Monthly Archives: October 2012

Eulogies of dogs and Rainn Wilson makes up for my lack of comedic energy

They say you always remember your first. Now usually they mean first fuck, but right now, I think you always just remember your first everything. Maybe not your first breath or step or word. But anything past that, I think you will remember. Now I don’t know about fucks as much as I would like to, but there are other firsts I clearly remember. The first word I read out was Bisleri. Yes, I had read out apple and ball and cat and dog, but this was my first word that was read out without prompting and first word with more than one syllable. It was a proud moment. Also, quite telling of the time and place, huh? In India, at the brink of capitalism. Oh, I feel like a writer now, having written that last sentence. I have arrived ladies and gentlemen! Where are the lights spelling out my name? And why isn’t a red-headed Nicole Kidman falling in love with me? Also, why is there no absinthe? And why isn’t Will Ferrell acting out every word I write?

Coming back on point, other firsts I remember – first friend, first introduction to atheism, first proper crush, first friend who made me feel comfortable in the new school, first crying over some stupid guy, first honest conversation with parents… Is it odd that all of the ones I care to recall happened before 18 or 19? Anyway, one of the most important firsts was Nikkie. First pet. I write about her now, because it’s the anniversary of her death. Taking advantage of the death of a loved one to write something presumably of depth – I truly have arrived as a writer. Will Ferrell suddenly looked at his trusty watch and realized that it was time to go to India, and that it was imperative that he take his friend Jon Stewart along, especially to a small little hamlet in the rather shitty state of Andhra Pradesh, where a girl waits, even as she types, for her Destiny…. Someone tell me if he’s doing it! Jaldi!!

I have loved dogs from the very beginning. Now that I think about it, it is the one consistent taste I have had and have never had to think twice about. Every other thing or show or joke or person I have liked, I have had to think about, and at times, change my opinion about. Not dogs. My parents often tell stories of me befriending mammoth police dogs on trains as a toddler, petting them without care, humping them silly. No, that’s not true. They humped me silly. And I still loved them because I knew I was asking for it, what with all the little girl clothes I used to wear. Wow. My comedy defense mechanism is really acting up.

Anyway, I never stopped loving dogs. And my sister always hated them. Well, she really was afraid of them. So everything was lining up around my ninth birthday. I had slowly brought my parents around to the idea of getting a dog. My sister was constantly afraid of this future canine that would be my best friend and her mortal enemy. I finally had the upper hand over her physical domination over me. And I had yet to discover that such a thing as a uterus existed, that would torture me for most of my adult life. Seriously, everything was perfectenschlag. Anyway, it was with all of this in mind that I had German Shepherds as my first choice of breeds. I had heard it was the smartest dog around. I liked that it was black and big. I liked that because it was smart, I could presumably train it so I didn’t have to pick up after it, and I could get it to growl and snap at my sister on command. Maybe even wrestle her and beat her up if I really committed to the training. Also, you know, I loved dogs.

So my dad asked around and we ended up at the house of a vet who also sold dogs. I will always remember the first view I had of Nikkie. It was from behind as she was contemplating going down the stairs in the two-level house. I always sort of had her as the same size in my head. Probably because I grew up during her growing years, and after that, she stopped growing. But I’m told she was tiny. That is of course expected of puppies. They are naturally tiny. But despite the disappointing size, I fell in love with her the moment I had her on my lap. She didn’t move from there the whole night till we got her home. I was lost. She was the ideal dog, exactly as I had pictured it –

That’s me behind her, studying for 10th class Boards.


Yes, that is her full grown size. Alright, maybe my parents never even considered the idea of a big German Shepherd in an apartment. Very wise of them, in hindsight. But what can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants. Or the heart wants what the heart had sit on the heart’s lap like it belongs there in all its adorable adorableness. The moment we brought her back home and my parents first approached the question of what we should name her, ‘Nikkie’ just popped into my head and that was that. History was made, ladies. I say that assuming all the gentlemen, a la Elvis, have left the building by now. Who am I kidding, bye ladies.

