A Revelation, Some Moaning and Alvida

You are *this* close to popularity, Bhikku. The public will surely admire you, if only they find out you exist.

-- The Diary, May 13, 506 BC.

In the past, gentle reader, I have often called you a Hindi-speaking imbecile, an immoral bootlegger and a villainous serial rapist. I regret it now. I shouldn't have stopped there. You are all that, and much more. Why else would you hand to S~, that Satan-worshipping son of a what-not, the greatest triumph of his pathetic life?

But perhaps I should explain, because you clearly aren't one to understand subtlety. If you had even a nanobrain in that airhole skull of yours, you would have recognized that the last post on this space was written not by me--Byron's backside and Updike's underwear that I am--but by someone with the writing skills of a komodo dragon. Aye, my gullible readers, the real perpetrator of the last post was my bosom acquaintance, that poultry-thieving, soymilk-drinking scumbag S~.

Let it be said that S~ is not without his virtues. In his own way, he is quite accomplished. He holds the all-American speed and scoring records for True Love. He has been in and out of True Love with every Bombay girl born between 1972 and 1984, and on one occasion he was writing ghastly love poems about a Patel girl whose name he had heard on the radio 3 minutes ago. His talents, moreover, extend beyond romance. S~ is also the only man I know of, whose spare-time hobby is a Ph.D. His computer skills are legendary. He once found my missing socks by searching on the internet. Give him a computer, and give him a car, and he will bring Osama bin Laden to you, provided you are a Bombay girl, of course.

There are, however, things that S~ is not good at. Subtraction is one of them. Another is writing articles on other people's blogs, and yet, that's exactly what he did last week. I now relate the tale of how that came about. All great stories begin with a phonecall. This one is no exception.

B: Hello. Yenna machan, wazzup?
S: Busy, babu. Just did G~'s groceries. Man, girls do groceries too often. Now I need to go drop off N~ at her boyfriend's place.
B: I note that your loserhood continually grows.
S: That's what you think, moron. N~ is going steady with this random Bong dude now, but who knows what'll happen later? They might break up, and I'll be ready for it. As my grandfather used to say, one should always be prepared.
B: I don't even want to know your loser theories any more.
S: Jackass, at least I'm regularly getting kelas from chicks. You are doing nothing. You are a bigger loser.
B: Ha! But I'm an artist. I'm writing a blog.
S: Oh, that stuff. Why don't you go off drugs for a while? Maybe you'll stop writing such long pointless crap.
B: You're just jealous, comrade. I have a fan following. Eight different people have left comments on that space so far. And I'm not even counting L~T~ as people, considering his doubtful mental condition.
S: Sure, mate. People are leaving comments on your blog, but are they reading it?
B: What do you mean? Of course they are.
S: Of course they aren't. No sensible person would.
B: Says you.
S: I'll prove it. Let me write a piece on your blog. Nobody will notice the difference.
B: Yes, they will. They'll appeal to the UN. They'll send you letter bombs.
S: No they won't.
B: Will too.
S: Will not.
B: Will too.
S: Wait, let's talk reasonably. We'll make it a bet. I write one piece. If nobody comments on the difference, I get to put line to P~'s new roommate. If not, you can put line to her.
B: That's so childish.
S: It is?
B: Of course it is. I haven't seen P~'s roommate. How do I know she's worth letting you spoil my blog?
S: My word of honour. Jilukku jikkan figure.
B: Wogay, I trust you. Write this stupid piece and send it to me.
S: Awright. You get lost. I'm getting late for N~'s ride.

And so he wrote this piece, and I put it up, confident of victory. After all, while mine is pointless crap, his is pointless crap with bad grammar. I expected at least three signed petitions decrying the verbal diarrhoea. None came. Those readers whom I know, I asked them gently if they liked it. I saw a glassy look and a sheepish smile. And then I heard high praise. Excellent, they said. You crack me up, they said. Wonderful stuff, my lad, they said. That casual remark about Azerbeijan, great touch, they said. Not a critical word. No complaining, no enquiries about my mental well-being, no suggested improvements, and absolutely no spitting on that vile piece of Llama-poop.

It's clear. Nobody really reads this stuff. I can write down Timbuktoo's national anthem here, and I'll get some irrelevant comment from my "intellectual" cousin. (Actually, this is fun. She's not really reading this. I can say anything I want about her, and she won't even go tell my mom. D~, you are a stinker. You are a moron. Shame shame puppy shame all the monkeys know your name. Hahahaha!)

These days, S~ calls me everyday.

S: Yullo, maplai! You really should update your blog more often. People are waiting to comment on it, I mean read it.
B: Yeah, OK man.
S: No, seriously. You're really witty and very profound.
B: Dei, stop it. You won. Now don't gloat.
S: No, I don't want to gloat. Honestly. But heh-heh-heh, loser, nanananaNaaaanaaa, chi chi cheetangol, drr-drr.

I can't take this anymore. Somebody please kill S~ and leave me a note with the good news. But remember that just killing S~ doesn't make up for what you did to me. I'm katti with you, forever and ever and ever. Disappear, and never show your ugly mug here again.

[still from Children of Heaven, 1999]