Piyush Pandey Sold to McCan for Rs. 59 Crores (as published in Campaign India- 27th Jan, 2011

Now wouldn’t that be a headline? Not that it would ever happen. And Piyush wouldn’t be that inexpensive. But what if it could? What if creatives are auctioned every year with agencies bidding for them? Just like in the IPL.? Humour me. Think of the possibilities. Every agency could retain their stars. (I believe Piyush would retain himself). And then put up the rest for auction. I am a creative. I would love to know how much an agency would bid for me. Ah well, yes, it’s an ego thing. But show me a creative who doesn’t have an ego and I will show you a planner. Hell, I would love to know how much my boss is worth. Or whether he will be picked up at all! Now, that’s a thought. Anyway, as I was saying, what if? Every agency could dress in their Sunday…er…pitch finest, hold up a paddle and invest in creative talent. It would be interesting to see how much an ego can bloat before bursting. Hey, this has a science angle to it as well. Also think about the experience of watching a few well-deserved egos deflate. Agencies also get the chance to let go off the surplus resources — and that’s putting it mildly. We all have someone or the other who isn’t needed/not good enough/ or fast becoming a part of the wallpaper for the agency. So instead of having the unpleasant task of firing them, put them up for the auction. Better yet, lets adopt the English Premier League model. Two transfer windows, where agencies ‘sell’ creatives, thereby getting returns for investments. Yes, investments. While we creatives can think that we are the Gods of the agency, the agency spends a lot in providing opportunities, training, etc. and contribute to our own growth. The work in our respective folios are agency work. Done on agency accounts. During agency hours, which is anytime between 11am and 3am. Which also consists of all those free cups of your agency’s machine-made coffee. The free AC during the oppressively hot summer days. The free pizzas which you force your servicing girl to get. Even the printouts of your resume which you will circulate in the agency in the floor above. Yes, all these things we take for granted. Those are investments. So instead of us upping and leaving for a better offer, which profits only our bank balances, its only fair that the agency gets something in return for their investment. So, they get to sell us. Hopefully at a profit. That’s my ego talking by the way. In the same transfer window, the agency gets to go after other creatives who could fulfill their current need. The management’s need for clichйs get fulfilled here — fresh blood, young and experienced, enthusiastic, etc. The industry mags and websites get enough material of people movements to fill up quite a few journalistic nights. It could just spice up the current job opportunities scene. It could also provide an end to people leaving soon after increments. And hell, everyone would know who is worth what. Hey, we can also host the auction during the Goafest. Better yet, we could even think of a completely new venue. Atleast we will have one more reason to get drunk on the beach and pretend to be at a very important do. And to take a leaf out Lalit Modi’s now missing playbook, we can get brands to sponsor sections of the auction. Or maybe even the head honchos of different agencies walking into the venue to their own theme music —Piyush Pandey can walk in to the glass shattering theme music of stone cold Steve Austin or Prasoon Joshi can walk in to...ummm….whatever song he has written. And before I get carried away by men in white coats, who I think you should have called by now, I shall leave you with this parting thought. So, how much do you think you are worth? Better yet, how much do you think your boss is worth?

Numbers don’t matter, heart does.

(also published in www.cricinfo.com)

These days statistics and numbers are thrown at us like a half-tracker from an accurate Mitchell Johnson. Well, at least for me, they don’t matter. It maybe be sacrilegious to many a cricket enthusiast, but I don’t care how many runs Sachin has made, how many wickets Murali has taken or for that matter how many times did Ponting waggle his finger at the umpire. What matters to me is the inexplicable feeling that these guys, like many others, evoke inside me when they come on to bat or bowl or take a running start at the covers.
That feeling when your heart brims over with hope, when your stomach plays host to butterflies is what makes that player special.
That sinking feeling when a Kallis walks out to bat or watching Ponting get on the front foot. That feeling when you know in your gut that today may not be your day.
It’s much like love. You don’t need statistics and past history to point you towards a relationship that will work out. It seldom does. Its your gut and the slow melancholic dance of the butterflies in your stomach that points you to a direction.
Yes, a lot like love, actually. You don’t care beyond a point how many relationships the other person has had. Its this one, the one that you are in, you are most concerned about. You don’t care, beyond the first hundred stolen glances at her, what’s her vital statistics are. I agree, that’s the initial reaction. But beyond a point, it doesn’t matter.
It is the same feeling that proves to me that Ganguly is best not playing the IPL. Hold on to your effigies. I don’t care how many runs he made in the last IPL or whether he was the most successful captain. What I care about is that the God of offside no longer evokes the same emotion in me. That emotion of knowing that while Dada is at the crease, no offside field is perfect, no bowler is dangerous and there is nothing called an off-side field.
I don’t know what is Yusuf Pathan’s career average. Or his highest score. All I know is that when he takes guard, I don’t change the channels, no matter how bad the batting side is playing.
To me, that matters. More than numbers.