I have to say though, as much as I will always love Nikkie, I will always hate her for turning my sister towards dogs. Her cuteness was too much for my sister to bear. Even before we had gotten into the car, my sister loved her and from that moment on, has never really looked back to not liking canines.

Who am I kidding? Nikkie was a huge disappointment in everything I expected of a dog from watching Ghost Dog and Air Bud and Beethoven and all the other movies that I cant even remember the names of.

She didn’t shake hands, she didn’t roll over, she didn’t stand on her hind legs. She never even barked on command. Till the end of her days, she only knew two words that she would respond to – “Tata” and “Bye-Bye”. Tata was something our child brains just put there as a word the first time we were allowed to take her out. It just developed into a command so it was the only thing she could recognize as a sign of a trip to the great outside. And bye-bye was what we said when we were going on a trip and leaving her behind.

And worst of all, I was her playmate. Which you would think is great, but it wasn’t what was expected. You see, they say a dog only has one master, one person he or she is ultimately and completely loyal to. For Nikkie, the master as it turned out, was my mom. With regard to discipline, it was my dad sometimes. But it definitely wasn’t me. I was the person she considered her equal, the person she could nibble and snap and bite at. The person she felt need not really be paid too much attention to while this person was trying desperately to make her hate her sibling.

But that’s the thing about dogs. They never really turn out like how you pictured they would. Do people say that about children? Who knows. Anyway, she wasn’t what I expected and to be honest, I didn’t care. She was the one thing I could depend on to hang around when puberty with all of its horrors struck me. It was after Nikkie came along that changes started. I don’t mean physical -discomforting-uterine-wall, hair-in-new-places kind of changes. Actual empirical changes.

First change – I realized all over again that no matter how much I tried, me and my sister were not equals amongst our friends in the neighborhood. I was the kid sister, left to lag behind and be chosen last for teams. And then, we changed schools. Which was honestly quite terrible at first, what with all the mean girls and the guys who seemed so intimidating those first few weeks, though I’d never admit it. Then we changed neighborhoods. We moved all the way to Gurgaon which in 2002 was a village just starting to turn into the rich suburb that it is today. That meant there were no kids to be friends with. I will refrain from detailing out every perceived lonely moment and every perceived slight. Instead, I will leave you instead, with the following vlog post from Ze and Rainn Fucking Wilson (!?!?!?!?!?) explaining why teenagers are stupid and weird.


But yes, throughout these very trying times, I at least had someone that was always openly exuberant when I got back home. Sometimes I think the core of why we love dogs so much just speaks to the part of us that selfishly wants undivided, undeserved adoration. Dogs rarely disappoint in giving this. Nikkie while dumb at human tricks was clever in her own way. She designed a multitude of ways in which she could sneak into the car and hide when we all left in the morning. She had ways of telling when her meat was more than a day old, and refused to eat it. She knew when I was sad and would lie in bed with me. That is really something. To have someone alive next to you when your whole world seems to collapse over and over again according to your stupid teenage brain. She also knew when I was sick and would only let my parents touch me. The laptop screen is getting a little blurry.

The amazing thing about her was this – she was just a dog. Unbelievably special to us, but really she was like all the other dogs who didn’t know how small they were and how inadequately they would be at protecting us. She fucking needed protection. She nearly jumped into an open sewer once. There was also this other time when I let her run free, turned my head for a second and she was gone. I searched for hours before coming back home in tears only to find her there. So yeah, that is why she was amazing. Because she was like every other dog, only dumber and cuter and often mistaken for a monkey by kids under the age of five. But she was around and loving and insanely ours, more than any other creature. Really, what is better?

And it makes sense that she only knew Tata and Bye Bye. She was too dumb to know anything but the fact that we were there and ready to spend time with her or we were not there and were leaving her alone to miss us. I miss her, if y’all didn’t get that by now.

Which is one of the reasons why I want to kill all the other dogs in college except for Happy. Cause they keep raping her, and she keeps fighting them off, and I really, really don’t like that. And I know that’s how nature works, but I don’t have to like it.

