As always, like a good author, I’d like to throw a disclaimer at your face saying the content that you are about to read and the photos that you are about to see may be very disturbing and offensive, so please read on (you bet you wanna) at your own discretion. Having said that let me dive into the crap that I titled (drum roll) – “The Shit We Eat”.

First lets get to know the “We” in picture. We would be, my people, my family. Basically the Goan family. We eat a lot of shit that you people would not even think were edible. If it moves we eat it. If it’s on my plate, smelling good and tasting even better, we eat it. If it’s not tasting good, we make it taste good and then we eat it.

Below is a photo of my mom at the butchers shop at the Mapusa Market in Goa.

Now please do not be offended if you see your God’s leg hanging and being bargained over. That shit tastes real good. It may smell bad there hanging from a hook, blood dripping (which is good, fresh) from it. But now imagine that shit, on your plate smelling awesome and tasting real good. How do I explain that?!

I think we bought some cow’s tongue that day. Yes we eat tongue. Name the animal, state if it got tongue or not, send it through the kitchen and we are eating it next thing. Didn’t I just say, if it moves we eat it? Well the tongue is lying somewhere in the butcher’s shop. If you are a regular, you get the best meat and the other body part will be available on request.

Cow is just one of those poor animals that make it to our kitchen. Pig being the other regular. Will dissect the pig later and let you know what we do with that. For now, and as far as my knowledge is concerned, I shall try and recollect what all have made it onto my plate, into my stomach and now resides in our septic tank. Cow, pig, tortoise, swine, deer, camel, porcupine, duck, frog, goat, sheep, rabbit (?) and a lot more I guess. Even if I had to eat human, I’d eat as long as it tasted good.

Now I know all you People for Animals, Save our Animals and ‘OMFG I dunno why I’m an animal activist’ people might really hate me by now, but how do you expect me to control my hunger for blood. It’s the freaking Goan food chain. Eat the meat else be banished from the family. Yes, I’ve seen all those PETA websites and advertisements, and yes, I fell sorry for the manner in which the animals are treated. And, let me stress on this, no one has the right to slam an animal on its head and kill it. That’s really bad. But at the end of the day, the meat eaters are not gonna stop eating meat.

Alright, now to the real shit that we eat. Its pig and its called ‘Sorpotel‘. Wikipedia threw up some bullshit and I could not find any relevant information, so now I’m gonna share the graphic recipe of preparing the all so famous, Sorpotel.

Ingredients:

1 pig (piglet will do too, depending on the number of hungry people waiting to eat)
A few Goan women (mothers preferred, grandmothers a bonus)
A few Goan men (to catch and kill the fucking pig in the first place)

Now that we have what takes to get this shit started, lets dig into the details and learn how to catch the fucking pig.

A typical Goan house would consist of a front yard, the house, the family pet running around, a well and a nice spacious backyard. Now, this is the typical Goan house. Most of the house are not so typical, like our. The front yard is so fucked up that there is no front yard. I’m gonna fucking break that shit and make a front yard, but don’t let my pop know, not while he is alive at least. The house would be this thick walled stone structure that’s like really high and with a tiled roof. Tiles are sexy. Concrete is fuck all. The family pet could be a cat, a dog or the neighbor’s dog. The back yard, and yes we got this fucking shit right. It’s this awesome huge area with a well, a lot of plants and trees and enough of space to keep animals that we can kill and eat some day.

So the typical house would have a back yard with hens, pigs, snakes and sometimes cows too. Now we never had cows but yes we did have a pig and we baptized that fucker ‘Slayer’ and slay he did. Mother fucker listened to heavy metal and head banged and threw the horns at the neighbors pig. Satan was there in our back yard. The sty was the moshpit.

Well, seems like I got a bit carried away and drifted way outa topic. Okay, now that we have a back yard and a pig. Lets get on to “How to kill the mother fucker”.

