Tuesday, January 27, 2009

I think I'm overestimating your kindness

I've been helping my brother out with his chemistry. Okay, so class 8 chemical bonding isn't brain-bashing. But it's been nearly TWO YEARS since I ran away from Science. And during my escapade, I met Ted Hughes, Facebook, 'Whose Line is It Anyway' and my ipod. 

Too many big bad wolves. 
And they didn't even stop at Grandma's, they went straight onto me! After that, class 8 chemical bonding is an ACHIEVEMENT.

Another achievement of mine- I have discovered how useful the '.'  is, in making an impact.
Look at this-

(Minimally offensive.)

(Slightly better.)

(EASILY the best. It has that cutting edge.)

(Now this makes me sound frustrated. Therefore one must be careful of over-emphasising.)

It appears I am a woman of many talents.

But the mosquitoes don't think so. These days, the throng is getting thicker. The whine is getting whinier. The greed is shooting up so high, that if mosquitoes had morality stock markets, they would be suffering from FAR worse recession than we are.

I know this is too much of random ranting, but they ARE annoying me. Bloody bloodsucking bloodhounds. If they must feed off me, the least they can do is not make my skin swell up. Whatever happened to gratitude?

And now, before I say something even more pointless, I should leave. It's strange how I start blogging like mad whenever I make a promise. That promise doesn't even need to be related to bloggers.

The above statement is an insinuation/innuendo. (I'm still not sure of the difference.) 
I am hinting that I have recently made a promise that isn't blogger related. I'm also not telling you what it is. Muhahahahahaha. 

Saturday, January 24, 2009

My own benevolence sickens me

I've recently started doing Yoga on a regular basis. I've always enjoyed it. I love to stretch my muscles till they're taut; then let go and feel the relaxation come flooding back. I love pushing myself to see if I can go that little bit further than last time. But this isn't about me or Yoga. It's about my Yoga instructor- Monoj.

Warning: My life story has not been written by Meg Cabot. Therefore Monoj Kaku (yes, Kaku!) is not hot. Neither am I a will-o'-the-wisp whose postures need to be adjusted by the firm male grip. If you're still interested, you can continue reading.

Monoj Kaku leaves the house at approximately 5 am. He returns at approximately 11 pm. Therefore he has no time for excercise himself. Therefore, he is getting a wee bit stiff.

He's unmarried, and has to cook his own meals each day. Which is a pain. So he falls back on good old 'sheddo bhath.' ('Boiled rice' just sounds horribly wrong.) Sheddo bhath, in its pure and original form is rather unapproachable- as most things in their pure and original form are. Touch it up with the right things, and it's DIVINE. The right things include oil. OR butter. OR ghee. And definitely aloo
Therefore Monoj Kaku is not only getting stiff, he is developing a paunch.

Meanwhile, his students are getting into shape. Growing fitter. 
Monoj Kaku remainds unchangeable. 
His life consists of " '1, 2, 3, .... 10'. Ok- second set." Even his 'very good's and 'remember the breathing?'s are fascinatingly regular. I call it fascinating, but if I were him, I'd SCREAM out of sheer boredom. 

What if one of the rooms in which he has to teach, is plastered with morbid wallpaper? What if one his students offers him nauseating tea everyday, with an enthusiasm that makes it hard to refuse? What if one of his female students is a little too attractive for comfort?

I wonder who are more interesting to him- those who master their routine within days, or those who require constant monitoring........
 In the former case, there's the satisfaction of watching perfection. In the latter, at least HE'S involved.

Before he taught yoga this regularly, he was a cashier at the Penguin stall during the bookfair. Brrr. 

But then again, I don't really have any right to feel sorry for him. It's perfectly possible that he's happy. I've noticed this- he's one of the most serene people I've come across. He never looks ruffled, and he's always got friendly inquiries and random little anecdotes to make.  (Speaking of anecdotes, one of his nephews got dragged down by a crocodile and left in the shallows to be eaten for later. The boy regained consciousness and swam away!)
Anyway, Me, with all my I-don't-believe-in-regimentation... I'm much more irritable and moody. The best part is, I like me exactly as I am. And I think he likes himself the way he is. 

'Boom-de-yada! Boom-de-yada!'
                                                           [Discovery Channel- The World is Awesome]

Monday, January 19, 2009

Sixpence for your thoughts?

I've often said my life consist of patterns. Well.....................

It Does.

During my Selections, History was the first exam. I had a 3-day holiday before it. I spent it reading 'The Picture of Dorian Gray.' It barged into my head, kicked out the few sane thoughts in there, and just stayed put.

This time, History was the last exam. I had a 3-day holiday before it. I spent it re-reading 'The Moon and Sixpence.' 
RE-Reading. No harm in that, right? After all, I knew the storyline already. Like that did ANY good! 
I can't say that 'The Moon and Sixpence' is very ambiguous or multi-layered. But somehow, every experience I have helps me understand it a little bit better. So everytime I read it, it's never quite the same.
And Maugham--- may his evil and obscenely talented soul squirm in guilt--- he writes in a way that holds you. You don't give a damn if you know what's coming, you still want to keep reading.

