And so, I am back. With plans — big ones — a Bangkok trav­el­ogue, sev­eral book reviews, the usual (at least a ) post a day promise, more Ileana pic­tures on the other blog, a short story, three nov­els and many, many such things I know you could care less about.

And so I am back, and what’s the first thing I read? Plans for a Sepia Mutiny meetup in Los Ange­les. A rare desi blog meet in this very coun­try, and where is it held? As far away from Florida as humanly pos­si­ble. Not a coin­ci­dence, I assure you: I know planned it that way.

In case you think I am over­re­act­ing, then how do you explain this: Peo­ple wait for me to leave Chen­nai, and the very next week, they hold some sort of Blog­Camp there. Clearly, it is part of a dis­trub­ing trend: Blog­gers just don’t want to meet me. I know my intel­lect can be a lit­tle off­putting to all you dum­b­asses, but still… You know what? Screw all you blog­gers. (Poor Manoj excepted, of course. The jerk meets me every­day so that he can have some­thing to laugh about with his new wife.) If you are a non blog­ger, the hot pic­tures are over on the other blog.

I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again now: My own blog meet, right down the street from my own home. At my favorite cof­fee shop, run by dear old Mandy and her hus­band, who were nice enough to give us exclu­sive access to the place for the whole evening…

Here are snip­pets from the meet…


Blog­gera: Smells cof­fee. Then tastes it. “Wow, this is great cof­fee. Ummm… just awe­some. What would the world be with­out coffee?”

Fal­staff: “A World With­out Cof­fee. 1. It would be illu­mi­nat­ing to con­sider what the word world means in this con­text. The world…

Blog­gera: “Excuse me, but that was a purely rhetor­i­cal ques­tion. I don’t really want to know what the world would be with­out coffee.”

Fal­staff: “Oh, I see. But can I fin­ish off this speech though? I only have 37 more bul­let items to go through. And then, about 18 footnotes.”

Blog­gera: “Please, no. Let me drink my coffee.”

Megha: “This cof­fee is cho chweet. Gleat.”

Blog­gerc­thruz: “What a thought­ful sentence.”

Sud­denly, mul­ti­ple rays of light emanate from her eyes.

Megha: “Don’t worry, that was my eyes twin­kling. Thankoo Blog­gerc­thruz. Thankoo cho cho much.”

Me: “I’ll be back guys. Gotta go pee.” Comes back in five min­utes. “So did I miss anything?”

Blog­gerb: “Umm.. not much. Megha got 18 more com­ments. Man­ish wrote four posts at Ultra­Brown, and made 3 releases of Rock­et­Post. Amit made 11 posts on his blog, and wrote an arti­cle each for Cricinfo and the Wall Street Journal.”

Me: “Damn. In other words, ink flowed out of their pens, while piss flowed out of mine?”

Eww. Groan. Puke. Good Lord.”

Uniden­ti­fied Young Man: The speaker is try­ing to make a joke. He is using the fact that pens and penises are shaped sim­i­larly. I don’t like the joke much because Amit and Man­ish use key­boards, not pens.

Me: “Any­ways, to be fair to myself, I did think of a post in the bath­room. In fact, I think of most posts when pee­ing, so I guess you could call me the num­ber one blog­ger in India.”

Amit: “Damn, that joke was too bad for even India Uncut.”

Kiru: “Wait a minute, does that man I am not the num­ber one anymore?”

Chenthil: “Of course not. Your blog sucks.”

Kiru: “If Himesh Resham­maiya can be the most pop­u­lar music direc­tor in India, why can’t I be the num­ber one blogger?”

Me: “Yeah, and let’s not for­get the national award for Amitabh Bachchan.”

Kiru: “Thank you!”


Just then, a knock. I open the door, and much to my hor­ror, find an angry Jai flanked by Chan­dra­has and Ammani.

Me: “Why are you guys here? Who invited you? Jai, is your DVD player broke or some­thing? Chan­dra­has, don’t you have a book to review or a mat­tress to buy? Ammani, what about quick tale 156? Who’ll write it if you are here? Please leave.”

Ammani: “You ingrate. I blogrolled you and all, and you won’t even let me in? Jerk.”

Jai: “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

Me: “Ok, ok. To explain, I got to make a speech.

Quick Tale 1000.

She got into the ele­va­tor on the top floor. The well dressed young man got in on the next floor. She smiled at him and he smiled back.

The ele­veator stopped on the next floor down and another young man got in. He was dressed like a punkster, and didn’t return her smile.

After that, another floor. Another young man. She wasn’t sure about smil­ing, so she started fid­dling with her cell­phone instead. The third man smiles at the sec­ond man, and the sec­ond man returns his smile.

Ammani: “Go on.”

Me: “That’s it.”

Chan­dra­has: “I don’t mean to hurt your feel­ings, but that was pathetic.”

Ammani: “Hor­rid. So what’s your point any­way? Why didn’t you invite us?”

Me: “The point is, par­ody or no par­ody, I can’t really write like you guys. You write too well for me.”

All: “Aww.”

Me: “Any­ways, now that you are here, I’ll give you all non speak­ing parts. Why don’t you go sit by that man JAP there and watch with­out speak­ing? Oh, and thank you for not bring­ing Amardeep and Anna along.”

Jai: “Why is JAP sit­ting there all by himself?”

