Monday, December 29, 2008

This is horrible! I'm SURE Priyanka's put a curse on me.
And I churn out yet another Post-Promise-Post.

Eta ektu silly but bear with me.
Also, I'll leave out forewords in the future.


He was madly, badly in love.
His love was so great, it could not be contained and soared into the skies above.

He stared at her face.
It was more beautiful than anyone else of her race or of any other race.

He leant towards her, he grew very near.
Her liberated heart did not mind physicality, so he was without fear.

As he grew closer, her large limpid eyes
Seemed to grow larger, and all talk of Aparna Sen having the largest eyes seemed nothing more than scandalous lies.

Then her eyes appeared to merge and become one.
And though most great things are solitary (for example- the Victoria Memorial, Brian May's guitar, and the sun),

She suddenly resembled a cyclops.
And it is during moments like these that romance falters, or even stops.

P.S- This is inspired by the time I peered too closely into my cat's eyes, and they really appeared to merge! It looked scary.

I can explain!

Before you start sniggering....

I have modified my resolution. I will not come on MSN. I will continue to Blog. Yes, now snigger.

Ok, so here's a piece that was written earlier but held back. I had to let it out. What right did I have to restrain it's freedom?


He was so happy, it made me sick. I never saw him look miserable, not even when he had toothache. 

I thought his world was one of racing cars and comic books, ping-pong bolls and bubble-gum. In my head, I called him 'half-witted', 'depraved'.....
Surely, I asked myself, it was better to live a sad truth than a comfortable lie? And his life was a lie. It had to be.

No abuse of politics... no intellectual outrage at the hopless state of our education system... he was blind to everything that was going wrong!

Then one day I asked him why he thought the world was perfect. I'll never forget his reply.

'The world's a shithole. I've always known that. 
But optimists like YOU think there's hope. That's why the angst.

You think a change is coming... I don't.
You think working yourself upto fever pitch will bring the change. For me, it's a bloody waste of time. Almost everything's a waste of time, really.

The only thing worth being is happy. Good for the digestion. You should try it sometime.'

I tried. It didn't work. But I've stopped calling people optimists.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

I grow old, I grow old. I will not wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Finally, I turn 18.
I can't make corny 'Oh then toh I will call you didi' jokes anymore.

People asked me if I had a party or not. I'm not really sure of what to say... I ate a lot. That's half the party won, right?

Funny, I don't feel like particularly like an adult. I think it's because I felt like an adult years ago. I came across this picture of me today. I was little then, and reading a book with an extremely pesudo-intellectual expression my face. Prophetic, one might have called it. The book was titled- 'I love pet animals.' I repeat- 'prophetic.'

But then, now that I am LEGALLY an adult, there are lots of things I can do. 

Vote- Doesn't excite me too much. Who the hell do I vote for? The earthquake or the hurricane?

Drive- THIS, I am really eager to do. And YES, I CAN reach the accelerator. 

Have a bank account without benevolent guardianship looming over my shoulder- This reminds me.
I am DYING to make a movie, and I need to fund it. My fame must spread beyond YouTube and Facebook Videos.

Marry- YECH >.<
To talk of marrying when I I haven't dated anyone as a non-adult.... Which is alright, I suppose, and it'll make the first relationship special, and yada yada yada. 
But then again, I've had to hear jokes about me and the school peon. Who has more personality than half the teaching staff, but you get my point.

Ooh, and there's one more thing I can do. I don't even need the law for that. 
Boss around my brother :D 
He's going to grow taller than me soon, and he's starting to get better than me at punja. I need to establish my superiority in some way, right?

Anyway, Happy Birthday to me. These are the occasions when one starts a new blog. I can't do that, but I'll make a compromise. This is my last blogpost before the ISC.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Ruddy dose, achig head.

Bloody colds should be shod dead.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

What's in a name?

Nisha first saw her when she reached the bus-stand before time.

Nisha was hardly ever early. With stray curls flying in every possible direction, and a half-zipped bag slipping off her shoulders, she would meet the schoolbus just as it appeared around the corner. Having entered the bus, she would proceed to empty her skirt pocket.

The makers of her school uniform had shown some foresight in making the pocket capacious. However, even they couldn't have predicted the level on which it would be exploited.

Poking its head out of Nisha's pocket was an object that vaguely resembled a spiked club. It was a hairbrush, a monster hairbrush designed specially for straightening out stubborn tangles. Somewhere in the cavernous depths of navy blue, rested a rubber-band and hairpins.

Besides these hair-flattening weapons were the house-badges. In these few moments that they weren't pinned onto a shirt front, they co-existed harmoniously, even harmonically, clinking and clanking against each other!

The final inhabitants of the pocket were a cell phone, handkerchief, and occasionally- a pair of socks.

Nisha was lucky too. She had missed the bus a few times, but so had everyone. She was convinced that she had a guardian angel who allowed her an extra half-hour of sleep each morning, something The Efficient Ones lost out on.

But on that particular morning, Nisha was early. And just a few feet away from her was the little girl- a streetchild.
She was playing with a puppy. She was thin, quite thin but there was a peculiar grace in her movements. She rolled about, scraping her skin against the roughly hewn stone, streaking her dress with dust and grime.
She was so unconscious of herself, so devoid of restraint, that every fling of her limbs seemed to speak of a glorious freedom.

Half the girls at school were always fiddling with their hair, adjusting their shirts.
They would cast surreptitious glances at any surface that was remotely reflective. A new pimple could ruin a day, a satisfactory image evoked smug little smiles.

The young girl was smiling too. But the difference!
Her teeth stood out startlingly white against her dusky face, her eyes glittered with pure, unadulterated joy. The puppy seemed to be smiling back at her as it bounced about, its tongue lolling, its miniscule tail a blur.

Nisha suddenly felt a tremendous unpsurge of tenderness towards the girl.
Who WAS she? Did she have any parents? Was she cruelly treated, unwanted, the stray animals her only playmates?
Was she the illegitimate child of a flourishing businessman and a poor dancer? (The girl's movements were a joy to watch.)

Maybe she was an undiscovered genius! Those long eyelashes, those waves of hair- surely they hinted at a latent sensitivity, a natural refinement.

Minakshi! That was her name. It didn't matter what her parents called her. Every person was born for a name. This child was a Minakshi.

In a haze of dreams, Nisha hardly noticed the arrival of the bus. All the way to school, she was lost in thought.