And the way he's portrayed CHARLES STRICKLAND. Hell. I know I could fall in love with Strickland. He's not good-looking, he hasn't got flair, not even a way with words. I'd  probably think 'How crude' and act all la-di-dah when I'd see him for the first time. But if a person is driven by some raw, overwhelming power, I guess one's body responds to it naturally. Especially if that power is translated into genius.

Anyway, the point is not just to stay away from Stricklands in real life.
The much pricklier, MUCH more painful point is-
My Selections History paper was messed up.
My Rehearsals History paper was messed up.

It's not like I didn't study at ALL. But you know what? Somewhere down the line, I've lost interest in a certain entity.
That which is the inspiration of all 21st-century school plays. 
The Education System.
And E.S has realised it. E.S is affronted. E.S is taking revenge.

I just got this curious word-verification- 'Pedist.' Sounds like a legitimate word. What exactly could it mean? 
To my disgruntled temperament, it sounds like a 'paedophilic sadist.' That is what E.S is. A PEDIST.

All I've got to do is discuss Pedistic theories in my Psychology VIVA tomorrow. Complete the pattern, that would.

Monday, January 12, 2009


In a tin on my desk,
They stand day after day.
But not really neglected.

Neglect inspires pity.
My colourpencils seem perfectly content
To be left alone;
Revelling in their own brightness.

I don't need them now...
Class 12 considers itself 
Above such trifles,
But try telling me to throw them away.

I wonder why they mean so much to me...
Is it only because they bring back memories?

Memories of map-pointing, 
Of Mickey-Mouse outlines
Waiting to be filled in.
Of monochrome syndrome 
That gave way to 
Religion Contrast.

''Peach? Oh, you mean SKIN colour.''
''Look look, 
The yellow is more golden than the gold!"

Memories can be fun.

But when, 
I reach out for a pen
And see a colourpencil
In my grip,
It's not a memory that makes me smile.

When I test the shade 
On any piece of paper
I can find,
It's not to refresh my memory.

I guess we're friends,
My colourpencils and I...
And friends love saying 'hello'.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

This is an extract from one of the essays we're supposed to do for Bengali. Translated. NOT exaggerated.  

'During the times of Nawab Sirajuddaullah the joys were many.  
The children would listen to fairtytales told by their tender, affectionate grandmothers, and fall asleep on their laps.

The young men would walk around bare-chested, with the pleats of their dhoti swinging and a colourful gamchha thrown over their shoulders. They would generally carry an expensive songbird, but in the worst of conditions, at least a bulbul. A comb would be tucked into their long curls. With betel-juice stained lips half-parted in a whistle, they would roam the neighbourhood. The old men would eat to their hearts content, then smear oil all over their body, hit the bed and snore away to glory.  

THOSE WIVES WHO WERE GOOD, would cook and keep the whole household happy. They would scold the children with their heads wagging and nose-rings jingling. In the evening, they would gather at the ghat and talk of oh-so-many things! The older ones were exuberant and emphatic, the new brides used hushed tones and assumed demure postures. These women would illuminat the ghat with their radiance and sweet laughter.'  

This is the gayest thing I've read in my whole damn life. But it has it's positives, or rather, positivE. I got to see my mum enact the entire thing, mock-jatra style. I wish I had the video.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

I like cameras

When you can't get out of the house AND you don't want to study, you have to start searching for things to do.

A chair in a dream sequence-
Maybe your Grandma used to sit in it and tell you all about witches with a twinkle in her eye. And maybe you'd find yourself wondering how she knew so much.
Maybe the chair was a family heirloom of a famous writer. And one evening, you had a chat with him over a cup of tea. Sinking into the chair's soft cushioning, he spoke of the worlds he created. And now, his words come flooding back to you, filling you with wonder.
The chair could have been anyone's. But it belongs, more than a person, to a world of sepia tones and blurred edges.

Mossy stones and leafy secrets; peppermint and neon lights...
And we think only people have alter-egos.

Guess what this is. I mean, what this really is.

This is the house right next to mine. An eyesore, I tell you! I mean, yellow is a peppy colour, but so much of it is rather overwhelming. Like a giant Tweety that flies straight into your face, and leaves lots of little Tweeties circling your head.
It used to annoy me like HELL. But one day, when I was in a good mood, I pictured the owner smiling to himself at his vision. And suddenly, I stopped hating it.

The ice-creamwallah is off to attend nature's call. The ice-cream cart is temporarily abandoned. Locked? Most probably. But it's conspicuous. It doesn't rest against a wall, or withdraw discreetly into the shade.
And it is noticed by Chhotu and Sonu.
Chhotu's dad is semi-alchoholic, and Sonu's dad was accused of making a neighbourhood girl pregnant. Their sons can't always afford ice-cream. But today, they don't want to.
It's a winter afternoon, the first with a hint of sunshine. They're soaking up the warmth. And for Sonu, the pleasure is riding a stationary bicycle. For Chhotu, it's pretending to be Sonu's customer. I hope the ice-creamwallah took a long time to pee.