How to kill the mother fucker

First, make sure all the exits of the back yard are closed. Make sure the back door is closed too. You don’t wanna sacrifice the swine in the bed room. Not that its uncool, more because you don’t wanna have blood all over the walls. Once the exits are sealed, get hold of some of the local butchers. These guys can be found at the local bars or ghados (tea/snack stalls). If you cant locate one of these dudes, just leave a word at the bar or local joint and the dude will show up at your door step. Lets baptize him as Pig Killer.

Pig killer will show up at your back door and take you by surprise. Most of the time you and the whole village know the pig killer, so lets make it clear that he is not dangerous and he will not rob your house even if its unlocked. Pig killer will come, have a look at the pig and then go for a walk. In his absence, the women in the house will keep the knives, utensils, etc ready. Pig killer will go and get a few more men depending on the size of the pig. He will also smoke a few cigarettes have a few pegs of the local liquor and then turn up at your door step once again. Now, its not a bad thing to have stinking men roam around the village, its actually very cool and part of the culture. Our drunken men happen to be very nice and effective.

Pig killer (and his men) will survey the area. Pig by now knows that he’s gonna fucking die. Pig radar and telepathic pig signals from kilometers away (even from other villages) have already informed pig that the stinky Pig killer is here to kill him. Pig goes into defensive mode. Pig surveys the backyard for exit points. Pig killer sharpens knives. The stove in the kitchen is lit up. Water is set to boil. Pig killer approaches pig. Pig’s defensive mode turns into panic mode. Chaos breaks lose, pig shoots towards the exit, pig killer chases pig, pig killer’s supporters distract pig, pig gets scared, runs into the wall, tries to jump, no hope, runs back, runs around the back yard. Pig killer and associates corner pig. Pig makes a dash and tries to run past them, pig killer manages to grab hold of pig. Associates jump in and pig killer ties up pigs legs. The squealing can be heard kilometers away, other pigs mourn the what would be the demise of one of theirs for the sake of a family meal. Pig is properly tied up and brought to a stone or step where what would next be the cutting of the neck.

Seeing that pig is all tied up, the women of the house brings out a bowl of hot water and another bowl to collect the pigs blood. No this is not for some voodoo or mumbo jumbo ritual, its to add to the taste of the what would become sorpotel.

(Lovell D’souza is hungy now, he steps out for dinner.)

Pig killer now has a tight grip on pigs snout, his knee digs into pig’s body disabling any moves that pig could throw at him. And, in one clean swipe with precision that would impress the best of surgeons, pig’s neck is slit.

(Please stand and observe two minutes of silence for pig.)

Pig’s blood is collected in the utensil. This is taken to the kitchen. Pig dies in a few minutes and Pig killer loosens his grip. The hot water is poured onto pig so that the hair is loosened up. With a blade, most of the time a Wilkinson, pig is cleaned and ready to be chopped up. The chopping part happens in the open, amidst the other animals including the neighbor’s kids. This is a very important event in the life of a Goan child. The killing of a pig is a significant symbolic act depicting the beginning of a family feast. Oh yes, it also makes you immune to those PETA vidoes on Facebook and YouTube. Now, I’m not saying don’t kill the animals. Kill them. But kill them with respect, like the way Pig killer does.

Pig’s body by now is fully chopped up. Pig killer will chop pig up as per the instructions of the woman of the house. The only part of the pig that does not go into the Sorpotel are the pigs hooves. Or wait, maybe they do. I’ll have to ask my mom. Anyway, then entire pig is chopped up and all the body parts are ready to be cooked. The heart, kidneys, lungs, brain, intestines all form an essential part of the all so great Sorpotel.

Intestines get a little more attention compared to other body parts. Mainly because, well er, they fucking lead to the asshole. Now pig would surely shit when he sees Pig killer, but some shit would of course be lying there, deep down at the end of the lower intestine just waiting to make it onto your plate. But, NO! The intestines are nicely cleaned and the food, shit, etc is pushed out and what we are left with are nice, clean, washed intestines. Yay!

