Thank Stephen Hawking for God

I would love to say that Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time was a watershed moment in my cerebral evolution – it wasn’t. I labored and labored and labored and still could not make past page 10.
Now Mr Hawking is at it again, in a much more understandable avatar.
The Grand Design’s primary aim is to dispense with the notion of God. And yet, it has the opposite effect. It affirms by negation.
Mr Hawking has probably done more to establish God’s credentials than any other scientist.
Check it out and let me know what are your thoughts.

Stick, twist or shout?

What can you do, when, crippled as you are at the knee,
Hobbling along the floor of your dreams,
Walls closing in, sinking sand sucking you within,
What can you do, but thrash and tremble,
Pray and beg and hope for redemption.
It won’t come you know it, at least not in a painless shot of morphine,
or a lucky number worth a million dollars.
It won’t come you know it. Not like a knight in shining armour,
Or a knife to the heart in surrender.
What can you do when the bottom falls out?
Stick, twist or shout?

The racist in me

There’s a racist in all of us. You just have to put your ear to the ground and listen carefully and you will find it in you.
I discovered it playing Scrabble. Of which I play a lot online.
If the player is from Bangladesh, Pakistan, Africa or any East Asian country I expect to beat them. Easily.
I am fuming if I lose. Not because they are better, but because I expect I will know more English words than people from these countries.
If the player is American or Aussie or British losing is more palatable.
That’s racist.

Vincenti Dabitur

My grandfather went to school there. He jumped the length of the long-jump sandpit.
My father went to school there. He was a corporal in the National Cadet Corps, and a distinguished sportsman.
Seven uncles went to school there. All mostly geniuses and national-level sportsmen.
Four cousins went to school there. One is a millionaire, a couple in Princeton and Harvard.
My brother went to school there. He was a once-in-a-generation footballer.
I went to school there. I was sergeant in the corps and half-decent at everything else.
Now, my son will go to St Vincent’s High School, Pune.

Money or me... so it's me

I am in a dilemma. I have realised that when I have nothing, I have everything.
Don’t dismiss that as standard-issue, trying-to-be-wise psychobabble.
It’s a profoundly earth-shattering discovery for me.
When I am completely broke and stripped of all material proprietaries, then I find I am able to think clearly, act normally and do that stuff that really leaves me at peace.
One thing for sure, I cannot ever have money with me.
It is has never bought me happiness.
Sure, the problem is me. But, it’s easier to get rid of money than to get rid of me.

Here's a FB status update...

First the disclaimer: I am an anti-facebook facebooker.

Think of me as someone who would own a hummer but plant a tree. Someone who would buy cocaine from a Nigerian but contribute to Aid for Africa.

So, when you’re facebook status for relationship says ‘complicated’ what it really means is 'fucked up'.

And when you describe yourself… don’t.
Because what your description really says about you is that you are pompous, self-indulgent, driveling, tunnel-visioned, head-so-far-up-the-ass-you-can-eat-and-shit-at-the-same-time, naïve and narcissistic.

So don’t bother describing yourself. If I find you and connect with you I will discover exactly who you are. Ok?

Me and Man-fucking-chester United, and why i cannot afford passion any more

I have allowed myself to become so hung-up on Manchester United that I am physically sick when they play badly and emotionally disturbed when they lose.
It can’t be healthy. But, then, passion, in general, is unhealthy.
It is an essence of youth which if you carry over into your middle life, you are likely to suffer heartburn, financial ruin and a nervous breakdown.
All of which can be disguised by a half decent occupation, a little social savvy and plenty of bluster.
I am 37. That is fucking old. I cannot afford passion any more. Or vice versa.