– Billy

ME: …………

me: Appreciate it.

ME: Write something less emo next time. I’m getting tired of this.

me: Preaching to the choir.


Here’s some stuff –



Getting Mugged Like A Boss


Peace and Bricks – per the Monty Pthons


Zat is all.



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Posted by on October 27, 2012 in Bakchodi


Perspective. Where I try to put funny into non funny stuff.

I did not post anything last week. I did write though. I wrote the next few paragraphs. I just didn’t really work up the necessary confidence to post till now. Also, I may be posting this because its Wednesday, I have a full schedule ahead of me, and am too lazy to write anything. Anyway, as punishment, I’m supposed to reveal an embarrassing secret. I think all of this post that follows right here qualifies as a pretty embarrassing secret. Not embarrassing, just not something to talk about kind of secret. For the sake of my ego, please read it in a bored/ dark and sarcastic mind voice because that’s how I wrote it. Here ’tis –

Maybe I’m just of a literary, or to be more accurate, a TV bent of mind, but almost every week, I think of events around me as going towards one clear conclusion. Or maybe I just watched a lot of Scrubs and it left an indelible mark on me. Or maybe I’m just desperate to write something and I grab on to the easiest (in this case, the most difficult) thing I have to write about.

I’ve been struggling with what I should write this week. The added pressure of a few more people expecting good things has not helped. Also, please forgive me for typos. I am very high. There was a treat. There was no alcohol involved in the treat. But before the treat and after the treat, we ladies drank our college lives proud. All of this will be in my memoir in greater detail, for those of you who are interested.

Anyway, I thought about writing about food or OCD or about nothing at all with a lot of references to sessual acts (the latter struck me as a clutching on to last straws kinda thing so I didn’t do it), but really – meh.

This week I got the guts to admit some stuff to my friends. And this stuff was some major stuff. The problem is that I try to be fun in this blog. And personally I am not really into reading philosophical or self-help-y pieces of writing, so I don’t like writing them either. To wit I had to either come up with something else to write about, or come up with some way of writing about said confessions from a perspective that made writing and reading about my little victory over my ego a fun thing to do. I think I may succeed in this venture. I hope so.

H once told me that there was an indescribable pleasure in discussing literature and/or TV or movies and having your opinions thereof challenged and changed successfully. For the sake of me pride, I will mention that this was with reference to the fact that I changed her mind and gave her closure about the second last chapter of Deathly Hallows by referring to something that I had read about in The Pale Horse by Agatha Christie. I plan to make that my dissertation at the University of Stuff People Talk About On The Internet. I had one of these moments when John Green discussed The Catcher In The Rye on his Youtube channel once.

Like undoubtedly countless other mentally and upper middle classed-ly disenfranchised youths, I loved this book because at the most basic level, it spoke to me about being unable to understand and fit into the world that others created. I took it as a tome to independence, suffering at the hands of the world (the world being the education system, parents, friends, films, friends, and teachers) and post-adolescent cynicism.

And John agreed that when reading the book at first, you feel pretty bad for Holden. All he seems to want is someone to talk to; to have an honest, egoless conversation with. And he keeps trying and trying to have some connection with every person he meets, and every person he thinks of and every person he remembers, and in the end, the one person who seemed to want to listen to him ends up touching him inappropriately while he’s sleeping. (That part, I really didn’t know what to think about) By all standards, this book should depress the hell out of all of us. Guy gets expelled. Guy spends a few days in the city. Guy is depressed. Guy tries to talk to people and fails. Guy manages to talk to nine year old sister. Guy ends up in some sort of mental home. Hello Sadville. I’m new in town. Where do all the other sad people hang out? Can I join them? Oh… they don’t hang out?