How to cook this shit

The women set the kitchen abuzz. Pig is now ready to make it onto the stove. I’m not going to go into these details, so please refer to the recipe link on top. Oh did I forget to mention, I hate the smell that it emits when being cooked.

The conclusion

Oh wait, did I forget to mention? I don’t eat Sorpotel. That shit fucking stinks and tastes like fucking shit!

The Goan Omelet Pao!

Now if you ever land to Goa, you would like to eat an omelet pao because (in order of preference)

1. It’s cheap.
2. It tastes amazing.
3. You get to meet friends.
4. Someone lands up sponsoring you omelet pao (high five!).
5. You get to check out chicks, as these omelet pao guys open shop at strategically placed junctions.

There are a variety of omelet paos that you could choose from, but I would suggest you go to the guy at the Mapusa taxi stand, not only because the stuff there tastes good, but also because that guy has employed human robots. More about them later.

Now for some omelet pao etiquette.

Rule #1: You do not, and I mean do not, eat omelet pao alone. You should always make sure you have company.

Me (on the phone): Hey, !@#$%^ lets go eat omelet pao.
Lesley (who stays like 3 kms away): Eh, wtf man, I’m watching TV. !@#$ off.
Me: !@#$ you man. Screw you. Just come. It’s on me.
Lesley: It’s the woman volleyball finals man.
Me: Screw them.
Lesley: I will.
Me: Are you coming or not?
Lesley: Parcel it and come to my place man.
Me: @!#$#(@$*#@$@#)%*&^&#(@$@#$ . !@#$ you man, I’ll eat alone. Lemme know who wins.

Srijay: Hello.
Me: !@#$%^ lets go eat omelet pao.
Srijay: !@#$ you man. I stay in Porvorim (which is like very far from where I or Lesley stays).
Me: Lesley is coming man. And we may go and play some Counter Strike too.
Srijay: Cool, I’m in. Where do we meet?
Me: Taxi stand, omelet pao.
Srijay: Okay.

Lesley: Hello.
Me: !@#$%^ I spoke to Srijay, he’s coming to Mapusa to play some Counter Striked. He said he wants to meet up and go beat some school boys in Dust 2 (a Counter Strike map).
Lesley: Where are we meeting?
Me: Taxi stand, omelet pao.
Lesley: Cool, will be there in 10 mins.

And, this is just one example on how you do not break Rule #1.

Rule #2: You always eat your omelet pao with the roas. Roas = Chicken curry.

You have the option of consuming your omelet pao without the roas, but if you are gonna do that, I suggest you’d might as well eat a newspaper. Besides, the newspaper would be 1/10 the price.

The essence of the omelet pao is lost if the curry is not allowed to create a thin slimey, juicy layer between the omelet and the pao. This being the primary tastemaker.

Thus, Rule #2 should not be broken, yet those who do so may be allowed to go unpunished.

Rule #3: Order some juice.

It should not come as a surprise that there always is a guy providing fresh juice right next to the omelet pao guy. This is the age old marketing technique that they do not teach you at MBA class. The juice guy provides the exact balance between hunger and thirst. Hunger being satisfied by the omelet, thirst being quenched by the juice. Now imagine eating a lovely omelet pao and then not having anything to drink. FAIL!

Rule #3 is not mandatory, but should be followed. So order some juice.

These are the 3 main rules that are to be adhered to when you venture out to eat your omelet pao.

Now back to the human robots. The means and speed of the delivery of you omelet pao is directly proportional to the experience of the human robots at the omelet pao stall. Older the human robot faster you get your omelet pao. Lets refer to these human robots as hubots. Hubots are of a special breed. They do not have something known as hand-eye coordination. Their eyes and hands function separately. They also use their mouths a lot primarily to pass on information from one hubot to another. They produce anywhere between 6 to 12 ready-to-consume omelet paos in a minute.

