read the signs shyamalam

The year holds promise.

Seven days have gone by.

And on third day as I sat at Salt Water Cafe waiting for someone, a kindly waiter gave me my tea and croissants. Then he gave him his kitchen order pad and asked for my number. I thought it was for Wi-Fi security measures. Then he said, “Please your name also.”

Something about the way he said it made me ask him why.

“Because I want to make friandship with you. You are very pretty.”

On the fifth day I discovered a marvellous invention by Gmail labs. In case you are kind who loves to mail when drunk, it is the perfect application for you. It makes you to solve math problems before you can hit the send button.

Of course for someone like me, that might mean never being able to send a single mail.

Now if only someone would do the same for drunk messaging.

On the seventh day, I opened the Mumbai Times. And I saw a profile shot of Amitabh Bachchan in swimming trunks and a life jacket. I stared at his spindly wrinkly legs and white saggy bottom.

Some poor guy at TOI is in so much shit. Maybe he’ll follow it up with a bald picture.

I’m telling you it’s going to be a great year. Happy new year all you guys.