, making every outsider who has encroached on their territory well aware of who's boss.

But jokes apart, how did they arrive at the number? Because from what I know you'd have more luck catching Katrina Kaif scratching her rear in public than spotting a tiger in the wild. I could say there are just 156 left and they'd have a hard time disproving me.

And what is this Join the Roar nonsense? Something some over-creative adwalla came up with after seven or eight Old Monks I reckon. Because how is joining the roar going to save the tiger? As if some poacher in Ranthambore is going to think twice before he lays his next trap, -- you know what, there are 75380 people "roaring" on some website ... maybe I should just let this one go and find myself a 'real' job. I don't think so.

A better idea would be, you know, to 'Adopt a Tiger'. Now there's something that'll have plenty of takers ... among the rich and lamous of course, these being what you might call collectors items. Pay a certain amount every month or every year and receive regular updates on how your tiger is doing. You could even have the option of naming the beast and visiting him when he's feeling friendly. Before you know it, it will become the new status symbol and a topic of socialite conversation -- Ohh my Sheroo is doing so well ... I'm paying extra so that he gets only prime rib. -- Mine is vegetarian, we being Jain and all ... but I make sure he gets twice the amount of soya!

Surely better than spending all that money buying some outfit you're only going to wear once, or a handbag designed by some French cross-dresser.

I know. I really am in the wrong line of work.

***

From All the Roadrunning, Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris -- I dug up a diamond. For Deb.

I may not be his biggest fan but for this I give him a thumbs up. His buddy Johar I'm sure would have wasted no time apologizing and might even have gone a step further to prove his love for the Marathi Manoos by offering to rename his next project to My name is Karandikar.

And why is it still being called Bollywood? Shouldn't it be Mollywood now that Bombay is Mumbai and has been for so long? Something the supremos at the SS and MNS might want to take up.

I think the only way to teach the blighters a lesson would be for every non-Maharashtrian in Mumbai to pack his bags and leave the city for some time. It would be fun to see what will become, or rather what will be left, of the Mumbai the self-appointed torchbearers of Marathi pride so vehemently claim is 'theirs'. Even more fun would be to see the local IPL team, the Mumbai Indians, playing on a new home ground somewhere in Gujarat.

***

The Everly Brothers from way back when -- When will I be loved. Which I suspect is the lament of most Biharis, Bhaiyyas, and what have you in the great city of Bombay.

Love used to be a whisky on the rocks; now it is a complicated cocktail very few of us know how to mix.

The Hollies with a song from a time when life was simple and love simpler -- The air that I breathe.

For T. Thank you for a wonderful day.

The fact is when a soldier goes into battle he thinks more about coming out alive than how many men he's going to kill.

And all those medals you show off proudly on your chest in peacetime won't make any difference the next time you step into the line of fire. Each battle is its own - each victory; each defeat. Each life; each death.

***

The Gypsy Kings with a song I absolutely love. Makes me want to get up an dance (if only I could). For a very awesome 36 year old. Fight on soldier.

It used to be something we could call our own. For the boys only. Until one day they changed their logo and started making panties. And bras and camisoles. Jockey for Her they called it. Which was kinda like saying Victoria's Secret for Him.

At the time the reaction from most Jockey loyalists (myself included) was, -- What the...! This is Jockey we're talking about dude - they invented the Y-Front for cryin' out loud! Hell, we might as well call them panties from now on instead of jocks.

So why did Jockey go girlie? To push up sales, given what they say that wimmen buy upto three times more underwear than men? (Which I will believe because they even have separate underwear drawers, whereas we just stuff ours into a corner behind our socks). Or was there an ingenious marketing idea behind the whole decision?

I always thought it was the first, but now I think it's both. After I saw this girl in the cafeteria the other day whose very low jeans revealed her knickers with JOCKEY printed in big bold letters on the waistband. One look and it all made sense -- there is something very sexy about a woman in jocks.

And you know what the sad part is -- they look sexier on them than on us!

But how do you think the idea was born? Could be anything, but the odds lean strongly in favour of the possibility that some woman somewhere wore our underwear! Shame on y'all.

***

Which is why when they say, what is your big idea? I say no, -- what is your small idea? ;)

For Rakhi. Bono and the lovely ladies from The Corrs -- When the stars go blue.

When you decide to take charge of your own destiny you better be damn sure you're up to the job.

***

But first it's important to know what it is you really want -- What is the 'real thing', as Syl has so beautifully put it in her New Year post. Because unless you do that you'd find yourself struggling to get behind the wheel of a Maserati when a Honda would do just fine.

First Monday of 2010. Kick it off with Kid Rock -- For Syl and all you guys been reading the Blues for years and years. Roll on!

Life sometimes is like that fabulous outfit or pair of shoes you happen to see in a shop display only to go in and find they don't have it in your size.

***

The cousins and I were chilling at Sula the other day and they happened to play this song. Such a lovely feeling it was, sipping our wine listening to Dylan with the vineyards all around and the breeze kissing our faces. The mind tends to freeze such moments and carry them along for a while. Until something comes in and replaces them.

For a special someone who (much to her horror) turns 25 tomorrow. Forever Young.

It's bad enough they do it on birthdays, but calling at the stroke of midnight to wish me a Merry Christmas is taking things a bit too far I think!

Because it's not always convenient to take such calls. Especially when you're in church at Midnight Mass praying; and thinking about how different things are now compared to that starry night in Bethlehem when Jesus was born: They had just one babe to adore, we have so many! Sent straight from heaven to enthrall all mankind. Some in the same amount of clothing as they were wrapped in the day they were born.