The way you acquire your omelet pao is as follows. You shout for your order. One hubot picks up the information and registers it. And signals that he has heard you and your order is on its way. What you do not notice and realize is that the rest of the hubots have also registered the same information and are already preparing your omelet pao.

The hubot precision of omelet pao preperation is unmatched. One hubot breaks a couple of eggs which land onto a massive frying pan. In seconds another hubot has had them fried. A third hubot busily cutting loaves of bread in the middle, suddenly puts his arm out with the pao, only to grab hold of an airborne omelet which slip right into the pao. This omelet pao then moves into the hand of another hubot who adds the roas and next thing you know your omelet pao is wrapped into a tissue and is handed to you by one of those mobile hubot.

The mobile hubots are the ones who make sure you enjoy your meal without having to go to the counter to place your order or have to watch the other hubots at work. The mobile hubot also get you juice from the jucie guy if required.

Next thing you do is bite into you omelet pao. Aah! Life is bliss! The Goan Omelet Pao!!!

Now you may be wondering what happened to Lesley, Srijay and me. Srijay who stays in Porvorim which is like 10 kms from Mapusa has to take one of the local buses, get down at the Mapusa bus stand and walk to the taxi stand which is right opposite the bus stand. I stay in Parra, so jump onto the so call ‘Beast of the Road’ aka the Honda Activa and ride 3 kms to the Mapusa taxi stand. Lesley, the lazy b*stard stays in Mapusa, 3 minutes away from the taxi stand. As protocol always an important part, Srijay reached first by default, I reach a few seconds after he arrives and Lesley, that moron never turns up on time.

Srijay: Where’s Lesley?
Me: Dunno man, he should be here anytime. (One mobile hubot catches my signal for two omlet paos).
Srijay (on pohone): Where the !@#$ are you man?
Lesley: Ah, I’ll leave now.
Me: He just left right? (Sirjay nods, our omelet paos are in our hands by now).

Lesley decides to show up after 3 minutes. On an average 30 omelet paos must have been produced by now.

Lesley (to Srijay): !@#$%^ what do you wanna game suddenly?
Srijay: Me? You are the one who came up with the idea.
Lesley: B*lls.
Me: Hey looks, hot chick man. Looks known, must be our junior.
Srijay: !@#$ you man, you are paying for our omelet paos.

Amen. Goan Omelet Paos!!!

Mr. Newman Fernandes was the principal of St. Xavier’s College, Mapusa, Goa while I was there from 2002 to 2005. I by no means want to attack or ridicule him but I just want people like him to know that his actions are not justified.

Let me begin with the part when I hit puberty and then started to grow a beard. Yes, suddenly the face started to fill up with lots of hair and I for some reason (mostly and maybe because I was a metal fan) though that it was really cool. Well, to set the record straight, I still think beards are cool. If Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni and Tom Araya could keep a beard, then so could Lovell D’souza!

Newman for some reason never kept a beard. And I, being a nice student of the institution, for some reason never asked him why. I could have just walked up to him on any given day and ask him, “Sir, Michelangelo had a beard, but where is yours?” Well I never did that. But one fine day, I’m standing outside the St. Xavier’s college canteen gate, quietly sipping on my cup of tea, checking out all the hot chicks that made it to the institution. When suddenly this hand grabs hold of my beard. Well guess who zeroed in on me. The principal was standing there with my beard in his hand while time froze for a few seconds till I could recollect what exactly was happening. My brain over-clocked trying to recollect what nonsense I might have done in the past few days.

• Broke college property? – No.
• Abused someone verbally? – No.
• Came smelling of smoke for practical sessions? – Maybe.
• Caught screwing around with some girl in college? – In my dreams, Yes. In college, No.
• Faked lab reading and staged experiments? Yes.