But then John pointed out that the reason its not depressing is because Holden s narrating this story with a lot of moxy and honesty (is that how you spell moxy?). It is not stream of consciousness. It is not just random stuff that creeps into Holden’s head. It is incidents and feelings that he has examined and thought about, and clearly attained some closure about. He has some perspective. And thus, my long drawn out introduction comes to the point where it has something to do with the title of the post. Huzzah!

But that’s the point. In a moment of clarity, some time while I was high (on the way to TGIF) I realized that all I needed was perspective. This shite of which I will speak was happening about a year ago. I have currently reached a point where I’m able to talk to people about it without any emotional repercussions. So here I go –

My awfully awful friends who will never let me be in denial or even risk me being in denial at any time in the future, presented me with certain fears they had about me and what I was doing with my life. They heard about the drug abuse, basically. No, they heard about the prostitution. No, I ain’t no ho. They heard about the bestiality I committed while high on breath mints. It wasn’t prostitution. I didn’t take the money, and I really did love Alice the Mini Horse (Guess where I got Mini Horse from?). And the breath mints were prescription. Anyway, my friends thought that none of this was going to work out in my favor. So I had to, for the second time, face some stupid existential crisis because they cant let shit be.

Here’s the thing. Remember when I mentioned that my friends have taken to drugging me as a solution to my apathy? I’m checking the date on that post and that was 28th March. That is pretty much an exact quote. Anyway, the crap little detail there is that it wasn’t apathy. And they didn’t drug me. They just said they all wanted to drink and while the drinking was going on, they refrained from telling me that they were not in fact drinking and that I was the only one amongst the four of us that was actually consuming alcohol. Yeah. Under normal circumstances, I would have felt a twinge of pissed off-ness at them. Either way, they got me talking about why I was shut up in my room so much, apparently only interested in sitcoms and Jon Stewart and Colbert.

At some point while I was thus inebriated, I had to mention that I didn’t talk a lot because there was nothing I could say in the utterly lawyerly and erudite conversations they (my friends) seemed to partake in. I had spent the winter before this intervention interning at two places where I really liked working. Both of the bosses involved were cool, funny and gave me a drive to work simply in order to satisfy myself. And I still came back realizing yet again that I wanted nothing to do with the law. Suffice it to say, this was not something I dealt well with.

I came to law school because I imagined that in five years, I would have a degree and enough skills to do what I wanted, which I imagined I would have figured out in five years (Insufferably optimistic of me, you say? Well hindsight is twenty-twenty, fellow law school bitch). The latter clearly had not happened. And honestly, I didn’t even know if I had the strength of will to do the former (get the degree). So sad. And while I was giving this little tidbit of sadnessto my friends, they asked me what I really liked doing. And because I was too drunk to filter my answers, I said I liked writing and that it was the only thing I felt comfortable doing.

That’s pretty much what got me out of my funk. First, the fact that I knew what I wanted to do, and second that I had three people in my life willing to technically delve into grey areas of the law to save me from myself. Make sure you write this down kids – Self affirmation and true karmic independence is overrated. Having someone give a shit enough to do something is much, much better.

But what the three felon friends didn’t know was that they didn’t know the half of it. I wasn’t just confused or worried. I was in a pretty dark stage. The kind of dark where if I think about how bad a state I was in mentally, I get scared of the fact that I was ever capable of being that depressed. And I was like that for quite a while; since a little more than six months before this forced drunkenness.

I don’t like to use the S word (I have never really been very interested in Sex. So I don’t like to say the word. Is this an entirely transparent attempt to distract from the actual S word connected to depression, i.e. Sangria? You’ll never know) and I really wasn’t thinking about Sangria in an actual, “I want to drink Sangria because Sangria is the only drink option left in the world” kind of way. I was just thinking about it in the “man, Sangria seems like it would be a really really easy way to stop being terribly thirsty and sad” kind of way. But I did think about Sangria almost every second that I wasn’t laughing at something someone said or wasn’t generally distracted. This may or may not be the reason there were complaints from my neighbors about me laughing too loudly at odd times in the night.