The following week, Nisha continued being nearly-late-but-really-not. In spite of that, she couldn't help wishing for another glimpse of Minakshi. Maybe one day, she wold discover Minakshi making chalk drawings on the road- they would be intriguing, enchanting... artistic masterpieces, all! And then, she, Nisha would introduce her to the world. She would become Minakshi's patron, mentor, an older sister of sorts!

Sometimes, Nisha would laugh at herself for being so fanciful. She was on the brink of obsession! She could hear her some of her friends' responses to her thoughts-

"Fuck man, how cheesy can you get?"
"Some day, the world will have more social activicts than poor people. THEN what will you do?"
"A paedophile, and a lesbian one at that!"

Ah well... she could've been worse- suicidal... exam-phobic! Her obsession was a poetic kind.

Then, there came the day when she saw Minakshi again. This time, she wasn't early, the bus was late- also a rarity.

She nearly didn't recognise Minakshi. The girl's hair was neatly tied back into a ponytail. Her frock, though faded and ill-fitting, was perfectly clean. And on her shoulders was a brand new schoolbag.

Accompanying Minakshi was a woman. There was no mistaking that small, bony figure, those feminine features. And the eyes- large, dark with a dancing spark in their centre. Undoubtedly, she was Minakshi's mother.

Minakshi was saying something in Bengali- rapidly, with vigour. Nisha wasn't really paying attention, when a certain word caught her ears.
The mother replied, saying- 'Na Tuktuk. Amar dara hobe na.'

'PLEASE'? The girl spoke English!
'TUKTUK!' Cute. Comical.

As the whimsically gifted name of Minakshi whithered in an instant, so did the aura of romance about the child.

Suddenly,the whole affair seemed grossly ridiculous. The 'please', so incongruous on Tuktuk's lips, rang in Nisha's ears like a jarring alarm bell. The name Tuktuk itself... the very sound of it was hopelessly lacking in glamour or elegance.
The colours of the schoolbag glared in the sunlight. All of a sudden, Nisha noticed the cartoons on it. They were garish, crude. For a second, their frozen smiles and glassy stares were pos'tively frightening. They seemed to be leering at her, mocking her stupidity.

'Really, some day I should go see a psychiatrist' Nisha thought to herself. Then, with the familiar rumble, her schoolbus appeared around the corner, and the whole incident passed out of her mind.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Did You Know?

People think I'm overflowing with the milk of human kindness. What did I ever do to give that impression?

I'm smiling all the time. Well, I like keeping myself happy. How magnanimous is that?

People say I never lose my temper. I'm hardly ever rude. There's a blooming difference. I DO get mad. Sometimes I get so mad, that I feel like sitting on a monster elephant and just trampling over any miserable little creature that crosses my path. But I prefer not being rude, because it spares me from listening to stupid or hurtful replies. Also because I enjoy my popularity.

And I listen to all the sorrows of the world. Well, the world DECIDES to unburden their sorrows to me, because they like my advice. My advice is sound because I have an unhealthy curiosity in human psychology. 

I am not trying to put myself down. I frickin' love myself. And that's the point.
I can be self-centred, shallow and hopelessly egotistical. 
I can be jealous, and just plain mean-minded.
If I had more guts, you'd know how nasty I really am. Not nastier than the average human being, but not too much better either.

There you have it. Digest it. Believe it. And if you still love me like you always did, then I'm thankful to have you for a friend.

I agree, the image of Anushka Florence Nightingale Sen is far pleasanter to believe in. But it doesn't exist. Like the Easter Bunny. So grow up already.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Stray thoughts on a winter morning

I'm a canvas for the world.

The sunlight forms ripples on my skin,
Streaks my hair golden-brown.
As my elbow digs into the bed,
The matted covers print it
With a psychedelic pattern.

The scruffy flower
Drawn on my arm by a friend
Is still there.
Faded but content-
A grand tribute to the last row.
The 'FLOWER' label scrawled next to it
Laughs cheekily,
Enjoying its lack of subtlety.

And the music.
As it washes over me,
It paints me with so many colours-
A velvet plum, 
Canary yellow,
The green of woods on a misty winter morning.

If you look carefully, you'll notice them.
They glow when I smile.

Yesterday's conversation 
Has been carefully written out 
On my mind.
The letters entangle themselves
In one another;
Straighten out, skip and spin.

I feel like I can sense the earth spin,
Hear it hum.
Not a twitch escapes me,
Not a whisper goes unheard.

And I know I'm not alone.
Do you know it too?
I can hear you listening,
I see you seeing.

P.S- I have to say something else. It's semi-relevant, because it's to do with winter. From now on, I will wear shawls.
I am never going to be thin, and giving up on birthday/christmas cake is a leetuhl too painful. Hence, I am going to be resourceful. La Shawle will come to my rescue.
It hides bulges. In case you're wondering, stoles aren't as flattering.
It actually looks pretty sexy.
It is ethnic. I am tired of the abundance of western-wear. 
I hope I have the guts to carry out my resolution, because the idea IS appealing. I just have to find the right kind of shawl-manufacturer. Modify the garment, to make it more teenagerish. 

Thursday, December 4, 2008

My Rollercoaster (from Juno)

This song really makes me feel strange, in a good way. 


you were on my mind at least nine tenths of yesterday
it seemed as if perhaps I'd gone insane
what is it about you that has commandeered my brain?
maybe it's your awesome songs or maybe it's the way
when I look at your face I can tell that you're not going to be stopping soon or even slowing down
and if we keep up this pace pretty soon we'll know the name of every kid and every grown up booking house shows in their town

and if home is really where the heart is
then wer're the smartest kids I know
because wherever we are in this great big world
we'll never be more than a few hours from home
and that's important because I need to travel
I've had this itchin in my shoes since I was just a little kid
and before I had a mini van I road the Greyhound bus
my mom would say "I hope some day you get paid for being Kimya Dawson"

and now I do and it's not much
but it's enough
I've got my Scrabble game, food on my plate, good friends and family
and now there's you understanding why I do the things I do
knowing that you do them too makes me really happy

on the road again
just can't wait to get on the road again
the life I love is makin' music with my friends
and I can't wait to get on the road again

on the road again
just can't wait to get on the road again
the life I love is makin' music with my friends
and I can't wait to get on the road again

from a distance, the world looks blue and green
and the snow capped mountains white
from a distance, the ocean meets the stream
and the eagle takes to flight

Darkness imprisoning me
All that I see
Absolute horror
I cannot live
I cannot die
Trapped in myself
Body my holding cell

do do do do do do do
do do do do do do do
do do do do do do do
do do do do do do do
I'll be your cryin' shoulder
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be do do do do do do
I'll be the greatest man of your life