Sh*t. This guy is the principal. And right now I’m so screwed. Before I could give him the “WTF” look he said, “You fellow, where do you think you are come? This is an educational institution this is not the way you come to college!” Ok, so I was wearing some real dirty  jeans, must have had some metal band black t-shirt on by default, but surely I wore a clean underwear. And then he lets me know, “You are growing this beard for what? Is this some new fashion? You think anyone will give you a job with that beard? You give me your I-card.” Ah, the classic statement – “You give me your I-card.” “Tomorrow come to my office first thing in the morning and show me if you have a chin and then you can take your I-card back.”

“F*ck you man, I don’t give sh*t”, that’s what I thought. :) But I just said, “Ok, Sir” and he left. You don’t mess with the head of the institution when your career is in his hands. So there went my I-card, “Lovell B Q D’souza, SYBSc” up with the man to his office into the box of blacklisted students. The disgrace of the college would be collected in a box in his office. Well that was that.

I walked up to my cousin Ryan D’souza who saw all this happening and was enjoying all of it. Nothing like amusing yourself at someone else’s cost. I was like, “He told me to shave my beard.” Ryan, “Tell him you have some sickness and you can’t”. Me, “duh!”

Part two: The Psycho relatives.

Now if you stay in a village with all your relatives being your neighbors, life can be bliss, life can be a sh*t hole. I had my share of both. Till today I find my relatives very amusing. Yes, somehow I find their conversations very funny, not that because they crack god jokes, mainly because they talk sh*t most of the time.

Some relative to my mom, “Is you son sick? Why is he so thin? Hope he is not doing anything bad you know.. like ‘bad’. May be he is in bad company. And what’s that? No one in ‘our family’ keeps beards. What is this rubbish?”

Me (in my head), “Well f*ck you!”

First of all I wasn’t sick. Yes, I would get the occasional fever and I still get it now. Thin? WTF? I always though I was on the heavier side. By ‘bad’ I assume they were referring to sex, drugs and booze. Well the answer is no. Bad company, well maybe yes, but I don’t regret any of the nonsense I’ve done in life. You f*ckers, the so called ‘bad company’, you know who are, you guys rock! And, who the f*ck defines which family gets to keep beards and which family doesn’t?

Back to the beard.

So I sadly cut off my maybe four inch long beard with a scissors that might have never been used again. Then the rest of the remaining hair got shaved off. Next in line was some amount of Pop’s Original Old Spice after shave. That stuff burns, especially if you’ve shaved after months.

The next morning I’m back in college, standing there at the college canteen gate, like a rape victim. Feeling the cold morning breeze hit my chin. No a good feeling at all. I get a few stares from some people who see my face for the first time since they ever joined college. My friends laugh at my baby face look. We exchange a few set of highly sophisticated abuses and have a good laugh.

I walk up the stairs to that dreaded room labelled “Principal’s Office”. I step in and Mr. Newman Fernandes gives me a big smile. I give him a big smile too, more out of sarcasm. He runs through the content of the box, locates my I-card and hands it over to me. I get to walk free. I give him a nice, “Thank you, Sir” and I carry on with life.

Well Newman, now this part is for you.

Two of my other friends and I wrote the final year exams with our beards, nailed the exams with our beards, gold plated you and the name of our college (when we secured the highest number of distinctions ever), with our beards. We walked up and collected our certificates from you, with our beards.

I got a job, with my beard. I interviewed for one the biggest company in the world, with my beard. The guy who interviewed me had a beard. I got the job, with my beard. I proudly took my beard along with me on my first day, and my I-card also has a photo of me with my beard. And, till today as I type this I have my beard.

So next time, any of you fools out there ever discriminate a young guy because he has a beard think twice.

PS: Please do not leave any comments targeting Newman directly (I shall delete those). He’s a nice guy, but stereotypes too much. Let him live his life. But yes, you can post politically correct comments.

Power to the beards!

Yes, that’s right. The Mane that I used to carry around has finally been taken off. No long hair, no Taliban beard. Here are a few answers to questions that I am fed up of answering to.

Q: Why did you take it off?
A: What’s your problem?

