Author Archive for Abhishek Madan

Absolutely Nothing

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on January 11, 2013 in Uncategorized. 2 Comments

In early 2012, I bought Battlefield 3. It was my first military shooter in a long, long time. The last one was Call of Duty 2, back in 2005. Or 2006. I did play Counter Strike in between, but there’s a fundamental difference between them.

Counter Strike is to war, what cats are to tigers.

CS is a silly, fun, occasionally serious but mostly tame, video game. Family reunions seem more like war than Counter Strike.

Military shooters, on the other hand, promise to take you deep inside the black heart of war. And about 5 minutes into my first multiplayer match in Battlefield 3, I had a realization.

I did not want to go deep inside the black heart of war.

While CS had its contrived maps with oddly placed crates and double doors, BF3 put me somewhere in the Middle East (or Eurasia? some place bright and brick coloured), on streets with cars and bicycles.

Think of Counter Strike as an Olympics 110m hurdles race. Nice, clean, well-engineered track with those strong, languid-on-the-surface athletes.
BF3 was a steeple chase where a scraggly man with very bad running form (me) was forced to jump over thorny thickets with a pack of hungry wolves snapping at his heels.

Fundamentally, they were the same. Running as fast as you can and jumping over stuff. But the latter is just… terrifying.

I roamed around this virtual street, feeling vulnerable, when I heard my first BF3 gunshots. They were awful.

CS had made me believe that guns sounded like what they did in Bollywood movies.

Then this entire invasion of Afghanistan happened, then Iraq, then the Mexican drug wars. People posted videos on liveleak and YouTube. I was now exposed to the sound of gunfire in cities. It rang against the walls. It was impossible to identify, spatially. It accompanied heavy breathing and shrieking. It was unpredictable.

That’s what BF3 guns sound like. I sat there wondering “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

Then I heard a low mechanical rumbling. Like wheels made out metal… I looked around frantically. Took me a minute to spot the elephant in the room.

A tank. A FREAKING TANK.

I was pretty calm till I saw the little orange red triangle above it. OH CRAP. If video games had taught me anything, it was green = friend and red = enemy.

I ran like a maniac. I could only run as fast the video game let me, but in my head I was the flying Sikh. (note: I was neither flying, nor am I Sikh.)

I got behind a structure but the tank kept shooting. It was deafening. There was rubble and dust everywhere. The structure I was supposed to take cover behind had been razed to the ground.

And there I was, standing face to metaphorical face… with a tank. Staring down its barrel (or turret or glory hole, whatever it’s called). I let it shoot me. I gave up.

I dreamt of being chased by a tank later. That’s how bad it was.

Sometimes, it’s impossible to trivialize war. I’ve put 10 hours into BF3 (very little by multiplayer shooter game standards) and I’m still scared of big maps and more serious game modes.

I’m a wuss.

6 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan.

Together

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on December 8, 2012 in Uncategorized. 0 Comments

She slid in noiselessly through the bathroom door.

In fact, if it wasn’t for the cold November air that shot a hole through the wall of steam I call a shower, I wouldn’t have noticed her.

I smiled at her. She looked at me coyly with her big eyes, twinkling with naughtiness.

I also noticed she was naked. Naked, as she was born. Naked, as I had first held her. I stretched my arm out to invite her. A hot shower is easily one of the greatest feelings on Earth. And to share it with someone you love, even better.

She hesitated, playful as ever. So I cupped my hands and splashed some water on her.

That’s when she let out a blood curdling yell and bolted out of the bath.

Basically my cat hates water.

9 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan.

Kahaani Ghar Ghar Ki

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on May 14, 2012 in C'est la vie and Rant. 4 Comments

Land lords are simply Sith Lords who got a name change.

A year ago I found a beautiful house in Sahakar Nagar, ground floor of a 3 storey independent house. The road that led up to it was like the cover of an Enid Blyton novel.

It had a bedroom so charming that George Clooney would fall for it. A verandah so cosy that evolution modelled the human vagina after it. A garden so green that many video production houses used it as a cheap substitute to a green screen.

Basically a house that would get me laid. Very often.

Just before I paid the deposit, the owner said that he wanted a married gentleman to occupy his house. I was single, and vaguely a gentleman. So I fell short on both counts.

I decided to get married, hoping that would also change my perceived image to gentleman-ly.

A year later (from the year ago, not from today), I found a beautiful house in Sahakar Nagar. Again.

It had bedrooms so large your momma could fit in them. A garden so beautiful my cat would think twice before pooping in it. A verandah so big that all my friends could get drunk there, break the bottles and still have place to sit on the floor without cutting themselves.

And when I met the owner today, he tells me, “Oh so you are married. Actually I was looking a big family. So that they maintain the garden.”