'cause I like going for hikes and riding bikes
and playing video games in the middle of the night
and I'll stay up late and I wont even care
that we're getting up early to go to the state fair
I'm gonna ride the biggest ride it'll be out of sight
then I'll share an elephant ear with you if you'd like
because we are alive so we've gotta live life
to the fullest you spin the bottle and I'll dim the lights
four five six seven minutes in the closet

you were on my mind at least nine tenths of yesterday
it seemed as if perhaps I'd gone insane
what is it about you that has commandeered my brain?
maybe it's your awesome songs or maybe it's the way
you go straight to the top you're not scared of getting squashed
you know just when to jump off
you're so brave
and then you run to the right it seems there's no hope in sight
and you drop down to the tube that takes you right to level eight

life is a highway and I'm gonna ride it
every day's a winding road yeah
my rollercoaster's got the biggest ups and downs
as long as it keeps goin' round its unbelievable

life is a highway and I'm gonna ride it
every day's a winding road yeah
my rollercoaster's got the biggest ups and downs
as long as it keeps goin' round its unbelievable


Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Suddenly, I have this overwhelming desire for Mango Bite. Not for it's taste. I'm not even sure I'll enjoy that chemical tang and sugar sweetness anymore. I just happen to miss it.

The yellow-red-green, crackling wrapper. 
Comparing the translucent type to the opaque. Pretending to prefer whichever one I got, if my brother got the other kind.
Buying something for 2 rupees.

It's time to check out the parar bajar. The dogs there get chicken and rickshaw rides for free. After that, it would be a slight let down if they didn't store Mango Bite anymore.

Monday, December 1, 2008

To think or not to think.

"Thinking is what sets humankind apart from the rest of the world. It's our main weapon. Use it."

"Don't think so much! You'll only confuse yourself. Impulse is the best guide."

I keep hearing both these kinds of statements. And both are said with equal conviction, by equally intelligent people. Which goes to show, that both are correct. And both are wrong. 

If you've recuperated from the flurry of 'both's, then I'll continue with what I mean to say.


Everybody's got to do what they've got to do. 

I honestly respect soldiers, and wish I had the guts to go to war. 
I can't. I won't. 
I do believe that not being a material person has distinct advantages. (Though I think a phrase like 'material' is childishly simplistic.)
In fact, I'd love to be able to make huge sacrifices, for a simple reason. 
If every single damn thing I own is taken away from me, I want to be able to carry on.
The detachment here has NOTHING to do with the moral science classes they shove down our throats at school. It's NOTHING to do with the principles of preachers who've learnt to quote the sacred texts before they tried to understand it. This kind of detachment is power. The kind of power where nothing controls me.
BUT. I'm not capable of it. The very thought of being computer-less, and ipod-less, and book-less makes me grimace. I know that however much I try, I can't be a Swami Vivekandanda, or a Chittaranjan Das. That doesn't stop me from respecting either of the two. And it doesn't stop me from being prepared for the consequences I might have to face.

So whether you're the sort who needs to think, or the sort who doesn't, DEPENDS ON WHAT SORT OF PERSON YOU ARE. As well as the situation you're in.

"If Macbeth was Hamlet, and Hamlet was Macbeth, two great tragedies could have been averted."

As for me, I think a lot. I agree, sometimes I think excessively. But that doesn't mean ANY sort of thinking is pointless. 
For one, thinking is fun! Not everything CAN think. Thinking is a privilege. And it can lead you to discover a lot of entertaining things. 
For one, most people are so conscious of making impressions and projecting an aura, they keep a lot of things about themselves under wraps. Scratching the surface of their layers can be intriguing.
When you've held a certain opinion for years, and you suddenly realise that there's a hell of a lot more to it than you thought, it's a revelation! And it carries with it all the wonder, the frustrating but strangely thrilling confusion that any revelation does.

So there's a lot to read. I'll never be able to complete my must-read-books list. Same goes for my must-watch-movies list. And my must-hear-songs list. So what?
I won't stop reading. Or watching movies. Or listening to music.
And SO WHAT if I can never think out all my problems? Or think my way to the very core of the truth? Or discover who I really am? If I can get to see beyond what's plain for any idiot to see, then I've achieved something. 

Another thing. 
Acting on impulse ALL the time would be perfect, if I could take the results. But I'm not strong enough for that. There's still a lot of life I want to see, a lot of things I need to do. I need to keep myself intact for all of that.
There are people whose help I'm going to need, and people to whom I owe certain things. I'm not going brush EVERY bit of that away by jumping on every little whim.

There's yet another thing.
Some people HAVE to think, if the world has to go on. Scientists have to think before they're creating something. They have the right to do what their heart is telling them, but if it means there's a chance that I'll be blown off the face of this earth- SORRY. I come first.
Politicians have to do a hell lot of thinking. Freedom isn't anarchy.
Teachers have to think. They have to think, to know how to treat different students differently. How would you like being spoonfed as though you were retarded, or left in the lurch, as though there's nothing you can't manage?

And people are under the impression, that thinking means being worried all the time. Being insecure, not daring to take a risk. I agree, we're only young once, and we have to let go. We have to be prepared to make mistakes. But who says we think only because we're scared to make mistakes?
Sometimes, we want to be sure that we're doing what we really want. Because we're intense. We feel. And we don't want to treat things glibly. We know that we might end up making the wrong choice anyway, but we're lessening the odds. Sparing ourselves the regret. In those cases, we think, just a little bit so that we can listen to what our heart is saying. Oh yes, thoughts aren't all cold intellectualism. They just rummage about in our heads, tweak things a little bit into shape, so we can see what our instinct is trying to tell us. It all comes together.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Universal. Not.

The greatest poems have universal themes.

I will write one like that.

Today was a tiresome day.
Oh wait!
I probably shouldn't have told you that.
What if you think it wasn't tiresome?
Worse, what if you think I don't think it was tiresome?

I suppose I must clear my head of all opinions.
Emotions too- nasty, interfering mumblejumbles!
No no. I am not imposing my thoughts on you.
You may well like emotions.
But then again, who am I to grant you that liberty?

I suppose I am too self-centred.
No matter how hard I try, I can't rid this poem of the personal touch.
Tell you what?
I'll leave it incomplete.
Yes, I'll leave a wonderful, empty blankness for you to fill in.
However, if you feel that the blankness is merely an optical illusion, I won't contradict you.