The point is, I’ve had a few issues in life; issues such as some deep shame over being presumably unworthy. And it sucked a lot. There was a point where I cried entirely too much (in the privacy of my room, late at night) for any normal person. Seriously, I should have harvested the fuck out of that talent – endless crying. But it got better. Cue Vangelis.

And now, I think me and Alice the Mini Horse are going to not be seeing each other anymore. I can’t be sure, but I caught her fucking a goat. A male goat. I’m assuming that means we’re done. Also, my err.. my breath mint person who sold me breath mints left town without telling me about it. But even as I bid adieu to my life with Alice, and the dreams I had of us riding off into the sunset (in a very acrobatic yet odd position to align our boom booms), and I deal with withdrawal symptoms, I think I’ll be fine. Because if I could survive constant crying and day dreaming about Sangria, I’m okay with being a little sad about me and Alice and about my need to tear my skin apart because I haven’t had a hit of fresh, uncut mint in ages. Perspective.

– Billy

ME: You know, when you try to add funny to this stuff it just seems disingenuous. Like you’re doing the uncomfortable fake laugh throughout. Pathetic.

me: Hey, you’re the one that convinced me to post this shite anyway. I was perfectly willing to wait another week for inspiration and then write about two actually funny embarassing secrets.

ME: I convinced you so people would know you’re capable of being an idiot. That whole time was idiotic. You were stupid.

me: Ugh. Ok whatever. Its done now. Nothing we can do about it.

ME: Cue the random stuff you put up in the end.


Here’s this thing I found when I ran into International Sceptics Day stuff on Youtube. I like how this guy does atheism –

Also I find him to be strangely good looking. Or maybe its just the stuff coming out of his mouth. Oral Sex Jokes!

Wow. I have nothing more. No gifs. No pictures. What will I do now?? Sangria.

ME: Again, uncomfortable fake laughter.

me: ……….

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Posted by on October 17, 2012 in Bakchodi, Random


Amy Poehler, Linklaters Paraphernalia and Frog Non Princes

There is a story to tell here, and it literally just happened, so I may need to collect my thoughts even as I write. You may prematurely guess the amphibian…ic(?) nature of this tale from the title, and you may not be far off. If I were a more positive person, I would write about unexpected turns of events where things you consider to be a burden on your life and your room, turn out to be useful. But being me, I can only concentrate on the disgusting aspects of the fact that I left Amy Poehler a fan mail a while ago, to which I got a reply that I was reading when a frog entered my room; and when I kissed it, instead of turning into a prince, it started trying to get to third base (I let practically anyone get to second base, so the boob grazing was no big deal). Also, err… the frog really liked Links? (it’s a law firm, for the lucky people who don’t know)

I finished one of my articles for History of Punishment, which in my book is a cause for celebration. So, in celebration, I was spending some quality time with myself (not in a self-pleasuring way. My Aunt Flo – short for Florentyna – called me a few days ago and reminded me about what happens with my vagina when God watches it. She didn’t tell me why God watches it) with some coke, some chips and a lot of 30 Rock and Parks And Recreation.

I was falling rapidly in love with Adam Scott, and even getting to the point where despite being in love with him, I could imagine ripping his clothes off his skinny little body and… THIS CONTENT MAY BE CONSIDERED TOO DIRTY FOR SOME READERS. LINKS TO THE DETAILS WILL BE PROVIDED AT THE END… and as we lay there, him smoking his post coital cigarette, and me drinking my heated Nutella from an industrial grade straw, he looks towards me and says, “You need a little meat on those bones, baby, so drink up.”

So that was happening. This was when I saw that cretin… ous(?) creature. It was huge (not really) and it was trying to assault me! (It was on my bed, which is as close as I’ll ever … oh Adam Scott…) It was a frog. Or a toad. It didn’t have orange tinges so I’m hoping it was a frog. It was small, now that I think about it with my normal heart rate and my larynx able to form proper consonant sounds. It was actually, quite small. It could have been covered up by the cap of a coke bottle. But that didn’t deter me. I was sure that despite its young age and small size, it would turn into Adam Scott once I made out with it, so we went at it, me and the underage frog-toad.