Because, you know, women who have the additional responsibility of raising children are more likely to find time from their torturous schedule to clip the shrubbery.

You want to know why India has 1.2 bn people?

THE MOTHERFUCKING LANDLORDS. THEY WANT YOU TO MARRY AND POP OUT KIDS LIKE HYDROGEN UNDERGOING COMBUSTION.

21 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan.

2012

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on April 4, 2012 in Uncategorized. 0 Comments

First they came for the communists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Jew.

Then they came for Android users,
AND THEN I WAS LIKE “NO WAY BASTARDS!” AND TOTALLY PUNCHED THEM IN THE NOSE.

16 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan.

L’appel du Vide

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on October 13, 2011 in C'est la vie. 3 Comments

I just had to peer down. Down the bright red cliff that didn’t seem even remotely unnatural. If I went back in time and looked at it again, I’d think I’m on Mars. Not on that day. This was my city and I was no stranger to its soil.

But when you peer down a cliff that high, you become a stranger to everything. Life? School? Tomorrow’s 4 PM tennis match? History block test on Wednesday?

None of them matter. What you really want to do is let go. Walk 50 paces behind. Run like you’ve never run before. Barefoot, carefree. Soft, red, moist fertile soil underneath. Run faster than you ever had. Or will. By the time you’re at the edge of the cliff you’re almost breathless.

And then you jump. Jump off that cliff.

Feel the wind make wild love to your hair. Smile. You still have to work against the wind to smile. But then that’s how love works. Note how you missed that large rock jutting out of the wall of the cliff. That run up was magical. It terrorized batsmen when you were 9. In your head it still does.

And suddenly you’re back. You are you again. You with the tennis camp. You with the social science test. You the 12 year old who hates the fact that he knows exactly how it’s going to turn out.

You hold your mom’s hand and walk away. You can’t but look back at the cliff with confusion. Like a hostage who loves his kidnapper.

Landscapes don’t follow the laws of society. And you don’t want to. You were made for each other.

The void. It calls you.

13 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan.

Swingers

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on September 12, 2011 in Make Believe. 4 Comments

“Here we go again….”

“W-w-wait, what is it, evening already?”

“No man, she’s landed a morning gig.”

“Morning gig?” she repeated mockingly, “morning gig? stop talking about her as if she’s a performing artist. She’s a whore you oaf.”

“Tomayto tohmaato. And oaf? Really? I think I missed all the literature she seems to be reading.”

“Yes you did. It’s the only time she’s still anyway.”

They silently watched her go through her drill. Mobile phone, check. Pepper spray,check. Keys, ummm… wait a minute. Oh yes yes in that corner of her handbag, check check check.

“So who do you think it’s gonna be this time?”

“Who knows. Like I care.” her voice quivered with resignation. “We’re all just little bits of bait she hangs on her fishing line, hoping one of us will snag a big one.”

“But… but do we stack? Or are we like Critical Strike, stack but with diminishing returns? Do we add HP or mana? And are we acti…”, he was in no mood to mope.

“Oh fuck you. Don’t remind me of those days. I wish she’d been addicted to that shit long enough to become ugly and cold and a social misfit. But no, little miss do-it-all needs to do it all”

“I think you mean little miss do-them-all needs to do them all” he chuckled, waiting to unleash a Pokémon comeback.

“Oh save your smartass comebacks, you’ll need them after we’re hit by a spider web of fertile confetti.”

“Spiderwhat?”

“Cumshot”

“WHAT HAS THIS WOMAN BEEN READING?”

“Some Arundhati Roy I think.”

“Figures.”

“Whoever it is, I just hope he’s clean.”

“I swear, I’m sick of dangling next to nether regions that smell like…”

“Shhhhhhhhhhh..”

“What? Don’t shhh me just before I simile you!”

“Shut your poppycock! Look there… it’s not a businessman”

“Good God it’s not! It’s a business woman! It’s a business woman meeting a woman of business!”

“I knew this would happen. Being gay is the rage these days you know.”

“I really need to start reading whatever you’re reading.”

This was supposed to be a conversation between a pair of earrings. Inspired by this tweet and this realization.

12 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan.

Sunday Morning

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on August 8, 2011 in Story. 5 Comments

Imagine being in love with two women at the same time. Every moment you spend with one kills you because you can’t spend it with the other. All the lying and cheating. Leaving home early for an important meeting. Working on Sundays. You’ve heard the drill.

Then imagine discovering that not only do they know each other, they adore each other. They want each other.

Only when she snatched the keys from him did he realize that his fantasy was about to come true. He ran back into the house, stuffed some tissues into his back pocket and ran back out hoping he hadn’t missed any of the action.

