Conversations with Cookie - On Wanting to Explode (Ok, Go Off)

Me: I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could explode,
I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow still lived on…

Cookie: “go off”

Me: I wish I was a sentimenta… Huh?

Cookie: It’s “go off”. I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off.

Me: Yeah, whatever.

Cookie: It’s a shame Pearl Jam was once accused of being a synthetic grunge band, now they seem as organic and principled a rock band as any. I love that they play every show like it’s the last.

Me: I only listen to Wishlist.

Cookie: I have more, totally valuable opinions on Portishead, Yann Tiersen, Dylan and of course your recent love, Mogwai.

Me: STOP GOING THROUGH MY IPOD?!!!!

Cookie: I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me
I wish I was a messenger and all the
news was good…

Cookie: I’d make a supercool groupie. I just know it... *sigh*

Conversations with Cookie - On Being a Dog (Why it Sucks, Sometimes)

Cookie: Do you have an ALL-TIME favourite person?

Me: Mm Hmm.

Cookie: No?

Me: No.

Cookie: Okay.

Cookie: Canis Familiaris. Cookie Canis Lupus Familiaris is my name, hereby and herewith. A lover of cheese, mango and all types of meat. Also, avante-garde philosopher. The flamboyant symbol of the angst-ridden yet thinking Modern Dog. And in her spare time, a beacon of global peace and hope.

Cookie: Phew.

Me: Yes.

Cookie: Anyway, I have had enough of you and others of your ilk. I don't care whether you say anything or not.

Cookie: What I do care about is Beetroots.

Cookie: Beta Vulgaris. (Vulgaris, ehehehehee) Beetroot can be peeled, steamed, and then eaten warm with butter as a delicacy; cooked, pickled, and then eaten cold as a condiment; or peeled, shredded raw, and then eaten as a salad. The Romans used beetroot as a treatment for debilitating constipation, and also as an aphrodisiac. Which makes this humble root a kinky resident of the culinary world. Its use also threw up the phrase, 'take favours in the beetroot field' which hints at visiting prostitutes. Betacyanin in beetroot may cause red urine in some people who are unable to break it down. This is called beeturia. (Red urine, ehehehehee)

Me: Yeah I know. I love you too.

Cookie: Go to the beetroot fields.. For all of your life!!

Throwing Shoes

If you have been completely busy these last few days, doing something, having a life or just digging your nose and counting the stars then you might have missed this. Three highly trained, ultra awesome, super brutal Navy Seals shot dead ‘three’ Somali pirates.

Simultaneously.

And CNN will go on and on about this. And invite retired Navy Seals who will go on and on about how incredibly brilliant and kickass the whole thing was. What's with these people? Why are they behaving like its America’s first military success in almost a decade.

Oh.

Anyway If I ever see a pirate I’m going to throw a shoe at his syphilis infested ass, for being so lame, throwing a show now being the international symbol of pure hatred and/or ridicule.

I’d also want to throw a shoe on –

Barkha Dutt, again for being so lame.
Randomly, into space. Randomly.
Delhi, just so that I could be there to do it.
Amar Singh Ji.
HD Deve Gowda, to wake him up.
Anybody else who will return it.

So the elections began today. An election that will decide the fate of this country. The largest democracy in the world. An election that is not about development, fighting poverty, eradicating hunger, reversing unemployment, fighting terrorism, America, uplifting women, reducing the fiscal deficit or the nuclear deal. And yet an election that will determine each of these parameters over the coming future.

An election with 750 million registered voters. But one where only 250 million of them will punch in 400 million votes.

Btw, what exactly was the nuclear deal? I know that the Prime Minister said we’d lose everything if we didn’t sign it, and the Left said we’d lose everything if we did. But what happened?

Oh and I am not voting. And endless “Jago Re” campaigns shall have no effect. I have my reasons, but I will not lie, apathy and laziness top that list. Also the fact is, all three candidates from my constituency are certified criminals and endorsed assholes.

Maybe I’ll throw a shoe at them too.

Do you know that at one point dueling was an Olympic sport? Of course any activity, where the Silver and Bronze medals are always awarded posthumously, had to be fairly short lived. But then that was the last time the Olympics were interesting.

I think the time has come to inaugurate throwing shoes at each other as an Olympic sport.

Or shooting Pirates, with sniper rifles.

Someday, I want to see a tornado. Actually not really. Maybe if it’s just really cloudy without rain, ill be happy enough. That’s my favourite weather. Cloudy without rain and some breeze.