Q: Since when did you start growing your hair and beard?
A: I never started growing it, it grew on it’s own you moron. Well but if you really need to know, the last haircut was somewhere in Dec 2007 and I last shaved in May 2008.

Q: You cut you hair coz of your sisters wedding right?
A: Well to some extent, yes.

Q: Were you forced to do it?
A: No. I did it with my free will.

Q: But you said that you would not cut your hair till the end of 2009..
A: Ya, but who care? I make my own rules.. so too bad.

Q: What about the new look? Has it affected your sex appeal in a negative way?
A: I don’t know. I don’t think so. Do you feel like having sex with me right now? Well, the female fan following will be there even if I suddenly start growing hair in places where it has never grown before. But yes, I’ve been getting attention from the older women (married ones too) off late, but I’m not complaining.

Q: What about the women at home? How did they react?
A: Well my grandmom mentioned that she was happy that she could now see my entire face and now die in peace. My mom was happy too and it really did not matter to my sister. She does not need the FAQ’s like you morons. (Yes you! You who are reading this right now).

Q: Have you got any marriage proposals now?
A: No. I don’t need no marriage proposals. But, you can ask your wife if she wants to reconsider her decision.

Q: What about the people at work?
A: It never really mattered. Well some people got all excited, but we managed to calm them down.

Q: Do you intend to cut your hair in the near future.
A: No.

Q: What about the beard?
A: Hmmm.. not really sure. Will try some stunts with the razor before I leave the beard alone.

Well, that’s about it. If you have any more questions feel free to leave a comment and I shall respond to it if I am in the mood. Amen.

I’m in Hubli. The train has halted here for like forever. I’m listening to ‘Free’ by Powerman 5000, passing time on Google Maps with GPS and staring back at people who stare at me. Now don’t blame me just because I got a huge beard, a bag in the hand and act suspicious. Haha, it’s fun scaring people. Everyone is so afraid of dying.

There are a bunch of Goan uncles on the train. In their late 50′s for sure, but young at heart. They keep making fun of people in the train, in konkani. Goan uncles, they are always funny characters. Eat, drink, crack jokes, etc. If I’m not mistaken they are drinking whisky on the train.

The previous night was crazy. Everyone fighting for seats, but the TC comes and shows all of these people that his balls are the biggest and sets everything right. It was a real tiring day at work, had to play two CS (Counterstrike) games before leaving. Now our team gotta play Danny’s team. The thing you can do at the work place! I luuurrrvvvee my job!

Ah, the train has finally decided to move. should be another 4 hours and I will get to kiss Goan soil. Then I shall eat all kinds of meat. If it moves, I’ll eat it. Non-veg paradise here I come.

Uncles in the train are indeed boozing. They bought some sweets off the platform. Damn, I’m such a loser, I forgot to take anything for my folks. Hey, but I’m taking myself back, so what more? :P

The old table. The old hall. The massive windows. The damp roof tiles. The generations of relatives sealed in frames, hanging from the walls looking down upon me and thinking “Shame on him. Didn’t make the family name proud.” Hey wait a min, I did. May be they took that back.

Meet Tommy [the female family feline]. Some say she’s 25+ years old. I’ll keep her at 23, coz from photographic evidence she existed when my sis was a kid, before I was born. I stick my foot out for the usual feline meets master greeting. She rubs her head against my foot. I’m still king of the pride. Tommy acknowledges that. Until my sis drops by and steals me off my throne. How can that kitty leave me and run to my sis!!! Duh!! Whatever pussy cat. Big deal!!

The black t-shirts have turned into makeshift doormats. I’m wondering how could my mom degrade the metal collection!! Aahh.. but I guess thats ok. Even the great Slayer t-shirt was not spared. That one has been torn into bits. The Nirvana collection has survived the onslaught. They lie folded in the cupboard.

