Thursday, April 30, 2009

Dear UU

We make fun of spinsters all the time. We portray them as wrinkled, crabby, sexually-frustrated....

They often are, so I'm not asking you to spare them. My question is, why must unmarried men be spared? I say 'unmarried men', and not 'bachelors'. Men seem to throw about the bachelor-tag like it's some kind of social award. 
I'm a bachelor. I am so cool- freewheeling, snazzy, unrestrained by the sordid bonds of marriage while you lesser mortals stew in used diapers.
That's the aura they emit.

Well, let me tell you, unmarried men are can be positively vile as well. As students, we were all advised to avoid creating stereotypes in our writings. But in life, it's fascinating how many stereotypes actually exist. One is the breed of unmarried uncles.

They talk in loud voices and hearty tones all the time. 
They tell you of THE most embarassing thing you, or your godliest cousin did as a kid. 
When they get drunk (and they seem to have rather low resistance), they aren't amusing but downright grotesque. 
They have a Facebook account from which they INSIST on adding all the kids they know. 
AND. The clincher. They WILL ask their neices either of the 2-
a) So.. got a boyfriend yet?
b) So... how many boyfriends have you gathered by now?
When these questions are asked in Bengali or Hindi, it is a thousand times worse. Don't ask me why. Probably for the same reason that Vernacular gaalis are more satisfying.

Dear Unmarried Uncle, or UU, let me answer your question for the first time.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Nature is male. And insecure. And obeys Murphy.

Just when I was about to write a blogpost with faintly feminist undertones, I tripped, got a perfectly triangular bruise on my leg, and hurt my ring-finger so badly that I can only type with one hand. Hence, no eloquent ranting for quite a while. 

Oh and in case you were wondering, the disfunctional hand is the left one. 
I am left-handed.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

I <3 A..A Milne

And THIS, really, is what I want to do on a hot, sleepy summer afternoon. 
Christopher Robin's garb is perfect too.
As for Pooh, I LOVE him, but I'd probably be accompanied by my fat furball of a pet, Claw. He's really suffering from the heat and flopping upon the cooler marble sections of the floor whenever he steps upon them.

Ironic, that I'm in denim 3-quarters, sitting on a swivel chair, and staring at a computer screen.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Happiness is a warm gun. BANG. Burn.

Strange things make me happy.

11:11 pm/am. 


A cat's ears against the sunlight- with red streaks running through the palest pink, all lit up with a faint glow. Wow, I could be advertising LA. If LA was in bi-colour, that is

Gargling tunes.

Punching water-bottles. The larger, the better.

Dedicating the next song on my shuffle playlist to random people. 

Mentioning the last one was rather unnecessary. I read somewhere that people may tend to invite ridicule on blogs for the same reason that women striptease. 

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

I scare myself. As always.

Of late, my parents have started storing water in empty liquor bottles. I believe it's healthier than using plastic bottles. And the water stays cooler that way too. However,... 
I'm not sure I should be starting this sentence with a 'however', it's like a precursor to something unpleasant. What I was about to say is: temporarily, the water has quite a prominent taste of whiskey. Unpleasant? Not quite. Strange? A wee bit. 

I have a reputation for drinking very little. I even spelt 'alcohol' wrong in my psychology project and had to correct it by scraping out the guilty letter with a blade. The idea was suggested to me by the Geography girls, who have been forcefully married to their practical files since plus 2 began. But I deviate. People think I find drinking immoral. Which is such a ridiculous presumption, I start laughing at it before I can take offence. It's just that I don't have any overwhelming fascination for alcohol. Also, I've seen too many friends goof up after getting sloshed. A high is brilliant. But getting dizzy, and pukish, and out of control, seems a little ugly. To me.

Anyway, the point is, if I suddenly acquire a tipsy temperament, you will know that my parents are behind it all. 

I'm not sure where this blogpost is going. I'm writing to distract myself, because I'm upset. It's the newspapers. It sounds so cliched, but there's too much bullshit all around and I just can't take it. I'm quite good at filling up my head with happy things. Which includes a couple of cheap plastic swords my brother bought from the local bajar. Which does not always include Beauty and the Geek. (Yes, yes, that was an indirect confession.) But when the bullshit is shoved into my face every morning, I feel that I'm fighting a losing battle. 