Is this even a poem?
Now that,  is open to interpretation!
In fact, it can even be interpreted as NOT open to interpretation.
In which case......

I have reached my conclusion.
A conclusion that is definite, specific, individualistic, UNCHANGEABLE, and BEYOND contest.
I can't do this.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Big Brother is telling you...

I find it hilarious how brilliant I am at convincing myself that I rule. Not to mention positively frightening.

If people call me fat, I tell myself that they just happen to appreciate malnutritioned figures due to their own lack of muscle. If they're fat themselves, I tell myself that they're jealous. And if they have that perfect body, I tell myself that they're comparing me to themselves, which is unfair, because normal people don't have perfect bodies anyway.

If people who I generally respect, feel I'm not .... say a good enough debater, or that I won't get into the college I aim for, this is what I think-
'Oh they are intelligent, and rather creative, but what they lack, you know, is maturity. They can't see beyond the tip of their eyelashes. So it's difficult for them to assess a person who happens to be different from them. The poor, poor things.'

When I manage to convince the majority of my listeners, I'm so obviously right that it's beyond dispute. When I'm brushed aside without concern, I'm so obviously a genius that the common little people can't even grasp my supremacy. When I'm acknowledged here and there but not as much as I'd like, I'm thankful that SOME perceptive people still exist.

Dear god, dear god.

At least I'm happy.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Are you a wolf, or a mouse?

'He's hanging 
Upside down on the wire 
Of non-participation. 
He's a tarot-card, and he knows it. 
He can howl all night 
And dawn will pick up the same card 
And see him painted on it, with eyes 
Like doorframes in a desert 
Between nothing and nothing.'

Wolves are rugged; sleek; have haunting, soulful eyes; and are MONOGAMOUS.

One up on men. Yay wolves.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

My skin has is a sworn enemy
Of furniture corners and edges.
I've seen that walls stand in my way
Or hit out hard with stony ledges.

Glasses, bowls, ALL cutlery,
When in my hand attempt to take
A giant leap like wily fish
Who slyly jump from net to lake.

My shoelaces untie themselves,
My keyboard doesn't trust my spelling.
Few have seen me drop my cellphone,
But its exterior is telling.

These happen mostly without warning,
But always when I'm around bores.
Call me clumsy, and my feet
Might run away and stamp on yours.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

A frustrated post,when I'm actually happy o.0

We pay too much importance to pride. Ego, we prefer to call it. Sounds snappier.

Say I hate you. And you're making me work- you're stretching me beyond my limits, hoping I'll break. Already I'm taut, I'm quivering with pain and frustration. I want more than anything to give up. It wouldn't really make a difference. But it'll do one thing. Give you what you wanted. I couldn't let THAT happen, could I? My EGO couldn't tolerate seeing that smug, sadistic smile broaden over your repulsive face. 

So I carry on. Even though it's killing me, I carry on.

How the HELL does that make sense? Ego-- is it caring so much about myself, that I'd do anything to preserve my dignity; or is it caring so much about myself that I couldn't give a damn about what YOU think? Because it SHOULD be the second. If it's my EGO that's the driving force here, it should be about ME, not about you. If I want to give up, I'll give up goddamit! I want to enjoy the relaxation flooding back into my veins, I want to stretch out my limbs and feel free again. If you choose to gloat, great! I''ve made two people happy, instead of frustrating them both. 

So why can't I do that? Because I'm scared. Scared of appearing vulnerable to you. No matter how much I parade about, flaunting my individuality, I'm still a slave to public opinion. But would I accept that? Never. So I call my fear 'ego'. 

Such a convenient word. Two-syllables only. 

Sunday, October 12, 2008

My First Ever Story

They always said she was slightly crazy. They didn’t mean insane. Eccentric, more like.

Some said she was fearless, but they were wrong.

There was this monsoon morning; this wet, slippery monsoon morning. Her schoolbus had skidded and spun out of control. Like everyone else, she too was in a daze of panic. The jolts and thuds, were to her, screen images of some grotesque comedy. And when the bus came to a standstill, her heart thumped so loud, it hurt more than the iron bar that was weighing down upon her chest. A part of her mind was screaming out- ‘Don’t let me die! Please, please don’t let me die.’


But another part of her mind was at work too. It took in all the details.

How the shards of glass were glittering in the sunlight.

Slender, exquisite!

They had a faint greenish tinge, like Kryptonite from Superman…

Smatterings of blood all around.

Her blood? Some of it, definitely. Blood- the lifeline of a body. Why did it make people queasy?

 Such a brilliant shade of red! Royal, more royal than royal blue.

This part of her mind was the most alive. It made her smile. Smiling, she turned to the person who was sprawled beside her. And she asked- ‘Isn’t it all quite beautiful?’ Then she fainted.

No one realised that all the while, she was convulsed with fear.


Then there were a few who thought she was unfeeling. They were horribly wrong. In fact, they couldn’t have been more wrong if they’d tried. They probably based it on the time her grandfather was ill.

He was a very old man. Physically, he had kept himself quite well. But he hadn’t been able to save his brain. His brain was degenerating, and half the time, he was delirious. He had meant a lot to her, and it cut her to the quick.

One day, some relatives came to see him. She took them to his room. He lifted his head and stared at them vaguely. In a thin, faraway voice he said-‘I know why you have come. It’s alright, I forgive you.’ There was a tense silence. The visitors were all mirror images of each other- their faces contorted in an attempt at a sympathetic smile.


When like a gunshot into the night, there was a violent yelp. It was the girl. She was doubled over, her hands clutching her sides, her shoulders quaking with spasms of hysterical laughter. ‘What in GOD’S NAME is WRONG with you?’ someone hissed. ‘At a time like this…’

She stood up straight with an effort. ‘I…it’s just so…. funny!’ she spluttered. There were tears streaming down her face. Tears of mirth, everyone thought.


They weren’t tears of mirth. She was crying, crying out of pain for her grandfather. The laughter wasn’t a cover, oh no! That was born out an entirely different compartment in her head. It functioned individually. It was genuinely tickled by the situation.


Bloody fools, who thought she was insensitive! She was so sweet, so loving. And how I loved her! 

I suppose I understood her better than anybody else did. That’s why, when I say it’s best that I killed her, you have to trust me.


She was in my room. There was a power cut. I’d gone to the kitchen for a drink of water. It was dark, I couldn’t see very well; so I took a bit of time over it. When I returned, I saw that something on my table was in flames. She was watching it wide-eyed, her knuckles pressed hard against her cheeks.