Oh, and if you thought the elections, or Barkha Dutt, or the Olympics, or even I was lame.

Navy Seals right? The Seal is for Sea, Air AND Land. Honestly.

Conversations with Cookie - On Giving it Those Ones

Cookie: So how come you never posted this weekend?

Me: Um. I was busy..

Cookie: You were watching FRIENDS!! (Could he be more lame?) And then you bloody slept for four hours in the evening. And you didn't even cook...

Me: Huh? Well. Well, I couldn't think of anything worthwhile after The Countdown. In fact I can't think at all. And I have run out of books. There isn't any new music. And it's too hot.

Cookie: I know what you mean, though. Writing is like that. Comes and goes. Everything that's lovely is but a brief, dreamy kind delight. Aah. Yeats...

Me: Um. Hmm.

Cookie: What are you typing? Are you using this for a post?

Me: No, I'm sending a letter.

Cookie: I could have said something more worthwhile if you said you were..

The Countdown

As he woke up one morning, Robert Walser found much of his torso covered in dried blood. It was no dream, he said loudly to himself.

The clock by his bed read SUN | 9:23 AM. He was alone in his room, and until he made sense of what had happened to him, it was probably for the best. Getting out of his bed, Robert latched the door to his room securely.

Then he walked slowly to the giant mirror that stood in one corner of the master bedroom. He didn’t like the mirror very much because of its pointlessly large (not in his wife’s opinion) size. But today he wasn’t thinking of that.

Just above his heart, his vest was still soggy and deep red, but near the stomach and on his neck the blood was a faint yellow and completely dry. Pulling out his vest Robert found that across the left side of his chest there was now a horizontal display panel with two metal wires attached to its top and bottom left ends. They were pierced into, what Robert estimated, was his heart.

Robert observed that the panel was sloping downwards, probably because it was punched there in great hurry or without much care, as if by a thoughtless machine. Also, in bright green, it read, 57 - 06 - 26 - 12 - 39 - 22. 21. 20. 19. 18…

Standing there, in only his underpants, before the giant mirror, Robert Walser was fraught by three questions. First, given the strange insertion and all the bleeding, why did he feel no pain? Second, he had always been vaguely aware of his exceptional ordinariness. In his 31 years Robert had never done, felt, experienced, thought, tried, been with, or eaten anything extraordinary, how then could this happen to him? And third, looking out of the window, he wondered how it could be snowing in the first week of April?

Of course, Robert Walser, said to himself, he had a little over 57 and a half years to answer these questions.

He hadn’t yet thought of how he wanted to present this queer turn of events to his wife and children. So, before that he wanted to rid the room of every hint of blood. He entered his washroom and rinsed his vest in the basin. Then leaving it to fill with warm water he went back to fetch his bed sheet which he found surprisingly spotless. But to be sure, he crumpled it into the bucket for the maid to wash.

Then using a clean towel dampened with warm water, he swabbed away all the dried blood. Of course he took meticulous care to avoid every contact between the water and his bizarre new contraption. After all, dear reader, Robert Walser may not have been gifted in any way, but he was not stupid. He was only ordinary. For example, at that point, he wondered how he would ever take another thorough bath in his 57 years. And how his wife would react to this and the manner in which it would affect their lovemaking.

Maybe water wouldn’t do him any harm? But, he didn’t want to take a chance; in fact if you could ask him, dear reader, Robert would tell you that he never took a chance.

As he walked down from his room into the kitchen, where his wife was preparing breakfast for their two boys, Robert realised he wasn’t entirely ready to let them know of his newfound predicament. What would he say? If he told them immediately, they’d panic, and shed tears. Maybe in a day or two he could start by saying, “I have had this for days now, so it’s completely…”

He was a good man, Robert Walser, one who provided for his family and loved his wife. You could ask them, dear reader, or anyone who knew him.

“I am going out for a little while…” And taking his hat with him, Robert left his house and family.

Being incredibly hungry, he decided to walk to some café.

As he watched cars go past him, Robert found himself speculating, “Will I miraculously escape death if I were to jump before one of these?” But then he reasoned with himself, maybe, what it meant was, that for 57 long years he would not attempt something as idiotic. “What if I slipped? What about illnesses?” he asked himself. This time, he didn’t bother with any answers.

After finishing his breakfast in silence and without much thought, Robert decided he’d stay on a little longer. He ordered for coffee.