The metal cassette collection has survived. The pirated CD’s survived too. The rains kick in. I listen to Alice In Chains for a change. Grunge kicks in. Finding a signal for Airtel in the house is a challenge in itself. The signal boosting ironing board does not help anymore. Last resort is defined by leaving the phone at the window risking it getting robbed.

I walk out. I see fields. I smell fresh air. I see birds. Coconut trees transform the simple village road into an aisle. Feels like a red carpet has been laid out for me. Well all over the place tell me I never have to worry bout taps running dry. Home it is. It’s not necessarily the beaches that everyone thinks about when you mention Goa.

I head out to the Baga creek. I spot the Cross where Ryan [Babushin] and I used to hang out discussing crap. I recognize the spot where Donn, Russell [Yoyo] and I used to come fishing and manage only to catch crabs. The total number of crabs caught till date tallies to 1. I pass by the ground where our U-19 team used to train. The same ground where I learned to dive and catch a football in mid air. The same ground where I once left a lousy goal and our team lost.

I meet my good old friend Srijay aka Byclops aka Peekachooooo. We head of to Lan Lords. We thought the place was shut down. We find it open. Once owned by the fearsome Homo Sapien Maleous clan, now left to rot with some school boys. The gaming place is dying a slow death. Never-the-less we frag against some bots. Get ripped initially. We rip them back after a while. Srij still got the superfast killer reflexes. I still kick bot with moi mag. The clan needs a reunion.

Srij and I drop by Vrundavan. The evening restaurant where a lot of things were always discussed. Most visited by Lesley and me. Often accompanied by Evelyn, Srijay, Suneet and Prashanti. We attack the regular. Chillies, bhel, shev puri, tea and coffee are consumed. We call Les just to let him know we are re-living the moment and he is missing out on a lot of stuff, only to get a barrage of abuses in return. Good ‘ol days. Les, the abuser. Abuses everyone and everything.

We head back home. I’m home…

December 5th 2003, a quiet evening, stars in the sky, Christmas carols echoing throughout the neighborhood. Not always does the day come when metal fans get what they want, when dopers get what they need, when starved unnourished souls get vitamins and syrups, and when people get sacrificed. A weird atmosphere engulfed the surroundings of BTF – 6, Chandranath Apartments, Mapusa.

Not many people were there. Just a few, a few who mattered were present. Just around six people excluding the host. Three rockers and three dopers, of which all were hungry – some for food, others for blood. There was no special Birthday Cake, the only thing that did get cut was the birthday boy, and man he did bleed hard. Blood splattered all around the house, the victim quietly bearing the immense pain. A timely introduction of a waterproof band aid was the savior of the moment.

Initially Sepultura set the ambiance with ‘Roots’. Old friends did some catch up. The script of a movie was reviewed. Then came the dose of Pantera. Rockers head banged and tried to break necks. Though no necks broke, the attempt was worth it. The not so divine intervention of food saved the rockers. Seven people consumed a meal cooked for twenty. With all due respect to the mom who made it possible (Daniel’s mom of course). Those poor chickens who sacrificed their lives for the auspicious day should be now somewhere near the pearly gates of heaven along with the other billions and St. Peter.

Dessert was gobbled down in a matter of seconds. Seven spoons in one single gigantic bowl. The Alphonso mango ice-cream was consumed like a carcass feasted upon by hungry vultures. Then came the period in which all the minds were cooled off and some freaks started to make music videos. A web-cam, a Pentium III, some 256MB RAM made possible some really weird and rather depressing but energetic music videos. Sorry to say that only a limited few will have access to these videos.

What happened next was out of the blues. Four people left. They had had enough. But they went smiling. Left back were three old pals. A rocker, a freak and another rocker. They discussed topics which are too sensitive to be written and tortured and murdered a few mosquitoes. Before long the freak left and one rocker washed dishes, while the other just listen to his shit and offered some shit of his own. The washing of the dishes got over, but the talking went on till around 3:45 am and by 4 am, the two rockers lay dead.