At first I was only concerned with putting out the fire. I was relieved to find that it hadn’t harmed anything but a pile of papers. Papers!

Suddenly, the full significance of it sent me reeling.

My short stories. Shyly, hesitatingly, I had built them. I had torn out chunks of my heart and soul, and laid them down with fanatical care. They could never be written the same way again.

I didn’t need to ask her a thing. I knew exactly what had happened. When the lights had gone out, we had lit a candle. While I was away, she had knocked it over. Accidentally, I’m sure. But she had done nothing about it.

I could see it before my eyes. She standing transfixed by the flames, as they leapt and quivered with their unearthly beauty. Allowing helpless page after page to be charred black, writhe, and shrivel up- as though they were afflicted by some ghastly disease.


Her face was partly in shadow, partly illuminated by a rich, golden glow. She looked ethereal.

It hurt me to kill her when she looked like that. But it’s for the best. They called her crazy, and soon they would mean it. They would have her locked up. She would HATE that.


Don’t think I killed her in detached altruism. I was bubbling over with a wave of white-hot rage. It scorched me, like those flames scorched my stories. But while my hands were around her neck, I could understand that I was actually doing her a favour.


You see, even my brain is built up of different little boxes. I can reach into more than one box at the same time, but I never mix up their contents. She and me, we had a lot in common. Rather ironical, the whole story.


Speaking of story, this is jolly good material for a story, isn’t it? By destroying my writings, she gave me the chance to create a new one. Irony again! 

Life is so full of irony! Or am I just slightly crazy? I don’t mean insane. Eccentric, more like.

Friday, October 10, 2008

You Are...

A puff of smoke, a flash of light,
A shadow here, a shadow there.
A burst of love, a gleam of spite.
A silhouette, a wisp of air.

Sly and bold,
Burning cold,
A hurtful hold,
A formless mould.
Never static, never old.
A secret waiting to be told.

Crude and raw, smooth and sleek.
A tapestry, a blinding blade.
Unexpected, unafraid.
A river peak, a mountain creek.

A crystal ball,
A fatal fall,
A stony wall,
A bloody brawl.
A wild and elemental call.
A drug to start and stop it all.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

The Pujo Post. Damn you- Priyanka, Neeti, Rukmini and Joyeeta.

Yesterday I went out with my family to CCD. With no intention of pandal-hopping. I start showing horrifying withdrawal symptoms if I am deprived of cold coffee for too long--- y'know... those symptoms the cranks like to call tantrums, greed, obsession. But anyway, my family understands me, so off we went to CCD. And on our way home, my dad casually suggested we stop at the BJ Block pujo. 

When we arrived at BJ park, the first thing that thrust itself upon my attention was a pompous, omniscient tone echoing around the street- 'Do not push. Do not try and occupy anyone else's place in the line. If you lose your shongi, shathi, or any belongings, please contact....." 
Pessimist, I tell you! I was about to make a remark on how low-down it is to worship under the guidance of a loudspeaker.
 But then I was distracted. Crowds of people, I saw, were just bypassing the park altogether. In fact, they were walking rather PURPOSEFULLY away from it. Then I realised, that each of these people were ready to clink and clatter across three whole lanes, just to get to the entrance. THEN, they would have to travel throughout the length of the line to get to the back of it, make it longer, and add to the misery and exhaustion of another few hundreds. Oh, The Line! Longer than the last lesson of the afternoon, longer than a bad Bollywood movie, it made every molecule of my high heels cry out in protest.

But my parents wanted to see the pujo. So we joined The Line. I was suddenly struck by how smoothly it was moving. There was NO formation of the usual clusters of sequins, squeals and beads of sweat . There was was no interminable pause. As a prefect, I had to give it to the organisers; they'd managed it rather well. Of course, I'd have been able to move faster had an old man not been standing directly in front of me. But he was such a delight to watch, I couldn't complain! 
He was flying solo, that was plain to see. And he was wearing the plainest white pajama-panjabi. I could have been more poetic by saying that the sparkle and crispness of his simple attire had a dignity of its own, but it was not even so. And he had the most RANDOM look I've ever seen. His aimless, zig-zag walk; the way he blinked from behind typically dadu spectacles. Even the back of his head was random! He'd suddenly stop to watch the lights, or calculate how long we were taking. And just when I thought there would be a collision, he'd drift ahead again. 
Another thing that was highly entertaining was to grin maliciously at all those people who had just arrived and were gaping at The Line. 'Gueeess who got here bee-fooore youuu??' I warbled, in the tuneless tune that only bathroom singers can use to perfection. 

If you're wondering, yes I did reach the pandal. And I LOVED it. Tasteful and intricate, it really deserved more than the a hurried glance from a hurtling queue. But I suddenly realised that it wasn't about an elaborate critical appreciation. Even less was it about worship. If you want to pray, or meditate, you can do that anytime. But what's important about the pujos is the atmosphere. Everyone's unflinching determination to enjoy themselves. So what if half the women are ricocheting light beams? So what if boys in shorts act macho by displaying their hairy legs? So what if there are kids wailing their little lungs out and shoving candyfloss into my face? In fact, it wouldn't be pujo without all of that. 
All of a sudden, I felt very much at peace. Crushed ice, caffeine, and the overwhelming dhaker baajna. 'Ei toh jibon.'

It would be ideal to end on that didactic note. I could visalise my readers nodding their heads to it in agreement, and praising my uplifted soul. But I have to mention what followed. We bought balloons!!! After YEARS. Man, I love balloons. I made my dad carry the biggest one. And what a sight it was! 
Justice Sen of Calcutta High Court, walking merrily down the street with a gargantuous, orange globe. The other 3 were gas balloons. The whole of the car journey back home was like some weird rave party. Eyes and nostrils stinging with helium, rubbery squeaks at the slightest movements, and all vision- a shiny haze of myriad hues.  
The big balloon burst before I could play volleyball with it :( 
But funnily, I didn't feel too bad. In fact, I comforted my mother, saying I had fun protecting it while it lasted. So see, you can still praise my uplifted soul :D 
I am jaast too spiritual to be true.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

NOT 'Child's Play' -inspired

I was little when I was given
My only Barbie Doll.
Though I smiled a thank-you,
I didn't like her at all.

Her joints were stiff and squeaky,
Her eyes were pale and cold.
Her hair was almost silver,
As though she was quite old.

I played with her for a few days,
Just because I thought I should.
Washed her hair, and cut it off;
Then left her for good.

Spent my days exploring 
The far end of the lane.
Befriended a vagabond dog,
Got caught outside in the rain.