Why would this happen to me? Who would do such a thing? Robert tried to think. But then so absurd was his situation that nothing could even begin to unravel his confusion. This was, in his opinion (since the beginning), an aberration, not something meant to happen to him, Robert Walser. It was like he had won the Local Grand Jackpot, except it wasn’t really a jackpot, just the odds were similar, he quipped.

So, he turned his thoughts, to the somewhat easier question of how this was meant to change his life. Well, he knew now that he had 57 years to live. It was actually more than he had hoped for. And therefore, technically, this knowledge should have made him a little more, umm, confident and happy?

He finished his espresso in one quick gulp. And then it struck Robert...

This bit of precise information had absolutely no bearing on his life. For some strange reason (to him, not you, dear reader, your understanding has never been under any doubt) he felt sad. His triviality was now apparent to him. For 57 years, he would predictably, continue to be Robert Walser, The Ordinary. A good man, nonetheless, who’d care for his family and be a loving husband.

Suddenly, Robert was alarmed. 57 years was a long time! He was now somewhat embarrassed of the chain of inconsequential questions that arose in his mind before he actually asked the important one. His slight ignorance too, was becoming apparent to Robert, dear reader.

What if the ticker had read thirty hours? What would he do? And immediately Robert realised he’d tell his children he loved them, and hug them and his wife for a really long time. Then he’d throw a grand party for all his dear friends and relatives and say a final goodbye. And he’d make all the financial arrangements for his family. He never really hugged his kids, or his wife. And rarely threw a party.

How long would it be before his (loving) wife married another man?

What if the ticker had read eight weeks? Well, he’d do most of the above. Maybe indulge a little more. Take his family on a long holiday. He never took holidays.

One year? He’d travel alone, because the kids couldn’t miss school for so long, and his wife would have to stay home to look after them. He’d visit his friends overseas. He’d give up his business and write a little, about his dilemma. As a young man in his early twenties he always wanted to be a writer...

He wondered how ridiculous it was to be in his position. He couldn’t do any of things he just listed, because they wouldn’t make sense or would amount to shunning his responsibilities, given that he had 57 years to live. And then sitting there, in that café, Robert Walser, wished this had never happened to him.

Why couldn’t he take it a year at a time, and do all the things he wanted to do? But that was impossible given that he knew he actually had a long life ahead. Robert being averse to taking risks wouldn’t be reckless even for a brief period of time. There was clearly no way out…

And then Robert Walser, all of 31, wished he had no more than one year to live. Maybe he’d regret it when that year came to an end, but it was far less dreadful a proposition than his current arrangement.

Immediately, he reproached himself for feeling this way, after all, he did have a whole life ahead of himself. Fundamentally, nothing had changed since this morning, when he woke up covered in blood. He still had a family to take care of... Why should his wife and kids suffer for no fault of theirs?

But at the same time he couldn’t shake away the terror he felt…

Robert rushed out of the café, wanting to take a walk to clear his mind. He lit a cigarette (for the first time in many years, dear reader) to calm himself down…

Conversations With Cookie - On the Next Life

Me: Say who would you want to be in your next life?

Cookie: Who me? Oh I have it all figured out. A Great White Shark!

Me: Pray, tell me, why?

Cookie: Dude??! It's the Great White Shark!!! I go from being fed to feeding on HUMANS!!!! MUHAHAHA MUHAHA-HAHAHA-HEE-HEE-HAHAHAHA

Me: Geez, for a dog, you have considerable angst. God is listening! You'll be nothing more than a Tape Worm.

Cookie: Huh? Yeah, I'm sure that's how it works. But sometimes he's known to cooperate. I know this leech who wanted to be a weasel in his next life.

Me: Who?

Conversations with Cookie - On Pavlovian Conditioning

Cookie: Anyway, I have had enough of that stupid kid that’s just moved in next to us. The runt insists on playing just outside our door.

Me: Why does it bother you so much?

Cookie: Well, it’s a Pavlovian thing.

Me: Explain..

Cookie: You don’t get dogs! Any sound near the house has to be answered with crazy barks and a feral advance.

Me: Well, can’t you recondition your instincts?

Cookie: No?!!

Me: Why??

Cookie: For the same reason you can’t stop writing sappy stuff like 2047.

Me: Oh you wretched nasty dog! Just you wait… An hour every morning and evening with the savage apartment-kids shall set you right…

Cookie: No? No!! Please!!! They are crazy! They want me to fetch stuff.

Cookie: *wags tail*