Why Rajnikanth wasn’t picked in the Chennia IPL team?

I mean, come on, the alpha male of India, the man who doesn’t need a bat to score. Runs, I mean. The man who can hit a 6 off a wide. The man who is the god of offside, legside, all the sides of a trapezium…Ah well, you get the idea.
Who wouldn’t want a guy in their team who could run a 6 off a forward defensive prod back to the bowler. Who could determine the result of a match at the toss. Who doesn’t need to appeal, just a stare at the umpire will do.
His ‘don’t see ball, hit ball’ is a philosophy that many a cricketer have adopted. Albeit with some modifications, more suited to their mortal status of course.
Who will reimburse his IPL team owners if they didn’t win the trophy.
Who, I say?
Who wouldn’t want such a man in his team?
Why wouldn’t Chennai pick him. He is a God down there. All other Gods exist at his benevolence. The team wouldn’t need a coach. Hell, they wouldn’t even need the other 10 players.
They can save all that money. And put it to probably finding a solution to make enough clothes for the Tollywood heroines down there.
Wait. Did you just say that a cricket team has to have 11 players on the field?
Did you also say that cricket is a team-sport? Not a one man army.
And that all the teams that have won the IPL so far have won on the basis of teamwork and not just on the back of one person?
That’s so medieval.
Is that the reason why the Rajnikanth of the east wasn’t picked up his team?
I wonder.

Live Once

Have you ever heard the wind in your soul,
When it was taking you places?
Have you listened to the wind playing its role
In breaking you outta your cages.
Have you ever slid down a rainbow,
When you were trying to find the pot of gold?
Or did you merely follow
With a gold clothed blindfold?
Have you ever swum with the setting sun
Waving at the clouds a smiling goodbye
Or were you busy saving yourself from your burden
Will you live just once before you die.

Tell me baby, won’t you live just once?
Chop at your chains and untie
Scream once to break the deafening silence
Won’t you just live once before you die.

Have you ever tried to catch the rays of the moon,
When it was shining from afar?
Have you tried to scoop them up with a spoon,
To use them as strings for your guitar?
Have you ever listened to a butterfly,
Sharing with her, her secrets?
Or did you merely run after and try
To catch and cage her in baskets?
Have you ever, ever tried to live
Putting all your thoughts on standby
Not take but just give
Will you, just once before you die.

Tell me baby, won’t you live just once?
Chop at your chains and untie
Scream once to break the deafening silence
Won’t you just live once before you die.

An angel's death

The angel spins around
dancing beneath the moon
crying her pretty eyes out
trying to cry them dry
she's sick of feeling pain
sick of pouring out the rain
Done with life,
Can an angel die?

She wonders silently
is it possible to close her eyes
and sleep in blissful misery
free to choose her own way
uncaged, unfurled, she will fly free
but its not her way
to leave you alone
at least not today
she dances in a meadow
the moon shining down
she thinks of you
and her tears fall free
why can't you love me?
What do you search for?
Will you find it?

She spins around and around
here beneath the half-moon
pouring her soul out through half-closed eyes, half-open heart
Sick of all this pain
Sick of crying in the rain
Will an angel die tonight?

WHY WE WON'T QUIT SMOKING

BENEFITS OF SMOKING.

For years, we have heard, seen and read smoking is harmful. To say the least, we have been threatened, humoured, cajoled, ridiculed and sometimes, even ostracized. Once we were also accused of killing a horse. Well, here’s to all those know-it-alls, lets flip them the…er….stub and puff away. Because, finally there are some straws that we puffers can clutch at and wave them under the delicate smoke alarms, popularly called noses, of some people.