Years passed by and a few days back,
I was clearing out my room.
When in a forgotten cabinet-corner,
Shrouded by dust and gloom,

I found my abandoned Barbie Doll,
Sitting very upright,
Staring straight into my face-
It gave me quite a fright.

Her face was streaked with grime,
And her dress was stained with damp.
Still she laughed her frozen laughter,
Like a delirious princess tramp.

I winced at the colourless clumps
Of fuzz on her shaven head.
But worst of all were her eyes-
Though once they seemed completely dead,

They looked at me now as if to say:
'Well, this is what you've done.
If I couldn't make you happy,
My life certainly hasn't been fun.'

Whenever I think of throwing her out
I feel her eyes on me.
I stiffen with a pang of guilt,
Wondering what they see.

At each attempt to touch her,
I shudder and withdraw;
For the cold gleam of ice in her glare,
Never seems to thaw.

My parents think I'm sentimental
As Barbie's still here today.
Annoying for a practical girl like me,
But I guess it's safer that way.

Thursday, October 2, 2008


I think I'm actually becoming mature. I'm being able to look upon my childhood idiocies with amusement. I've just realised however,  that I don't like the word childhood. It makes me visualise a big, breathless, broad-jawed woman wagging a heavily ringed finger and saying- 'in My childhood, things were rather different; In my childhood, we never did that; in my Childhood, I had just as much fun as you but was not committing sacrilege every living hour.'

Ok. Maybe I'm not that mature after all.

But what the heck. I started this blogpost in a certain strain and I will not deviate from it. I feel like recounting my bacchabelar idiocies and having the world laugh at them, so may as well get down to it.

As a kid, I was obssessed with taking sides. My parents would dread going out for a movie with me, because it would INVARIABLY be followed by questions. 
'Wasn't the villain actually a better person than the hero?
Who did you find prettier: independent-warrior-princess or luminescent-delicate-nymph? 
Didn't the dog in the movie have a funnier expression than the cat?
Do you think the sequel will be as good as this?'

Parents have a tough job. But sometimes, so do friends. During the elections, I HAD to support a party. And I wouldn't rest till my friends supported one too. Of course, at that time I knew less about politics than I know about table manners in Greenland. 
(For one, all I know about table manners is that it's criminal to leave good food unfinished. Secondly, all I know about Greenland is that it's always white in colour on a world map.)
Atal Bihari Vajpayee was rather grandfatherly, so I became a full-fledged BJP fan. And I think my friends chose Congress, because the word has a nice ring to it.

'Idiocy' always reminds me of a particular incident. In class 8, my text books and me were vaguely aware of each other's existence, but that was it. Science was never my strongest point anyway. And in consequence, I got a 49 in Physics. Call it bad luck or good luck, my teacher wrote down a 54 in her marks register. As the very backbone of morality, I found it imperative to correct her. 
'Umm... miss. There's a slight calculation error.'
The teacher looked apologetic. She had interpreted my very palpable distress as outrage. Surely I was getting more than a measely 54!
'I... it... my marks... is 49.'
The apologetic look was now blended into one of deep sympathy. 'Poor soul', she must've been thinking. 'A little dumb, a little distracted, but rather a good person.' 
In my embarrassment, I'd even stuttered through my goodness. I should've said 'In reality, my marks amount to the singularly disappointing but definitely improvable score of 49.' That way, she would've known that my English is alright.

Then, I keep remembering the time I wanted to be a professional singer. In class 3, I actually told my class teacher so. It was quite selfish of me, wanting to impose my self-entertainment on the public. People wouldn't actually run away if I started singing, but to imagine they'd PAY for it! There's something beautifully tragic about an unrecognised genius, struggling to make both ends meet. However, recognised mediocrity struggling to make both ends meet is hardly a glamorous image. 
But on second thoughts, maybe I wasn't that idiotic, wanting to be a singer. Maybe I was just a little less disillusioned. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could make a career out of what we enjoyed doing most? Right now, it's not singing. But what if it was? What if I wanted to be part of a bathroom-singers band, write amateur poetry and make slapstick spoofs for a living? (I wouldn't mind!) Well, let's not dream about the impossible. At 18 years of my life, I'm supposed to know exactly who I am and what I'm best at. With a LOT of help from the dear ISC board, whose foresight and open-mindedness has shaped me into who I am today. It has such a diverse array of subjects, that I had to choose from amongst  Maths, Business Studies and Home Science. It stimulates the creativity so strongly, that our school gives us FILL IN THE BLANKS from Macbeth. So that we're forced to learn up the play, just to be on the safe side.
The safe side.
Damn the safe side.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Ushu Uthhup would love me for this

A few days back, I realised exactly how much I love my city.
I was on a flight to Delhi. The plane had just taken off. For the first time in my life, I observed how Kolkata looks from a few hundred feet above the ground. And I felt an upsurge of affection for it- so strong, that it took me by surprise.
How delightfully unplanned Kolkata was! How magnificent the Ganga looked, even as a meandering white line! And it was MY city. It would miss me while I was away, I knew it would.

They say Bombay is far more modern. It's sassy and streetsmart. It's seen a lot of life. While poor little Kolkata still blushes at a celebrity crush, Bombay's gone and slept with the hottest guys without a twinge of guilt.

No offence to you Bombay, but even if I grew to love you madly, you'd never be more than second best.
I know that our city has more men who pee on the road than it has trees. I know that half my life has probably gone in waiting for the traffic to clear out. I know that Tollywood is still producing movies like 'Abelaye Garam Bhath' and 'Chirodini Tumi Je Aamar.' 
In spite of all that, I'd always choose Kolkata over you. 

Kolkata, I love you for your pulse. Your winter sunshine. 
For giving birth to the word 'nyaka', which doesn't have a good enough equivalent in any other language. 
For being a place where biriyanipuchkas and mishti doi taste equally good and are equally in demand.

At a time when cities are getting blown to bits, I worry about you awfully. I don't want you to become all stiff and businesslike. I don't want you to get battle-scarred and bloody. 
I hope that for years to come, my grocer will continue reciting poetry to me. That Star Ananda will always have enough time to mourn over Saurav Ganguly and go ghost-busting in North Calcutta.
I like you just the way you are, and I never want you to get hurt. So please, please be safe.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Mission Accomplished

He was in love.
She was a shimmering haze on his horizon.
He had to know more about her.

He promised to release all her secrets
With wild kisses.
He wanted to look through her eyes
Right into the depths of her soul.
He was determined to set his heartbeat
In tune to hers,
His thoughts, as streamlets
Of her torrential mind.

