Wednesday, June 24, 2009

I've just returned from Delhi, and being so complacently lame-arse, couldn't resist blogging about the trip rightaway. I will degrade myself further. Like every other unimaginative soul, I will talk about the weather. The heat there and the heat here.

Spirits are supposed to swamp our souls with a chill, to make us shudder in mindless fear when they pass us by like a dying breath. The spirit of summer obviously wishes to break out of this mould. The spirit of summer likes glares and flares. The spirit of summer likes to hit us right between the eyes, and go- 'How's THAT for subtlety, bitch?'

I would appreciate this rebellious streak, even envy it, had the SoS not been such a bully; and picked on people its own size instead. For it is IMMENSE, and can stretch right out over the city, like an invisible, impenetrable fog. It's stronger, much stronger than us.

Now the nature of SoS seems to change with its geographical location. In Kolkata, it is heavy and soporiphic. We can hear its monotonous, tuneless hum and feel it weighting down upon our shoulders. In Delhi, it is like a restless, furious little devil-child. As it spins and rushes about, you are sucked into a whirlpool of heat that sucks the juice from your veins and spits you out, a mere scab. The SoS of Delhi plays with sandpaper and blowdryers. It is a bad child.

Everyone seems to prefer the Delhi heat to the Kolkata heat. It's not like their opinion is unfounded. In the Kolkata summer, we sweat. We get sticky, stinky, and feel strangely stupid. But even if you are drenched to the bone by sweat, when a gust of wind blows over you, it's like heaven. In Delhi, each time the wind blows and the leaves rustle, and you expect to enter a gentler word, you're just scraping against the sandpaper. Or getting sucked into one giant blowdryer. Or both.

I'll just come to the point instead of attempting prosetry. Dryness doesn't suit me. However, it seems to be better for my hair. Throughout my stay in Delhi, my hair looked sleek and shiny. It made me feel like a princess, despite my overused jeans. I have discovered a sad truth. Humidity makes my hair frizz.

Humidity, you make my hair frizz.
I beg of you, plizz,
Do not tizz
Me like thiz.

Let my occasional spurts of bad humour in no way bely my sincerity.

But on the whole, it was a good trip. I met the boy equivalent of Spriha. He's an adorable kid who talks shit, champions pink and mocks fad dieting- all with equal fervour.

I also met the squishiest, most twinkly-eyed specimen of little girl ever, who told me never to leave Delhi the next time I visited her. Bonding with her baby brother was a little more difficult. My god, the extent one can go to, for the sake of making a baby laugh. I allowed myself to assume the most undignified postures, to contort my facial muscles into expressions I never knew existed. Finally, I managed to evoke a quiet but appreciative chuckle by drumming out nursery rhymes on a tin of butter biscuits. And in the end, that chuckle seemed to compensate for my trauma (both mental and physical.)

But why did I go to Delhi? For the St. Stephens interivew. Let that be another tale, reserved for a day when I can talk of college without wincing.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

To the Censor Board, with NO love

I was watching Colours, a movie which has Robert Duvall and Sean Penn. Not intensely gripping, but it seemed competently made and I was willing to sit through the entire movie before passing any judgements. After a while though, I just couldn't take anymore. No, not the bad acting because there wasn't any. Not the cheesy script because the script wasn't cheesy. In fact, after the censor board had done its snipping and ripping, there was hardly a script left.

A movie dealing with Blacks, gangs and cops. What do you expect it to contain, ballads and sermons? And in case the Moral Compass of Movies isn't aware of this, WE CAN LIP-READ. We can goddamn lip-read, so we don't need every alternate sentence to be punctured with a second's silence.

Apparently, fuck is wrong but sonnafabitch is not. Apparently, fuck is wrong but asshole is not. Apparently, fuck is wrong but innuendos about getting laid are alright because they don't directly involve swearwords.

I tried to stick with the movie for Sean Penn. And he did what he had to, oh yes. But then the flurry of one-second-silences got too much for me.

