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.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

There Are Times When....

Girls are too bitchy.
Guys are too pompous.
Education feels com-puh-LEETL-LY overrated.
Life displays a pathetic sense of timing.

Well, in spite of all that I'm going to be happy.
Fuck you exams. Fuck you all those who don't let me be who I am.
I'm going to be happy.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

This is something I came across online-

"Taking advantage of the intrinsic romance in cute things obviously depends upon recognizing which things are cute. The rule is simple. Small things are cute. If you see a food product in a grocery store that comes in a smaller package than usual, get it, because there's a very good chance it's cute. The same goes for travel size shampoo, toothpaste, and so on. Find a store that sells doll house stuff, and your supply of cute things can be limitless."

Now, I can TOTALLY vouch for the verity of this. I am 5 ft. tall. Maybe an inch shorter or taller, but 5's a nice rounded number. Whichever way, I am small. And I'm perfectly fine with it. However, everything has it's flipside. Because I am small, I am considered cute. Animated furry animal kind of cute. Pink ribbons and frilly skirts kind of cute. Have-fun-safely kind of cute.

These are the kind of things that make me suffer-

1) A conversation:

x- “I hate her, she’s so nyaka.”

Me- “Umm…yeah she is, but then she’s a good person.”

x- “YOU'RE too sweet, you love everyone, so shut up.”

Me- “I DON’T love everyone.”

x-“ Name one person you hate.”

Me- “I don’t believe in hate, that’s all.”

x- “HAHA. See?”

Me- "Oh wait, there's ____."

x- "Oh don't exert yourself, it's a good thing to be nice."

2) A compliment:

My friends call me photogenic. They say- “Anushka, you have no reason to hate the camera, you always look adorable in photos.” Occasionally, the statement DOES vary. ‘Adorable’ may be replaced by ‘cute’ or ‘sweet’; or if I’m lucky, it could be preceded by a ‘really’. And yeah, that’s about it.

So it’s not in my fates to by called pretty. But what about ‘intelligent’? There was this debate that I thought went off rather well for me. So somewhat smugly, I asked a friend how I did. He replied- "When a small, sweet girl goes up on stage and speaks well, people are always bowled over." I nearly strangled him. But then I realised he wasn't fully to blame. When I needed to adjust the mic height for a full minute, the auditorium postively BUZZED with unspoken 'awwww's. I suppose they got to him. 'Awwwww'ful, I know.

3) Event Beyond Nomenclature

But this reached the limits yesterday. When I went to bed, I suddenly discovered an ant on my arm. I brushed it off, but then I felt a weird tickling sensation all over me. And soon, it wasn’t as much tickling as viciously smarting. Yes! There were ants all over me. For NO reason. In case you’re wondering, I hadn’t dropped food on my clothes. The ants have discovered that I am sweet. And I am now in mortal danger. This is my second nasty experience with a primitive life-form within the past week. If I wasn’t so sweet, I’d have them all exterminated.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

A Room With No View

There's something about cloudy weather that gets me every time. On some of those days, I want to run through a huge field... just keep on running till I could take off into the air, fly up amongst the clouds and melt away into the grey. But on other such days, I dream of a room. A secret room, tucked away unobtrusively in some corner of the house. If you didn't look closely, you'd think the entrance to it was just a panel on the wall, or part of a tapestry.

Inside, the room is all wood. The air in the room is still, but always cool. And it hums with magic spells waiting to be chanted. There are high walls, lined with bookcases till the ceiling. Propped up against the shelves is an old fashioned ladder which I use for reaching the books at the top. The books are gorgeous, most of them collectors items- with silky pages, bold lettering and rich graphic plates. They storm into my head and ravage it, dragging me from fireside hearths to battlefronts to misty mountain forests. I love taking them in my hands and feeling their weight press down upon my palms.
There's a cabinet that's always full of fascinating stationery so that I can write and doodle to my heart's content. And a reassuringly strong-looking lock to keep my diaries safe from prying eyes.
There's a cuckoo clock with intricate, delicate carvings, and it plays whatever song I want it to.

There isn't any other furniture. But the room is full of nooks and crannies. And I keep discovering something new in them- an old string of beads, a photograph in black and white, a never-seen-before musical instrument....
And the floor is strewn with the softest cushions you'd ever find.

There are huge stained-glass windows with swirls and splashes of dazzling colours blending into one another. When the sunlight filters through the glass, ethereal ripples of coloured light play on the walls.

I still don't know whether I'd let anyone visit it. Yes, I suppose there are some. We'd lie back on those cushions, positioning ourselves in the way of the sunlight. We'd watch our skin take on dappled patterns of myriad shades. We'd talk in low voices of "shoes and ships and sealing-wax--of cabbages and kings." And time would seem to freeze.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Celebration of the Lizard King....NOT!