Charged with passion,
He ripped off her layers in a frenzy.
And with a scream of startled pleasure,
She gave herself to him.

He drank her in,
Till her mysterious ways became eternal truths
He had known since his birth.

She shivered with joy,
At the freedom that this new nakedness gave her.

Then there came a point
When there was nothing left to discover.
He realised he was bored.

It was time to move on.

Telling her was an unenviable task,
But he did it.
And she stood silently,
Shivering as of old,
But with a slight stoop that hadn't been there before.

Nakedness was no good against the cold.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

The Reminiscent Post

Being in class 12 does make you think about having to leave school. And what strikes me first about my school life is not how ad-jingle-happy it was, or how intense, or how much it's taught me. I just think... SO much has happened. SO BLOODY much. For once, the sheer quantity of it overwhelms me more than the quality. Because FOURTEEN years with Modern High has made us both one and the same. Even if school hadn't been such a party, leaving it behind would mean a small little corner of my heart shrivelling up forever.

And then... the images come rushing into my head. Disconnected, with no sense of chronology. I'm left gasping for breath, riding on the wave of one emotion and crashing upon the shores of another. And it's exhilarating.

Class 9. Our Bio teacher suddenly spots Shrishti smirking and takes away her diary. Looks at it. Then says- "Girls... she has used a very bad 4-letter word." A ripple of gasps runs through the classroom. But Bhattu adds with a pointed look- "It begins with a 'B'." Our astonishment instantly transforms into curiosity. 4-letter swearword with a B?
'Unless she thinks bore is a swear-word, I don't know what it can be" Aditi whispers.
Later we discovered that it was 'Bitch.' It reassured me somewhat. I may have never completed a math paper for 5 years running, but at least I can count.

Class 5, causing a flutter by kissing a Daniel Radcliffe sharpener.

Cass 2, marching smartly without permission into the staffroom.

Sharing tiffin under the Debdaru trees.
Having a huge fight with a friend because she said I was more fond of Shania Twain than I was of her.
Training juniors to sing for Teachers' Day, and feeling that surge of pride when I saw them on stage.
Interpreting Sahana's dreams.
Defending Humanities.

Funnily, of late, I haven't been thinking about what's happened IN school so much as the things I used to do when I was a kid, and which I've suddenly stopped doing. Like blowing toothpaste bubbles. Or detecting resemblances between dinosaurs and clouds. Or playing cricket with the para boys to the best of my feeble capacity.
A few days back, I slid down the bannisters after YEARS. Of course, I realised why I had to stop doing THAT. Earlier it was only my own safety I had to worry about. Now, it's the foundation of the house that's in jeopardy.

Yes, childhood days were good days. And childhood memories for me, have a strange dream like quality to them- like that of a hot, drowsy, afternoon washed by a golden glow.

But even so, I wouldn't go back for anything. Over the years I've found a certain strength which I lacked when I was a child. The strength to be myself, and not worry too much about the world. I've gained the maturity to realise how sham and hollow some rules are. And how abiding by them does NOTHING to make you a better person, only a resentful one. I've stopped trying to delude myself when I'm scared about reality. And I'm not ashamed of things- like the fact that I cried when Godzilla died, or that I like my pink phone. No matter what the world does to me, I never want to grow so blunt, that I stop crying. Or so old, that the colour of candy doesn't make me smile.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Why History is Fun

"In 1934, Japanese industrialists in China spread the rumour that they had converted Manchuria to the Japanese state of Manchukuo. At that time, China was ruled by Emperor Pu-Yi."

"What's in a name?" Shakespeare asked. If his parents were Chinese, he'd know.
As for the Japanese, their randomness KILLS me! I bet they were just jealous that Fascism was grabbing all the attention. Proving most definitely, that insecurity is NOT just 21st century teenage territory.

"In 1954, The French found themselves cornered by the Vietnamese at the island of Dien Bien Phu."

Now this one actually made me go all nostalgic. I recalled the time when my life's ambition was to be a legendary magician, and my oh-so-original incantation was 'abracadabra-hocus-pocus-gili-gili-phu.' Dien Bien Phu has quite a similar ring to it.

If I'd studied a little more, this blogpost would be longer. But you have been spared.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

24 hours is NOT enough for a day

How am I expected to study when the fates are against it? The fates themselves. Otherwise, events like the following would NOT occur-

I'm sitting in front of my textbook, trying to take a peek inside the covers but not daring to. Suddenly I burst out-
"There is just ONE person in the world who understands me. JUST the one."

Piku (my brother): Who, Dubby?

Me: NO. My hairbrush. But who on earth is Dubby?

Piku: My friend's pencil box. It's pink, blue and yellow. It has a smiley on it. And dangling from it's right corner is a furry ball with a pawprint.

Me: Just get out of here before I throw something at you.

After a while, I receive a phone call.

Radhika: Listen, I spoke to the school authorities. Voice (the public speaking club) and Jam (the music club) may have to merge their respective fests.

Me: Ok, then we'll call it Voice 'cos it could stand for music OR speaking.

Radhika: Oh really? Well, JAM also stands for Just a Minute, which is related to speaking. So let's call it JAM.

Me: I know, we'll call it VAM! As in KAPOW!

Radhika: I think we should stick to discussing the format.

Me: Hmm, that's a safer alternative. Let's have one event that involves music AND public speaking.

Radhika: We could have a singing ham! We'll call it S.HAM. (Pronounced sham.)

Me: Wow, that's even punny! But here's a better one... Ham Sing. It sounds like a North Indian Indipop star turned wrestler turned corrupt politician.

Radhika: HEY, do you plan to have Spin a Yarn?

Me: Yes, why?

Radhika: Spin a Gaan....

Me: Ummm... you know what? I think I should get to studying now.

Radhika: Yeah me too.

No sooner had I put down the phone than I received another call.
Hardly had I put down the phone when I received another call.
It was just after I put down the phone that I received another call.
No matter what your grammatical preferences are, you will be forced to comprehend one basic fact-the phone rang yet again. And I answered it.

Let's call the friend Priya.

Priya: Achha, if someone messages you goodnight EVERY night, is that a sign?

Me: Ooooh... every night now is it? What do you say, 'dream of me' ?

Priya: Hell no. Wonder what he'd say to that...

Me: Maybe he'd say.. (I assume a low, husky tone) "Priya, you don't need to tell me to do that."

Priya: *chuckles*

Me: If I was a man, I'd be very charming. Few men I know can flirt well.