She was staring at her reflection in the shiny petrol tank.

“You know how to do this right? Just gradually let go of the clutc…”

“Shut up kiddo, I’ve seen you do it way too many times.”

The bump in his pants shrank a little, but he hopped on the back seat nonetheless.

A few hiccups later they were on the highway. Between the sweet smell of the exhaust and her long, lovely hair, he hovered dangerously close to an explosive olfactory orgasm. With his hands around her slender waist he watched the pedestrians watch him, proud of this threesome that rumbled along carelessly in its own bubble.

“Ummm, please stop shoving your boner into my back”

“There’s not much I can do, unless you have a better place for me to shove it”

He saw a hint of a smile in the rear view mirror.

They stopped at a red light and he looked down to see her soft thighs hugging the warm metal. Brats in a fancy sedan a few meters away wiped the drool off their faces. One of them stuck his head out to say something smart, but a short stare from her was more than enough. The light turned green and they sped off.

He could hold it in no longer.

Back home, she sunk into the couch.

“I thought you were having a fit.”

“Maybe I was. It was a pretty good one though.”

“I’m not taking you the next time.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Oh shut up, of course I can. She’s mine just as much as she is yours.”

He knew that made perfect sense. He was sharing both now. Individually, he lost more than he gained. But then a threesome is more than a sum of its parts.

These characters also appeared in The Dark Room. Which you should read.

22 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan.

Cattery is here to stay

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on July 23, 2011 in Review. 7 Comments

I’m a dog guy. Always have been.

No one admits it but just like children, dogs are inconvenient. More so for a single man with a very erratic schedule. So when it came to choosing a pet to fill the emotional void that engulfs one when you get over the relief of finally being home after a tough day at work, I chose a cat. Cats aren’t just less inconvenient, they are in fact, more convenient.

Apart from reading user manuals in the potty and obsessively inspecting the packaging of every newly acquired item, my other main pastime is writing lengthy and pedantic reviews of everything I own. So consider this A Review of My Cat After 3 Months of Ownership: From a Dog Guy.

Why I repeat the dog guy bit is because I refuse to adhere to the strict principles of being a cat owner. I’m not a hipster, do not obsess about feeding her exact wet and kibble portions, do not believe she owns me and certainly don’t call her a domestic shorthair (a cat fancy term for non-fancy cats).

And as she sits here on my chest, all snuggled up and purring softly just a few minutes after unleashing a vicious fart about 4 inches from my nose, I can say that I adore her. She has personality. She’s got charm. Sometimes she’s complete nuts. But most of all, because she’s rather stupid.

There are few things as cute as a little fur-ball with large green eyes, soft pink paws, a wet nose and no brains.

Being stupid doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a modus operandi. Her standard ploy is to hold my large toe hostage between her rapidly growing incisors, demanding a ransom of fish and/or vigorous chin scratching. Then there is the daily ritual of ankle rubs, a paroxysm of fawning (apologies, I have grown fond of these two words and this post is merely an excuse to use them).

Before I got Anjali (also know as Billeshwari, Lakshmi, Cat and in times of sudden and uncontrollable anger, Terimaki), I did not know if cats reciprocated emotionally. But after 3 months of heavy product usage, my review confirms that they are very good at it. Let me deviate slightly to give you an example.

When we dream, real life stimuli often converts into a scene in the dream. Ringing phones appear when your alarm goes off in real life. A character in your dream starts to mouth obscenities when your college roommate is waking you up in real life etc. But my dream rendering engine was left clueless one day when I woke up to see Anjali enthusiastically grooming my beard. At first it was weird, a cat’s sandpapery tongue rummaging through my facial hair. But then I was in that liberal stage of quasi-sleep and I closed my eyes and well… loved it.

She’s pretty, she’s playful and she’s very entertaining. I sincerely and wholeheartedly recommend this product.

14 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan.

Yesterday

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on April 29, 2011 in C'est la vie. 15 Comments

I’m not that bad a cook actually. Serious, ask my friends.

But as I cooked breakfast the other day, an elderly gentleman rang the bell. Not exactly well dressed.

“P.N. Rao?”

“Umm.. no you have the wrong house.”

“No no, P.N. Rao? A-1?”

“This is H-2. A-1 is in that other block over there.”

He continued to stare at me. Probably the language, I thought.

“A-1 doosre block mein hai. Basement se doosri lift lijiye aur first floor pe jaye” I said, gesticulating quite animatedly.

Still staring.

I went back to English.

Then to broken English and Hindi.

Not too sure why I do that. I’m probably thinking, he doesn’t understand English or Hindi, so here’s a brilliant idea. Let me mix the two. Surely he’ll get that. Surely.

He moved closer and finally spoke with a sheepish smile.

