Wednesday, May 27, 2009

People generally believe in leading a reckless life while they still retain the innocent, sorry, fresh bloom of youth. My plan is to get successively wilder as I grow older.

The logic behind it is simpuhll. As of now, I have seen extremely little of life. Never earned money. Never been embroiled in a noxious web of backstabbery. Never stayed away from the city AND adult supervision at the same time. By adult, I don't mean a cool 18-yr old like myself, of course.

Anyway, I want to see more of life. I definitely do not want to die now, and even less do I want to end up crippled or retarded. It's horrible how we've turned the word 'retard' colloquial. Shorn it of all it's medical gravity. Ah well. That's irrelevant. I was saying...
I also do not want to grow fat and ungainly. Or pick up any addictive habits that might lead to the aforementioned. Therefore, at the mo, I have no intentions of teasing my immunity.

However, when I am old and drooping, my curiosity will surely be better satisfied. At any rate, I won't have too many years left in me. THAT shall be the time when I let loose. 
I shall drink exotic liquors of mesmerising hues. 
I shall drive/get driven at 100 kmph down a highway. 
I shall topple the current record holder for the oldest paraglider. (The guy was 85 when he got Guinessed.)
I shall get a violet streak in my hair. Ok, I'm kidding about this last one. But now that I mention it........

Friday, May 15, 2009

I'm Thunder-struck

This is based on a true incident that I can't get out of my head. Almost every little detail has its foundation in reality.

Let me tell you a story
That I find rather frightening.
A man was struck no less than
Seven separate times by lightning.

How the lightning never missed;
And how the fellow never kissed
Goodbye to life, gave quite a twist
To his dinner-table talk---
Like the story of his guess
At nature’s cyclic ruthlessness,
When a storm- to his distress-
Broke out before his morning walk.

To counter Nature stylishly,
When he left the house---
He took along a bucket
Full of water just to douse
The fire that would singe his
Understandably short hair,
But be put out before his scalp
Was left all black and bare.
(The fire that would flare up
When he would be lightning-struck.)
He knew he was not blessed
With very innovative luck.
But that was early on.
Towards the end he grew quite bored.
And whereas another man 
Might have praised the lord,
And gloriously gone about
As god’s own wonderchild.
This man reacted in a way
More muted, though not mild.

After the seventh time,
In hopelessness he cried-
‘What the hell? Enough’s enough!’
And shot himself. And died.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Song of a Circus Clown

There are people who will jump to write
On every 'bit' and 'but' they can.
One topic, very popular
For years has been 'The Modern Man'.

But clowns too, have been written on.
(In more ways than the usual one-
Which is: the sunny-yellow clothed
And sunny-hearted ray of fun.)

We clowns have been imagined as 
Evil things with evil looks,
Who engage in acts that one
Cannot depict in picture books.

(Of course there are too many things
That if you write for Children's books
Can get you thrown right rightaway
Into the lowest class of crooks.)

We've been romanticised as men
Always capable of making
Sacrifices, for spreading 
Laughter when their hearts are breaking.

Someone having read such things,
(Such things will drive the world berserk)
Asked me if we ever feel 
Ashamed and tired of our work.

I did not answer him then, but
I'll tell you now, I'll tell you once,
No, we do NOT squeal with joy
At the thought of playing dunce.

The dreams we had as little children
Didn't include falling down,
And we would love exerting extra
Muscles just to frown a frown.

But I'm not saying I'm not happy,
I feel quite happy on the whole
About my job. It's all because 
Of each misguided, hapless soul

That comes to watch us circus clowns.
How bored and boring they must to be,
If corny gags that make us gag
Are what they truly love to see.

They look so stupid when they laugh,
(Especially those whose paunches quiver),
It's funny that they pay to sit
In the heat, and sweat a river.

Tiny boys--- who suck their sticky
Thumbs, and sticky candy bars;
Believe that Rudolph lent his nose
To us, and brought us here from Mars,

Believe our voices were born squeaky
And our hair, a frizzy mess---
Make me feel supremely 
Intellectual, I must confess.

So yes, however much we hate
To play the perfect fool for you,
It's worth it, if we get to see
You act the fool so nicely too.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Beggar's Day Out

So yesterday was our farewell, as Facebook is only too happy to inform you. Facebook is stalker-haven. Last evening our juniors showed us a presentation, which included pictures of our batch.... pictures snitched off our Facebook photo albums! Why I find it so scandalous is because the first picture to be shown

a) has me in a pose I would not repeat in front of a camera.
b) Looked excrutiatingly embarrassing when enlarged.

Ah well. I suppose yesterday was the day to bid adieu, not just to the school, or each other, but our dignity/(dignities?) 

When you have 11 sari-clad, bling-encrusted 18-yr olds trooping into Mainland China, you realise that this isn't your usual day. And to top it all, the bunch of us had about as much poise as a hippo on tiptoe. Not one person laughed alone. Not one laugh was less than a roar. And there were a lot of laughs. 

Poor Debadrita had to bear the brunt of our hysteria. 
Debadrita: Achha, I'm sorry I can't stay but my tabla sir will be coming.
10 variations of: After your farewell, you want to go back home and play the TABLA?
Debadrita: I don't play it, tabla-sir plays it as an accompaniment to my singing.
Me (the indomitable debater): Then why do you call him the tabla-SIR? That would imply he teaches..
Basab (hastily interrupting) : Yes yes, he's the tabla-MAN. 
At this point, I nearly started singing 'Tabla Man' as parody to the Spiderman theme song, but thought better of it. We'd probably get labelled as some pati bangla-medium college students who thought it would be 'damn cool.' to hang out in Mainland China. AC paabo. Khabar paabo. Moja korbo. That kind.

But I might as well have gone ahead. When Rukmini let out a little secret that shocked us into momentary silence, Rishika wailed- 'Meri churiya tutneko vakt ho raha hai.' It had to be heard to be believed. She officially reset the boundaries of pseudo-melodrama, and shattered our fragile wall of self-discipline.

Naturally, the waiters came in for their fair share of frustration. We decided to order dessert, but we weren't sure if we could afford it. 

Rishika: Ok, so one plate of ice-cream is 2 scoops is equal to Rs 85. So, so, one scoop is??
Me: Oh god, I don't know, THIS is why I shouldn't have taken up Business Studies instead of Maths.
Rishika then had one of her giggling fits. Supurna, too stressed to perform mental math, but sane enough to rise to the occasion, fished out a calculator. It was then that Anumita said- 'This is like the Bhikaris' Day Out.' Which is not a tag to flaunt, but it was so appropriate and ridiculous at the same time, that we dissolved into helpless fits of laughter.

Yes, I could see it all before my eyes. Our scarred and totured past, our extra-ordinary stroke of good luck in finding each other, our thrift and resilience, all leading upto this grand day, the fulfillment of our dream- silk saris and dinner at mainland china. Darun.