Indeed the miracle of Christmas these days happens more in the beauty parlours. And the real miracle, the one that each of us should feel in our hearts, well -

My favourite Christmas song. Chris De Burgh.



Peace, love, and a light to follow.

Someone asked me yesterday -- What's the grossest thing that's ever happened to you? And when I proceeded to narrate the incident they went, -- Oh God, stop! Please stop! Hell, you asked me. So those of you who feel it might be better to stop reading, please do so.

It was around 6 a.m. on a cold September morning in 2007 when I stepped off an Austrian Airlines plane at Vienna International Airport. Flughafen Wien as they call it in German. After an 8 hour flight and the worst airline food I have ever eaten, and considering the fact that I generally refrain from using airplane toilets so that my countrymen can knock themselves out, the urge to use the loo was quite extreme if you know what I mean. Also when you're travelling alone you cannot leave your hand-baggage outside or request somebody to watch it for you because by virtue of being brown-skinned you are by default a possible terrorist. So you gotta take your bags in there with you. Which is what I did.

After I was done downloading I reached for the toilet-paper since toilets in those countries don't have water. There was just a tiny bit of paper sticking out the holder so I put my hand in deeper to get it. And that's when I felt something. At first I didn't know what it was. But when I retracted my hand I saw it. Someone else in a better mood and after a more pleasant flight might have said, -- Oh look, shit! But since I was not that person I screamed, -- OH MY FUCKING.... !!!

Now imagine my situation: I had (someone else's) shit on my right hand, an unclean backside, my pants down to my knees, my bag that weighed a ton on the floor next to my feet, one free (clean) hand, and no water! And I had a connecting flight to catch in 30 minutes. How's a person supposed to get out of that one?

I have never thanked my mother so much in all my life; in all my life I tell you! Because if it wasn't for her I'd have been totally bludy screwed! Tissues. Ever since we were kids my mother always made it a habit for us to carry tissues. More than we need. Just in case, she'd say. And that habit has stuck. And that day it got me out of a very shitty situation.

So what I did is take the tissues out my jean pocket with my left hand and cleaned my backside as best I could. Then with the same hand I managed to yank my jeans up and do the zip and belt etc. After that with my shitty hand stretched as far away from me as possible coz it was stinking like hell, I managed to make my way out of the toilet dragging my bag along. Lucky for me there was no one else using the wash basins or they might have called security on seeing a guy with a hand full of shit making his way out the toilet. And then I washed. And scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Four, five, six times I don't remember.

My very first time in Europe and that's the welcome I got. On the connecting flight to Zuerich with the snow on the Alps gleaming outside my window, all I could think of was how in the hell could someone have managed to get so much shit onto the insides of a toilet-paper holder. It defied all explanation. And the culprit had to be Indian, that much I was damn sure. Because the flight from Mumbai had mostly Indians on it. On hunch is you know how they have those automatic hand dryers where you place your hands under the blower and it starts, -- I think whichever stupid bastard used that toilet before me on seeing that there was no water to wash figured if he placed his arse under the toilet-paper holder it would automatically get clean. And when nothing happened he stuck it up even higher, like you do with the hand dryer. I cannot think of anything else.

***

Gross I know. But I look at the lessons I took out of that:

- Always travel light;
- Carry lots of tissues and a bottle of water with you everywhere;
- Never stick your hand up the toilet-paper holder. Actually never stick your hand up anywhere; and,
- When you're travelling with lots of Indians, go to the toilet before anybody else does.

***

The troops arrive today and tomorrow. NBZ tells me that the couple whose house we had a party at in Dubai will also be coming over because they thought we, or rather I, rocked! Apparently they are still talking about me back in Dubai. Oh well - that was just me doing what I do best I guess. Or second best ;)

Neil Young. Let it Shine!

Don't worry about it, I said to him. 9 out of 10 couples don't do it on their wedding night. You get so tired after the days activities the only thing you look forward to is a massage followed by a hot bubble bath and a good nights sleep.

It gets worse, he says to me. We didn't even do it on our honeymoon.

You're kidding!

No man, seriously.

Dude, then you have a problem. Unless you're both the kind who believe intimacy is sitting up all night and talking.

Don't joke please. You have to help me out here ... I don't know who else to tell this to.

So what's the problem. Why isn't it happening?

That's exactly it -- It's just not happening. I mean we get started but then it's like the flame goes out or something. It just gets cold man.

You need to consult a sexpert I think. It's too early for a marriage counsellor.

Should I show her my porn collection? Maybe that will turn her on.

I don't know man. Most women think porn is sick.

Then what do I do dammit -- How do I have sex with my wife??

You know what -- Don't do anything. Just wait till she gets so horny she throws herself on you!

Or on somebody else before me! Shit, do you think there's somebody else! Oh God, what if ...

***

... she's a lesbian? I didn't say it but it could be that the only reason she married our boy was so she could stay in the closet.

So what advice would you offer a friend who is faced with such a predicament. Frankly I wish they wouldn't confide in me with such things. But this guy I can understand: he's only been married ten days (arranged marriage), of which seven were spent honeymooning in South-East Asia. And I have a reputation for keeping my mouth shut! :)

***

The time of year I like most. So much happening the next couple of weeks. I wish you and yours a joyful Christmas season.

There's this girl I met in Dubai said GNR was her 'religion'. GNR of all things! Oh well - whatever rocks your boat honey. Wasn't too pleased when I said, -- ya but I wish they hadn't butchered Knockin' on Heavens Door like that!

The very first song I played here on the Blues. Tom Petty & Bob Dylan from the 1986 album Dueling Banjos - Knockin' of Heavens Door. For Gia.