'Fighting a losing battle.' 
I just can't seem to avoid cliches today, can I? Blame it on the heat. And the cold which I have caught in this heat.

Whether or not I can dress up what I feel to sound snappy, I hate a lot of things right now.

 I hate the fact that a 19-yr old girl and a 25-yr old man from Afghanistan were killed for eloping. I hate the fact that an OLD woman in the Middle East was sentenced to 40 whip lashes because 2 young men had entered her house to bloody give her BREAD. To bloody EAT.

I hate the fact that I'm 18, but I have no idea who I should vote for, because I find every political party as useful as an appendix. A DEAD man's appendix.

I recently came to know that vultures are becoming extinct. Which somehow makes me very sad. I have a soft spot for scavengers. Crows, vultures. Even hyenas who are so ugly, they hold me transfixed by hypnotic horror.

I have had such an overdose of Shah Rukh Khan and Amitabh Bachhan, I want to stab their 2-D media images with an ignoble instrument- like a used toothpick.

I was very disappointed to wake up in the middle of a dream where a bunch of us was being held hostage in a hotel lift by the Joker, and another bunch was trapped in the restaurant. I'm not sure which annoys me more, not completing the dream or not being in the restaurant.

Contrary to appearances, I am not very prone to depression. I am just easily affected by anything. Good, bad, happy, sad. AGAIN. A retarded kindergarten rhyme. AND a cliche. I should leave. But before I do, I have a request to whoever will grant it. God, you qualify for this as well. I  do NOT want to hear about bullshit. Even if it exists. Fuck realism. Just tell me Discovery-Channel-I-love-the-whole-world-boom-de-yada kind of things. And I will be in peace. Which means, you will too.

Monday, April 13, 2009

I found this scrawled at the back of my Elective English khata. I have no idea when I wrote it, or why. It really isn't a great poem, but I can still relate to it, and I compulsively love everything I create. So. Enter the torture chamber, at the both of our risks.

I know your imperfections, know them all
Like I know the faint smudges on my wall,
Traces of a hysterical reunion 
With an old fountain pen.
I know them the way I know
The patch of peeling paint by the door
And the tile that's not quite level
With the rest of the floor.
The dent on my bed, 
Where I rest my head,
The lamp that always tends to blow a fuse.

Once I entered a room
Where everything was of great use-
Nothing was ever misplaced,
Not a single item could be replaced 
Or rearranged, for who 
Dares Disturb the Balance of the Universe?

'Wow!' I thought at first,
And then I realised that I was feeling slightly sick.
I had a mad urge to throw a brick
At the cabinet full of porcelain
Or rumple up the cushions just a little bit
To make it look like people actually sit
On those perfect chairs.

On reaching home I ran into my room
And flopped upon the bed.
My head was snug in its little nook,
My eyes passed over each crooked cranny,
My mind was crammed with thoughts of your face
And everything fell into place.

Monday, April 6, 2009

I hope this is not signs of emo-ness. No, no, it isn't.

So apparently, the world will end by 2012. And people are actually SERIOUS about it this time. Books have been written on 'How to escape 2012', and sold like hot earth. I still don't believe it. Human ego, I guess. The same reason why I don't believe that there's life anywhere else in this infinite universe. But if I DID find proof of life elsewhere, I'd be genuinely excited. And if the world truly WILL end by 2012, I won't be utterly depressed about it. Just before I die, I mean.

I'll be what, 24? 
I'll have completed graduation. Hopefully. 
I will have better hair and less weight. Hopefully. 
My social life will be less hectic and more exciting. Hopefully.
Also, I can do what the hell I want in my last few years. Like, I REALLY want to make a movie, but I'm shaky about it, because I'm not sure how good I'd be at it. I do know that I can NEVER read a book without picturing how I would film it. And I can NEVER watch a movie without analysing it like a psychologist on overdrive. If the world WERE to end by '12, I'd go ahead and make a movie, without giving a damn. 
But then what if EVERYONE started doing what the hell they wanted? Holy Shit. 
Ooh. Speaking of movies, and people doing what they want, there IS this idea for a movie that randomly walked into my head.