We smokers help control the population. After all, we don’t want our already burdened dear old Mother Earth caving in on herself with the extra weight. Smoking keeps our weight down and the population down. And this, all said and done, is a service to humanity.

We smokers are also responsible for the great advancement in medicine. Especially in fields related to cancer. All kinds of cancer. Not necessarily cancer that has its roots in smoking. Imagine the amount of money pouring in for this great cause. Imagine the pride with which our collective chests swell up when we hear that the great Lance Armstrong has saddled up again. His testicular cancer is a thing of a past. And yes, now we hear cancer is curable. Again, our chests swell up. And in no small measure due to the smoke.

We smokers are great role-models. Now, how many times have people pointed at us and said to their kids, you shouldn’t become like that? How many times, have we been the talking point of a family dinner? Yes, kids need people to look up to. At the same time, it is very important that they also look down upon some people. So that they know what not to become. And that dirty job, our dear friends, we do. And we do it without a thought of a reward. Without being felicitated at some function. We do it, because we smokers are by nature altruistic and we do it with a smile on our lips. And a wisp of smoke curling up from the corner of it.


We smokers are good for the environment. Especially now, with the whats-it-called Al Gore movie. It is but a popular calculation that, if we smokers quit and start saving that money, then we would able to buy a new car, every year. Well, no thanks. We smokers think, the world doesn’t need any more cars. Not with the global warming movies lurking around. We care about the environment. That’s why we smoke. So, that in a nut-shell means, you non-smokers are responsible for polluting the environment. Because, by your own calculations, we will never have enough money to buy a car. Let alone afford the fuel (at the current gas prices).


We smokers are less of a burden on our children. No wastage of money on old-age homes. On nurses. They don’t have to worry about spending quality time with us. Nor about leaving us behind alone at home when they go off on a vacation. Who needs vacations when you are 80 years old anyway? Or for that matter who needs 80 years? And anyway baby-sitters, nowadays, are far less demanding. And grandchildren far more so.


We smokers are better workers. We sleep less. At work and otherwise. Because as it is so well documented, smoking results in sleeping disorder. We take lesser time for lunch, if at all any. Because the above mentioned document also mentions loss of appetite. Like it or not, we smokers form the only close-knit community in a workplace. We share a bond that’s unspoken. Non-political. Undesignated. And it’s just so much easier to look pensive, thoughtful and on-the-verge of a path breaking idea on how to increase your company’s profitability with a cigarette clenched between your fingers and blowing smoke thought-bubbles.


We smokers are the solution to all wars and violence. For centuries we have been advocating this peaceful way to settle all disputes. But non-smokers seem much dafter & deafer than us. Anyway, we have already established that smoking kills. Hence, imagine this, why not have two armies face off on the battlefield and light up. Whoever survives, wins. It’s far less violent (also, second-hand bullets are slightly more hazardous to health any day). It’s far less cheap. It’s far better for the economies of the respective governments. And the soldiers get to go back home and meet their beloved family one last time. And yes, George Bush Jr. will never have to explain for the missing WMDs. After all, as non-smokers have observed time and time again, cigarettes are officially classified as WMDs.

And last but not the least.

We smokers will never be found guilty of rape. By any miniscule chance, you find yourself accused of rape by a jealous co-worker, or a disgruntled neighbour or even a psychopathic Ex. you will, rest assured, be let off scot-free. All you have to do is manage to ask for your favourite brand of smokes from the cigarette smoking cop in his white Rupa Vest as he is applying his beloved, well-polished malaca cane to the soles of your feet. After all, the same well documented, popular list of effects of smoking, also mentions smoking as a reason for impotency.

Hence, considering that we smokers are doing this for the greater good of mankind, its but a disgrace to ask us to desist from smoking. Because, whatever we might be, we are not quitters. We’d rather Die Than Quit!

An amber colored state of Liquefied mind

i am drunk. slightly.

May be that's what's pushing me to write this. And i have always wanted to do this. get drunk and write. Just simply write.

The first thing that comes to mind.

The last thing that comes to mind.

Fuck, any damn thing that comes to mind.

Just write. Use the 26 alphabets. use my limited vocabulary. Use my current drunken state of mind. And come up with something. Just put word after word. String them up. And see what happens. Where do i go. Where does my writing go.

Just watch it swirl around like ice cubes in an amber colored liquid. And then gradually melt to be one with it.

Damn, time for me to get another one...