Priya: I think the yolk of the egg you were born out of was tinged with vodka.

Me: But Priya, I wasn't born out of an egg. Not the shell-and-yolk kind anyway.

Priya: But tell me, have YOU ever dreamt of ____ ?

Me: Not recently. I MEAN, NO NO, I HAVEN'T.

Priya: OHO!

Me: Goodbye. No seriously, I need to study.

After I hang up, I see Piku giving me a funny look. Defensive, I ask- "Do you even know who that was?"

Piku: DUH. Priya. You said her name out loud TWICE.

Me: Oh! Wow... I'm not at all secretive, am I?

Piku: Why should you be secretive about PRIYA'S NAME?

Me: Oh you never know... people of our generation don't like telling the truth.

Piku: Are you quite alright?

Now please pass me the ipod and the blanket. I'm going to go to sleep.

You know the saddest part of it all? I did go to sleep. And continued to sleep till the sun shone too strongly for my brain to believe it was still morning.

Friday, September 12, 2008

I loved your grace-
The way you walked,
Not caring if you were noticed,
But loving it when you were.
Everything you brushed against
Sent off sparks,
But sparks that couldn't match up
To your eyes.

I worshipped you.
I imagined you to be a lion,
Conquering with every stride you took,
And all that lay in your path
Snapping with a dull crack
Like shrivelled twigs.
Every tremor seemed to be generated
By a turn of your head;
Every rustle, the consequence of your breathing.

I enjoyed being in awe of you.
It gave me thrills
To stroke your bristly mane,
Expecting electric bolts
To leap out at me.
I longed to be a plaything in your paws
And all the while,
Feel the fear of being ripped to shreds.

Then one day...
You tripped and fell.

And people laughed.

Where did my lion go?
I only saw before me,
A chimpanzee,
Endearing, and rather comical,
Baring it's teeth in a grin
Of pathetic self mockery.

Why did I think that you were perfect?
Now, I know better.
But now, I also forget
That you are nearer perfect
Than anyone else I have ever met.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

A little bit of plagiarism, a little bit of pakami

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself."

So said Larkin. And sometimes, just sometimes, I find myself agreeing with him.
Of course, I don't for a second regret the fact that my parents had me. I love myself way too much for that. And I love my parents too. I miss my daily adda with them when my schedule doesn't permit it. I enjoy the fact that when one of us in the house play music, the rest congregate in the room to listen to it. Even today, I go for more movies with my parents than with my friends.
So yeah, it is quite wonderful to belong to a family. But MAN, the flipside!

When we're bound to someone by blood, we think we have a claim on them. And then we start expecting things out of them. If they fail to live up to our expectations, there's a lot of heartburn on either side.
Let's consider myself. I thrive on poetry. I can read and re-read a poem continuously, just to admire the craftsmanship- the way I could gaze for hours on end at a lion sunning itself. I can feel the poem in my blood, the way the child in me can feel the joy in a little girl's laughter. And I want my children to feel the same. If they don't, is it fair that I should be disappointed in them? Why should they feel even the slightest pangs of inadequacy for just being different?

Also, there are things our parents do which make our nerves curl up and sizzle. But we'll probably find ourselves doing those same things once that mini version of us comes along.
I think plans are evil. I don't look at my watch unless to check if it's time to eat. I find it fun to rush downstairs just in time to stop my carpool from swooshing past my house. And I DETEST it when my freedom is curbed in the name of discipline. But it would be MADDENING to have to face this attitude in my children.

And what about our wish to shield the people who mean a lot to us? It can lead to so much hypocrisy.
Say I don't give a shit as to what people are saying behind my back. If I believe in myself, I go ahead my do it. But what when my poor, sweet, innocent baby has to face the vicious fangs of the world? Would I let it go ahead and get bitten? I would definitely like to, but I wonder if I have the guts for that.
"Mommas gonna make all of your nightmares come true.
Mommas gonna put all of her fears into you.
Mommas gonna keep you right here under her wing.
She wont let you fly, but she might let you sing."

I never listen to this song at night, it gives me the creeps. Maybe because it's closer to reality than I admit it to be. I’d like to say that Larkin and Roger Waters were just two morbid old men with too much time on their hands. But I can’t.

I’m starting to think I’m one morbid teenager with too much time on MY hands. I just wrote an entire blogpost on why I shouldn’t have kids. And I don’t even have home science.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

These are people I would like to have in my family. Or at least as my friends. There's a separate list for Indians, which will come up sooner or later.

Roger Waters- I don't care HOW I know you, but I just HAVE to know you. 'I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.'

PG Wodehouse- I want him to be my grandpa, sit me upon his lap and read out bits from novels in progress that the public hasn't got a whiff of yet. You've got to love a man who says things like:-

  • ''Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is best not to stir them.''
  • "Unlike the male codfish which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons."
  • "To my daughter Leonora without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time."

Christie- After writing half as many novels as she did, I wouldn't be able to string two sentences together and retain some semblance of language. She had an interesting life as well. She randomly took off to West Asia to get over her divorce, fell in love with a junior archeologist posted there, and married him. She'd make one wild granny :D

Meryl Streep as aunt. I'd make her
get me into Hollywood :p

Robin Williams- The drunk uncle at weddings!

Oscar Wilde- Another eccentric uncle. An unashamed homosexual who made outrageous one-liners. He believed in art for art's sake. And he gave nearly EVERY elocutionist their debut piece.

Eric Clapton- He knew that one can bloody well be a rockstar in bermudas, collared shirts and spectacles. He shall wind up my list of uncle-gods.

Roald Dahl- He invented the BFG, and through the BFG, the word 'pifflefizz.' He has to be my elder brother. If he wasn't one foot and six inches taller than me, I might consider wanting to date him. But elder brother will do just fine.

Ted Hughes- This is a poem by him.

Bride and Groom Lie Hidden For Three Days.

She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles

He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment

She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists

They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her

He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully

And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing

Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up

And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled

He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it

They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step

And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull

So that the joints are invisible

And now he connects her throat, her breasts and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire

She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body

He sets the little circlets on her fingertips

She stiches his body here and there with steely purple silk

He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth

She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck

He sinks into place the inside of her thighs

So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment

Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.

This poem made me fall in love with him. It's a fact that his wife and mistress both commited suicide the same way. Nevertheless, I would very much like to marry him.

The man in the picture is Al Pacino as Michael Corleone. The rest is self-explanatory.

If temptation is unholy, Jim Morrison is Satan.