Today, a guy in our office wore the ugliest pair of jeans there ever was. Till I set my eyes on this pair, first prize was for the one worn by a plumber in our building. The plumber's jeans were dull blue in color, caked with dirt and grease, were artificially faded (the fading done in the jeans factory, where the back and front of your thighs are bleached white to give it a faded look, while the rest is blue in color), and it had a lot of ball-point-pen graffiti written all over, even on the back of his thigh and on his butt pockets. You name it, and that guy had written it on his jeans... "I Love ____"s, a million heart shapes, someone's name and mobile number, etc.. Hell, he even had scribbled down measurements. I strongly suspect he's the guy who scribbles "I Love You Pooja" all over the walls of our apartment lift.
Anyway, like I said, this guy in our office today elevated ugliness to an art form. His pair of jeans was...
Lemme stroll towards him, shoot the crap with him for a minute and soak in the details...
Back...
His jeans are also blue in color, an ugly blue, and had tiny irregular patterns all over like TV-white-noise, and had this unreal whitish-yellow (pus-colored) artificial fading.
It was a close call deciding the winner, because, even though they were more or less equally matched and the plumber had a slight advantage because of the graffiti, the colleague won because his ticket and butt pockets were made of rexine, resembling cheap leather, and were light-brown in color!!!
You just have to see these pair of jeans to believe what I'm saying! Rexine pockets stitched over a pair of jeans, and artificial fading the color of pus... how can he NOT win??
Anyway, I can almost imagine some designer spending time on designing this goddam thing, and showing it to the jeans factory boss. The boss would've been thrilled with it and would've approved it, and then they'd have manufactured these jeans by getting rexine from somewhere. And when they distributed these jeans to the shops, the shop keeper must have been blind enough to accept this monstrosity. And then comes along my colleague to the shop, looking to buy a pair of jeans, looking at different ones before choosing this, of all things. He must have looked at it, tried it on, even worried a little about whether it fit him well or not, then deciding that it fit him just fine, would have bargained for this. Bargaining for the ugliest pair of jeans in the world has gotta be the most depressing thing in the world. Anyway, I wonder if the shopkeeper had secretly smirked at him when packing it, glad that one more of these ugly jeans were gone.
And what would've happened when he went home to show it to his wife or kids, i.e., if he was married or something? Would the wife and kids disown him because of this? Or whenever they go out, would they kind of shy away, embarassed, whenever someone they knew approached them? Or was it the wife or kids who had actually suggested this pair of jeans out of revenge for something he had done, like not buying the kids chocolate or something?
Anyway, I'd probably go on and on about this, so I'll stop.
If any of you have seen an uglier pair of jeans and want to prove me wrong, please leave a comment.
Anyway, I'll try taking a photo of his jeans secretly, so that I can put it up here.
Showing posts with label Lift. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lift. Show all posts
21 June 2007
16 May 2007
Good News!
I’m happy to report that the anonymous guy in our apartment, the guy who loves Pooja and professes his love on the walls of our lift, actually has a vocabulary of more than 3 words (discounting Pooja, which isn’t an English word). Apart from the four “Pooja I Love You” scribblings on our walls, he has now scribbled, apart from another “Pooja I Love You”, a “PILY” (the abbreviation of Pooja I Love You) and “I’m Yours Pooja”. Also, it looks like our guy here is getting a little desperate. There's also a "Pooja I Love You Please".
I am planning to add a “too” between the “I” and “Love” in one of the “Pooja I Love You” messages, or add one of my roommates' name and mobile number below the messages. Let’s see what a bit of competition does to the anonymous lift-scribbler.
I am planning to add a “too” between the “I” and “Love” in one of the “Pooja I Love You” messages, or add one of my roommates' name and mobile number below the messages. Let’s see what a bit of competition does to the anonymous lift-scribbler.
10 May 2007
Wall scribbling
Holden Caulfield was right when he said "If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world." While people across the world are busy writing their "Fuck you" signs, Indians instead scribble "I Love You" signs all over, be it a historical monument, a harmless tree-trunk in a park, or any other clean surface with a minimum size of 5 inches x2 inches.
Holden Caulfield was right when he said "If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world." While people across the world are busy writing their "Fuck you" signs, Indians instead scribble "I Love You" signs all over, be it a historical monument, a harmless tree-trunk in a park, or any other clean surface with a minimum size of 5 inches x 2 inches.
Hell, even the walls of our apartment lift haven't been spared, and they now boast of some guy's profession of his deepest feelings for Pooja, apart from the name and contact number for Jigar Name Boards Brass, which, I'm sure, was written by the owner of Jigar Brass Name Boards, a poor guy earning his living who resorted to this out of desperation after seeing the poor response after knocking on all the doors of our apartment complex. He must have returned home, his clothes sticky with sweat, his shoulders drooping, the brows on his face hanging over his eyes like dark clouds, and his wife must've asked him how business was, and soft-spoken that he is, he must've shaken his head slowly while sighing and looking down, and his wife must've comforted him saying that things will be better tomorrow. The wife, going to the kitchen, must've opened a small Pan Parag tin where she stores probably the last of the family's savings, and asked one of her two kids to go to the market and get rice or something. The kid, obedient, kind and unspoilt, unlike the rich kids of today, must've gone to the market, and the shop keeper must've passed insulting remarks in front of other customers about the credit that the father already owes him. The kid, though his eyes were blazing and his teeth were clenched, must have pleaded with the shop keeper to give him rice one last time, for during the conflict between the stomach and the heart, the stomach always wins. The kid, crying silently out of shame, scarred for life thanks to this incident, would have returned home, wiping his eyes outside the door with a corner of his slightly-torn shirt, and the mother would have cooked dinner, and noticing that there wasn't enough rice for everyone, would've given away half her share to the husband and the kids, since the husband's gotta go tomorrow looking for people interested in name boards, and the kids have to grow up. Thus, eating very little and drinking water out of a earthen pot, she must've slept, her stomach rumbling late at night. Her husband, not able to sleep at night, must've said 'Don't lose hope. Hope is all we have. Tomorrow's a new day with new possibilities.' Thus, comforted by her husband's word, the wife must've slept, dreaming of a better future, while the husband must've stayed awake, thinking of survival in the long, vulture-laden road to prosperity.