This guy is very shy and nervous; the mama's boy type. No, communal-section-of-my-readers, NOT necessarily Bangali. Anyway, when he finds out the world is going to end in a few years, he decides to pep things up for himself. QUITE a bit. And then, it turns out that the world doesn't end after all. Not in his lifetime anyway. Muhahaha. Let madness reign.

P.S- No, I won't be 24, I'll be 21. I am a number-illiterate.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

I'm not sure I like this. But my brain's still recovering.

She used to draw all the time, and her subjects were always the same. Girls- tall, long-haired girls with frosty eyes and vapid smiles. She made them skinny, not because she found it attractive, but because she was embarrassed about drawing well-rounded figures. And she hated herself for being a prude. She hated herself for drawing things that were cheap, and flashy. And most of all, she hated herself for drawing things, that had NOTHING do with who she was. 

Occasionally, she would draw monsters. They weren't particularly original, but she liked them a lot better. They looked happy to be monsters, as though they would stretch out their scaly limbs, flex their clawed fingers and fall asleep on the paper, dreaming of monster heaven.

One day, while walking through her house, she heard derisive chuckles coming from her room. Her brother was sitting on her bed, and flipping through the pages of her drawing book. His mouth was twisted in a condescending smile, which he didn't even bother to wipe off before lifting his head to look at her.

She turned a furious shade of scarlet. 
'Give that back.'
'Take it. What makes you think I want it?'
'You shouldn't have opened it, you jerk.'
'It doesn't say 'Private.' It doesn't even say your goddamn name.'

She didn't say anything. 
'So... why don't you draw anything else?' he asked. 'Is it a girl thing? I thought even girls needed some variety.' 
'Yes. We draw. And we watch TV. And we read. Our lives don't centre around being a pompous ass all day long.'
'Nice try. But you can't really draw anything else, can you? And you wouldn't have been able to draw these either, if you hadn't slept for 7 years with Barbie Dolls by your head .' He laughed for a few seconds at his own joke. 
'I CAN. I can SHOW you. Tell me what you want me to draw for you, I'll draw it.'
'I'm not sure if I care enough. I'll take your word for it.'

Dragging himself lazily off the bed, he was about to walk off, when she grabbed his arm. She was quivering with suppressed anger and hurt pride. 'No, I WANT to prove it to you. Tell me what you want me to draw. I'll draw it.' He rolled his eyes. 'I'm serious', she said. 'If you care enough to be mean, you can care enough for this.'

'Ok. Draw the sky, the way it is right now.'
She snorted. 'Aren't you letting me off easy? Have you gone soft?'
'Just draw it.' And he left the room.

The sky. At about 12 noon. How bad can that be? Blue... with a few wisps of white. Hopefully, there'll be a few clouds with interesting shapes.
Looking out of the window, her face fell. The sky was of that peculiar colour, which is no colour at all. Just a glaring light haze, that hurt her eyes no matter where she looked. She couldn't quite tell where the sun was. And she wasn't sure whether the sky was covered with clouds, or whether there were any clouds at all.
The sky depressed her, whenever it was like this. There was something petty about it, and harsh at the same time, like a tiny mosquito that could drain all your blood away. 

But she set to work. And somehow, her fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. She drew faint swirls and mists, to recreate the apparent softness of the haze. But stabbing the haze were sharp, jagged edges, like icicles.  Somewhere, just faintly discernible was the outline of a sun. And sitting on that sun was a twisted little man. It had no mouth, in fact, its face was blurred, but one could make out the pin-pricks of two eyes, that glittered with dirty hatred.
The shades used were mainly grey, but the grey of steel, not of mysteries. And the little amount of yellow that tinged the grey, was more like a disease creeping through the air.

Her brother walked in just when she was done, and without a word, she handed it to him.
She saw his eyes widen in amazement, and then like a fleeting spasm, a look passed through them, which could only be described as fear. When he looked at her face, his eyes had regained their usual wicked glint. He smiled, however. 'It's.. it's.. really good. That's all I can say.'
But it was still the fear, that flattered her most.

Bloggers has a deficiency. It does not let you sing. But imagine me singing, very loudly, and very badly-



I am embarrassing myself to an embarrassing degree.
(I will tomorrow, though. *whimper*)