“Actually… I am little new here.”

Oh. So you’re lost. Poor man!

The cat had run into the corridor by then. She has this explosive mixture of curiosity and fear. She continues inspecting the new area but with a tail so puffed up you’d wonder why there’s a christmas tree at the other end of that cat.

I latched the door, picked her up and walked towards the lift. The elderly man trudged along slowly, resting most of his weight on the railing. He looked tired mentally and physically.

We got into the lift and I asked him what languages he spoke.

“Hindi. Angrezi. Sabko aate mujhe.”

My Gult-radar shot up from Low Intensity Risk to Critical Exposure.

“Ghar mein Telugu bol te?”

“Haan”

As soon as I started jabbering in his mother tongue his beady eyes lit up. Still a slow walker, in better spirits though.

“I had just gone to the shop. While coming back I forgot.”

I nodded.

“When I moved here I too got lost many times”, I told him. Honestly, I probably did. My sense of direction is terrible.

“Really?”

“Yes yes.”

“When I go back to my village and tell my friends I got lost in my daughter’s house they will have a hearty laugh”, he said.

I had a hearty laugh right there. The cat was growing impatient.

We were walking towards the next lift when he suddenly stopped and almost whispered in my ear (which was about how tall he was anyway)

“If my daughter asks where you met me, just say in the compound somewhere. Actually I went to the shop without telling them. I wanted some gutkha. They don’t let me have it, some doctor said something and they will believe anything. Please haa ok? I will tell I was simply walking.”

I nodded my head. We all have our addictions. Cat was going ballistic by now. I don’t know what Whiskas puts in their can of fish, but that shit is cat cocaine.

I walked with him to his doorstep. Exchanged pleasantries with his middle aged daughter and left.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is how I burnt my scrambled eggs.

Because I’m not that bad a cook actually.

45 people like this post.

Unlike

Written by Abhishek Madan. Tags: Bangalore, Elderly people, old people, Telugu.

The Trip

Written by Abhishek Madan. Published on April 20, 2011 in C'est la vie. 8 Comments

” So you want me to drop you at the same pla…”

“Dudeeee bus, fuck it, I’m taking it”

“Cool”

Run. Run. Catch bus. Front door opens. Very nice. Conductor asks for change. I say mailto:obama@whitehouse.com. Give him 100. Fuck it. Give me 90 bucks change.

AC. Aaah. Air conditioning. Soft seat. Aaaaah. Baby. Flash back

“Dude I can’t drink this last one, all yours”

Sure. Glug glug glug. Abbe saale, rum and coke hai. Beer nahi. Glug glug glug.

Conductor says HAL.

HAL. Hehe. My stop. Too drunk. AC. Soft seat. Aaaah fuck it.

Conductor says HELICOPTER!

FUCK. Helicopter division. 3km from my place. GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF.

Got off.

In the middle of nofuckingwhere. Auto? No auto. Walk. Suhaana mausam. Suddenly super bright flash. Lightning. VERY FUCKING BRIGHT. Can’t see. Red stuff swimming in front of eyes. Oh my fucking God. Hear sizzling. But no thunder? No sound of lightning striking?

Suddenly LOUDEST FUCKING NOISE I HAVE EVER HEARD. Ears go numb. Sizzling. Lightning has hit a tree nearby.

Run. Run for your fucking life. Run for your next quart of Old Monk. Run for the girl in the forest. Run for the legend that you will be.

Too drunk to realize I’m running. Running along 6 foot deep drains. Run fucker run. It’s going to rain. Lightning might hit you. Bhaag bhenchod bhaag. Run against traffic. Run with dogs chasing. Call the dogs. Entice them. Stretch your hand out. Then realize there are no dogs. Too drunk.

Running wearing Hush Puppies sandals. Why the fuck did I even think of my sandals. Oh yeah, I blew a wad of cash on them.

Run run run. See a gate. Oh my God. So close. Run. Check time. Bakery might close. No food. Hungry as a fuck. Bhaag saale.

Reach turn off to house. Wait for auto. Too tired. Heart rate through the roof. First auto occupied. So on till Nth auto. See N+1th auto. Empty. Take it take it take it.

“LBS Nagar”

“30 Rupees”

“Lauda choos le”

Jump into auto. Reach bakery. Bakery is open. OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. Food. Chips. Plum cake. Tea.

Go to bakery.

Forget why you’ve come to bakery.

“Cheta, ondu….”

“Yenu beku magaaaa?”

“Hmm. Good question. Gothilla”

Come home. Sober Gujju roommate. Eggs. Boil. Cat. Laptop. Wordpress. IPL. Cat. Purr. Meow. Kiss. Love. Warm.

Home.

I survived.