The son, however, would need any reassurement from anyone about his future. It was all chalked out for him now, thanks to Amitabh Bachchan (henceforth called AB, thanks to lazy fingers), whom he idolised, mainly because AB had a childhood and family situation much akin to the boy's in most of his 70's movies, getting insulted by shopkeepers and all, and when he grew up, he was rich, powerful, and whipped everyone's sorry ass. The boy imagined how he'd grow up to be like AB and how he would take revenge on the shopkeeper. But there was a problem though. In all these AB movies, the mother always died, and he did not want his mother to die. His eyes became watery as he imagined a scene from the future of his life, where his mom was ill, in bed, wanting medicine to survive, and he would save up all his money shining shoes to accumulate the money, and then he'd go to some pharmacy, hand over all the money in change, get the medicine and run home, only to bang into some car (thanks to negligent driving) and splatter the medicine all over the road. He would then plead the car owner for money for the medicine, but the car owner would ask him to fuck off, and so he'd run home, only to find his mother dead. He realised that this was a situation he did not want. So he got up, the tears now flowing freely, prayed to God, asking to grow rich and powerful like AB but without his mother dying, laid down again and slept. He did not dream any dreams that night.
Holden Caulfield was right when he said "If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world." While people across the world are busy writing their "Fuck you" signs, Indians instead scribble "I Love You" signs all over, be it a historical monument, a harmless tree-trunk in a park, or any other clean surface with a minimum size of 5 inches x 2 inches.
Hell, even the walls of our apartment lift haven't been spared, and they now boast of some guy's profession of his deepest feelings for Pooja, apart from the name and contact number for Jigar Name Boards Brass, which, I'm sure, was written by the owner of Jigar Brass Name Boards, a poor guy earning his living who resorted to this out of desperation after seeing the poor response after knocking on all the doors of our apartment complex. He must have returned home, his clothes sticky with sweat, his shoulders drooping, the brows on his face hanging over his eyes like dark clouds, and his wife must've asked him how business was, and soft-spoken that he is, he must've shaken his head slowly while sighing and looking down, and his wife must've comforted him saying that things will be better tomorrow. The wife, going to the kitchen, must've opened a small Pan Parag tin where she stores probably the last of the family's savings, and asked one of her two kids to go to the market and get rice or something. The kid, obedient, kind and unspoilt, unlike the rich kids of today, must've gone to the market, and the shop keeper must've passed insulting remarks in front of other customers about the credit that the father already owes him. The kid, though his eyes were blazing and his teeth were clenched, must have pleaded with the shop keeper to give him rice one last time, for during the conflict between the stomach and the heart, the stomach always wins. The kid, crying silently out of shame, scarred for life thanks to this incident, would have returned home, wiping his eyes outside the door with a corner of his slightly-torn shirt, and the mother would have cooked dinner, and noticing that there wasn't enough rice for everyone, would've given away half her share to the husband and the kids, since the husband's gotta go tomorrow looking for people interested in name boards, and the kids have to grow up. Thus, eating very little and drinking water out of a earthen pot, she must've slept, her stomach rumbling late at night. Her husband, not able to sleep at night, must've said 'Don't lose hope. Hope is all we have. Tomorrow's a new day with new possibilities.' Thus, comforted by her husband's word, the wife must've slept, dreaming of a better future, while the husband must've stayed awake, thinking of survival in the long, vulture-laden road to prosperity.
The son, however, would need any reassurement from anyone about his future. It was all chalked out for him now, thanks to Amitabh Bachchan (henceforth called AB, thanks to lazy fingers), whom he idolised, mainly because AB had a childhood and family situation much akin to the boy's in most of his 70's movies, getting insulted by shopkeepers and all, and when he grew up, he was rich, powerful, and whipped everyone's sorry ass. The boy imagined how he'd grow up to be like AB and how he would take revenge on the shopkeeper. But there was a problem though. In all these AB movies, the mother always died, and he did not want his mother to die. His eyes became watery as he imagined a scene from the future of his life, where his mom was ill, in bed, wanting medicine to survive, and he would save up all his money shining shoes to accumulate the money, and then he'd go to some pharmacy, hand over all the money in change, get the medicine and run home, only to bang into some car (thanks to negligent driving) and splatter the medicine all over the road. He would then plead the car owner for money for the medicine, but the car owner would ask him to fuck off, and so he'd run home, only to find his mother dead. He realised that this was a situation he did not want. So he got up, the tears now flowing freely, prayed to God, asking to grow rich and powerful like AB but without his mother dying, laid down again and slept. He did not dream any dreams that night.
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