Me: “He is tak­ing notes on how bad everyone’s shoes are. Before you go to that table, I sug­gest you take off your watches and shoes, unless you want to be called a fash­ion chal­lenged cretin on tomorrow’s post.”


Mean­while, Kiru strikes up a con­ver­sa­tion with Mandy.

Kiru: “Hi.”

Mandy: “Hello.”

Kiru: “Hmm.. so you own this establishment?”

Mandy: “Yes sir, that’s correct.”

Kiru: “Would it be accu­rate to call you the attrac­tive, self-made CEO of a grow­ing startup company?”

Mandy: “Maybe.”

Kiru: “I am India’s lead­ing blog­ger. Can I do a pod­cast with you?”

Mandy walks away, and returns with her husband.

Mark: “So who here wanted to do some­thing dirty to my wife?”

Kiru: “Pod­cast­ing is not some­thing dirty sir. I can do it with you too. I will then post it on the internet.”

Mark: “Do it and then post it on the inter­net? What the fuck? Do I look like Paris Hilton to you? Get out of here now!”

Uniden­ti­fied Young Man: “This con­fu­sion arose because of the unfa­mil­iar­ity of this gen­tle­man with the word pod­cast­ing. Since he didn’t know the word, he assumed it meant some­thing dirty.”

Me: “Dude, why do you keep stat­ing the obvi­ous all the time? Who are you?”

Uniden­ti­fied Young Man: “My name is Patrix. I run Desipun­dit.

Me: “Ah, that explains it.”

Nilu: “Puke.”

Me: “Is that all you can do? Puke?”

Nilu: “No, I can also talk about prime numbers.”

Me: “That is bor­ing. What else?”

Then­na­van: “Oh, I also know a lot about prime num­bers.” Widens cheeks, and holds pose.

Me: “What’s that for?”

Then­na­van: “That is a smi­ley. It’s always safe to throw in a few when you are talk­ing. So, I know a lot about prime num­bers. I love Chen­nai, I also love India. When will I find a girl to love?”

Nilu: “Please excuse me, but I need to do this first. Puke. I can also write erotica.”

Me: “Damn, that’s excit­ing. Give us an example.”

Nilu: “The aun­tie was chop­ping onions in the kitchen. The kids were out play­ing cricket. Uncle comes into the kitchen, and lifts up auntie’s saree. They then roll on the floor, back and forth, back and forth. Up and down, up and down. When he is done, uncle is cry­ing, because of all the onions that got into his eye. Later, when aun­tie serves cof­fee to uncle, he flicks away an onion stuck to her ear. She blushes.”

Jai: “I feel a bit nau­seous myself.”

Ammani: “Thanks for not invit­ing us.”

Me: “Wow. You should stick to puking.”

Patrix: Onions cause one to tear up, because they con­tain oxalic acid. Although peo­ple shed tears when they come into con­tact with onions, they are not actu­ally crying.”

Nilu: “Dou­ble puke.”

Uniden­ti­fied Young Man 2: I, find, all„„this„,very„„„funny;

Me: And who might you be, young man?

Blog­gerj: “That’s Saket. Also known as Vul­turo. Occa­sion­ally, he is known to punc­tu­ate his com­mas with some words.”


Me: “This is such a bor­ing blog meet. Le’ts talk about some­thing interesting.”

Amit: “Cows?”

Kaps: “Let’s talk about blog­ging. I read some­where that to be a suc­cess­ful blog­ger, you have to write 365 posts a year. My ques­tion is, what does one do dur­ing leap years?”

Me: “I said talk about some­thing interesting.”

Amit: It is a log­i­cal fal­lacy to assume that what is inter­est­ing to you will be inter­est­ing to other people.”

Me: “Well, hmm…”

Amit: “Do you dis­agree. God, I wish this was my blog. I would’ve linked to eigh­teen dif­fer­ent Latin terms on Wikipedia to prove you wrong.

Actio per­son­alis moritur cum per­sona.

Pacta sunt ser­vanda.

Sine qua non.”

Fal­staff: Ears perk up on hear­ing some Latin. “What a phrase! Actio per­son­alis moritur cum per­sona. So lyri­cal, so poetic. I love poetry in other languages.

Amit: “Um well, that was a legal phrase. But whatever…”

Me: “Maybe we can talk about Hair? What do you guys think about the whole $500000 thing?

Neha: I love to talk about hair. Have I told you about how poetry altered my hairstyle?

Me: “Only a hun­dred times. But I was not talk­ing about that hair.”

Annie Zaidi: “How mean! Men are pigs. All men are morons.”

Dilip: “What a thought pro­vok­ing state­ment. That makes you a fine journalist.”

Great­Bong: Clears throat.

Blog­gerathruzand­someothers: “Ha, Ha, Ha. Hilarious.”

Great­Bong: “Shut up guys, this is seri­ous stuff. So, Dilip, tell us how call­ing all men morons makes one a fine journalist?”

Dilip: “Oh a dif­fi­cult ques­tion. How I wish this was my blog — I could’ve buried this one under a del­uge of posts.”

Great­Bong: “So ?”

Dilip: “Good­bye!”


And just as quickly as they came, every­one was gone.

PS: Please, please, don’t remove me from your blogrolls. That would break my heart. I love you all. Well, sorta.