Picture this-
You stroll nonchalantly into the kitchen, humming a happy tune, hoping to get a peek at what’s in store for dinner. Suddenly, you detect a presence- something vile… something base… something that fills you with such overpowering fear, that it drives even the thought of food from your mind. A lizard. A great big, lizard-shaped, lizard-coloured, liazardly lizard. You clap at it frantically, hoping it will disappear. But it looks at you with hauteur, as though your clapping is an inferior’s applause for a genius.

THIS is what has been happening to me throughout the past 2 weeks. You’re probably laughing at the word hauteur. Well, even I didn’t think a pair of little black dots could carry half an expression together, but the insolence of its stare has left a stinging wound on my ego. Not just the eyes, but everything about it- the angle at which its head is cocked, the deliberate lazy flick of its tail- EVERY GODDAMN THING about it seems to ask me- “Whatchu gonna do, bitch?”

And unfortunately, I have only one answer. RUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!

Jim Morrison liked lizards. And because such an incredibly hot man cannot have bad taste, I have tried to make a list of positive things about them.

So far, I have come up with these points.

a) Jim liked them. Which doesn’t explain why he liked them.
b) They don’t bite
c) They do not have great physical strength
d) They do not chase people.

Points (b), (c) and (d) are not truly positive traits. They merely show the absence of 3 negative traits, which is nothing compared to the number of repulsive things about them.
Also, point (d) is misleading. They may not run after people, but they have this rather annoying habit of falling accidentally-on-purpose when you are right under them. Don’t give me any bullshit about them losing their balance; they were designed to walk on walls. They know EXACTLY what they’re doing.

Therefore, lizards must not be looked at indulgently. And I must take revenge on the occupant of my kitchen. No more of trembling knees and sweaty palms during my gastronomic quests. No more futile clapping and running away. Tomorrow, I will surprise the blasted reptile with a change of plan. I will wave a plate at it.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Some children turn out to be good
And some turn out be bad.
Some others unfortunately,
Turn out to be quite mad.

It’s tough say exactly why,
Maybe they undergo great pain.
Or maybe they’re just born
With a slightly stranger brain.

However, if you ask about Aesop,
I’m quite sure that in the end.
It was all those morals
That drove him round the bend.

Not Aesop who wrote the fables,
But one named after the same man.
His mother worshipped old Aesop,
Like a star-struck teenage fan.

And when little Aesop was merely
A sweet-tempered, innocent boy,
His mother kept him happy,
But not with any fancy toy.

Nor with delicious candy,
No she’d read to him each night.
And every tale taught him about
What was wrong, and what was right.

Those morals would hover around him
While he slept on in his bed,
Then creep silently into his mind
And whisper softly in his head.

‘Two heads are better than one’
Was the moral he liked best.
Since he had heard it before
He came to know all the rest.

And even when Aesop’s memory
Lost the details of the story.
The words of the moral rang in his mind,
It turned him slightly awry.

He developed a rather unhealthy
Fascination for Siamese twins,
And he would choose joint victories
Over individual wins.

He found satisfaction in watching
A duet or a dancing pair.
Coins had just one head,
And they filled him with despair.

The years passed by, and Aesop,
Devoid of any immoral flaw,
Was enrolled as a judge
In his city’s court of law.

One day, Aesop had to decide
An outrageously tedious case.
He sunk into a stupor.
(The arguments had no pace.)

And in a dream there flashed before him
The words of a familiar saying.
In fluorescent colours of different shades
With solemn background music playing.

He awoke and shouted-“Plaintiff,
I am sick of your complaint.
I hereby sentence you to death.”
The women fell into a faint.

The defendant let out a whoop,
He found it rather fun.
The judge cried out- “You too must die.
Two heads are better than one.”

Aesop’s eyes glittered madly
As he danced about like an elf.
His mouth was foaming slightly,
He didn’t seem his usual self.

When the doctor tried to take him away
He didn’t give too much trouble.
All he requested was a stiff drink,
That would help him to see double.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Ideas, anyone?

Please get into a line.
Walk in single file, please.
Please walk one BEHIND the other.
Don't form a double line, please.
Please join the line before you leave.
Don't stand in clusters, please.

What is common to these questions?

a)They contain the most unwilling 'please' ever uttered in the history of courtesy.
b)They aim at achieving the impossible.
c)They are brutally ignored.
d)They are repeated in a cyclical pattern, once the set is exhausted.
e)They are uttered everyday for 15 minutes.

Oh and in case you didn't notice, they also happen to mean the same thing. I took special care to innovate and re-innovate the phraseology. After all, it wouldn't do to get bored while I was on prefect duty, would it?