No, actually I crawled out of my bed, making a low pitch dog whine type of sound from my throat (which is what I did for about the next five seconds) before I looked for the nearest container with which to trap the kraken. Now technically, the nearest containers were right at the foot of my bed – my Beatles mug (Actually from London! Brought for me by M!), my beer mug (for juice and oats), my blue mug which I actually use for beer, and my set of smaller mugs/cups which I use for decoration (they’re cute) and also as shot glasses cause they’re roughly the same size. But even in crisis, I am proud to say my OCD was intact. My mind screamed, “Not those! You use those! No! Look the other way!”

As a proud follower of my mind, I looked the other way, and there, on my desk, was the Links mug. This mug had caused me a lot of trouble. It does not belong to me. It belongs to a friend of mine who was too lazy and precious to carry it in his hand when I had a bag. It was in my room the day that I cleaned the room, the fan, the books, the fan, my clothes, the dustbin and the utensils so it had been cleaned. I had wanted it out of my room because there is space in my room for my stuff, stuff that I borrow, but no space for stuff that I have in my room for a while for no good reason. But it has been here for a while. I had since used it to catch flies, a blue colored bee, and as a stand for my tiny mirror when I need to put on eye make-up. But despite its unwanted presence on my desk, (which, for the record, is not the place for mugs unless I am at the desk at the time when its on the desk. Or unless I’m posing at the desk for the invisible camera crew that follows me around sometimes) today, it saved my life and honor.

I grabbed it, and crawled my way back to the bed, all the while squeaking, “This is not ok, not ok, not ok. Not cool. This is bad. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”, and located the devil spawn. Then in a feat of bravery and common sense, I trapped the frog under the mug. For about two minutes after that, I was on my knees, supported by my desk, doing some very deep breathing. When I came to, I realized I had done that for two minutes, which meant that for the sake of my peace, I had to check that the little green bastard was still under there. I slowly raised the mug to see that he wasn’t. A second later, I realized that he was and had only attached himself to the inner walls of the mug.

Having confirmed that the sluggish asshole was still in there, I did what Patrick Maitland taught me, and slid a thick card under the mug, picked it up, and released it into the wild. The wild that was far, far away from my door.

And so it was that the stupid mug which I didn’t want in my room saved my other mugs from having to be used for something disgusting. Really gives you some perspective, this whole incident. When life hands you mugs that have no place in your room, make frog/toad traps.

And before you ladies start picturing me as your perfect, well-breasted, lesbian Amazonian warrior in shining armor, do consider that this incredible act of bravery was conducted with the wheezy “No! Fuck! No! Fuck! No! Fuck! Gross, gross, gross, Fuck!” rant I mentioned earlier, and also by crawling that was very, very similar to this –

Despite these clear irregularities from the general stereotypes of Amazonian warriors, if anybody out there is interested in the services I can provide, along with the previously mentioned camera crew, I would be willing to consider it, for a nominal fee obviously. Send your mails to Billy Amazon, Shameerpet Law College. The address is on the website.

That’s all.

–          Billy

P.S. – to the owner of the mug – I will of course be washing the mug three times over, at the least.

ME: Well, this was ok. It still wasn’t what you were planning on writing. That story thing.

me: Dude. Just… you know that sucked.

ME: So? People should see that you suck. This blog was about honesty, right?

me: Yeah. But I have written some good stuff in the past. Its not like I’m bad at writing stories, I just happen to not have written anything good. You just want me to put up everything I ever write, including that shameful feminist post and the work-in-progress stories I write.

ME: Yeah!

me: That’s stupid. If its not good, I wont put it up. I retain the right to be my own editor.

ME: Go Fuck Yourself.


P.P.S. – Here’s some more fun(ny)

Someone told me this is totally me. I like my reputation –

When People Make Fun Of You To Your Face For Being Weird

Hehehehe. Tumblr 🙂

I have discovered God on Facebook. Things have changed since 1st year.