To fill up the gaps, let me pose a few questions to our entertainment industry- if you care SO FREAKING MUCH about preserving our innocence, WHY DO YOU AIR SUCH MOVIES?
And on the other hand, why are little children singing Beedi, swathed in fishnet and satin, ANY bit more palatable than 'fuck'? Why are are a bunch of fame-famished girls bitching their souls out over some guy, representative of the youth of India?
Our Reality T.V. can get as warped as it wants to, but Hollywood has to toe the line. Wow. That makes a hell lot of sense.

The kind of censoring that takes place in the case of subtitles is pretty outrageous too. Apparently 'crap' is more sophisticated than 'shit.'
And digest this-
In Good Morning Vietnam, Robin Williams says-
'I haven't ever seen such a big man with absolutely no penis.'
Sophisticated Subtitles say- 'I haven't ever seen such a big man with absolutely no private parts.'

I rest my case.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Miss Sarajevo

I'd always thought Opera was nothing but vocal pakami. Like a display of complex dance movies, so complex that it strains your brain to register the dance as a whole.

Emotion, I thought was what Opera lacked. I have no idea how I got stuck with that idea. I'd always prided myself on being rather sensitive. I used to say, with all the subtle snobbery I could muster, 'The composition doesn't really matter to me unless it's executed with passion.' What I didn't realise was, that opera had much more passion than my Peer-Pressured adolescent heart could take. No wonder it made me feel slightly stifled, slightly uncomfortable, like I would feel having a stranger sob violently on my shoulder.

I once downloaded this song (Miss Sarajevo) by U2 and Luciano Pavarotti-. I was attracted by such a strange combination. When I heard it for the first time, I wasn't impressed. I found it dull and plodding, I never thought I could be anything more than neutral towards it.

Many times afterwards, the song was played randomly by ITunes Shuffle. At the computer all of those times, I was busy googling fondue or trying to send telepathic mindwaves to people through MSN. The song never caught my fancy, or even my attention.

Now I'm a believer in conservation. Not of food or time. Primarily of trees and electricity, of GB and MB. I never keep files stored unless I'm sure that I'll use them at some point in the future. So I decided to delete Miss Sarajevo. But something went click inside my head just before I removed the file forever. And I thought I'd listen to it one last time. Carefully.

And my god.

From the very beginning, it did something to me. There was something so poignant and haunting about the music, something surreal. It began with Bono, soft and muted, but with this undercurrent of intensity to his voice. The build-up.

Then it went onto Pavarotti. And that's when I got chills.
There's something refreshing about a release of energy. When the angst-ridden child finally gives way to tears. When the frustrated painter brings his canvas crashing down upon the ground. When the egotistic lover throws caution to the winds and runs into the arms of her man. Trite or orginal, dramatic or subdued, the catharsis is needed.

And with Pavarotti's soaring voice, release was the one emotion I felt. Release from what, I don't know. But it was release INTO a whole new dimension. One where everything mattered, everything was beautiful, overwhelmingly so. And yet, there was no sense of suffocation, only of freedom.

It's a joke among my friends that I grow to love people after they die. Ted Hughes. Jimmie-Dah. (Morrison) John Lennon.

RIP, Pavarotti.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Why oh why did I not apply to Lady Brabourne? Now my only hopes are Presidency, Loreto and JU.

If they do not take me, I will kneel at their main gates and sing Grace Kelly at the top of my voice.

'I could be brown, I could be blue
I could be violet sky
I could be hurtful, I could be purple
I could be anything you like

Gotta be green, gotta be mean
Gotta be everything more
Why don't you like me?
Why don't you like me?
Why don't you walk out the door!'

Yes, Stephens is still left but if St. Xaviers doesn't cater to 92 percenters in English, Les Stephens is sure to turn up it's reputable nose at my marks. My dream regarding admission in Stephens was a joke though. I dreamt that they rejected my form because they found the essay on my interests too aantel.

Someone else dreamt that the principal of Unnamed College was willing to offer her admission if she slept with him. At that villanous offer, an accompanying friend jumped up in violent protest and confessed his love to her.

Dreams are amusing. Life, not so much. Not now.

If YOU are equally uncertain about your future, please contact me. I have planned out an eventful year. One that is both instructive and exciting but does not involve even the edge of a College. It may just be the turning point of your life.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Some sentimentality

In a corner of my room, 2 kittens are busy testing their newfound strength on each other. As they crouch and pounce in mock aggression, their mother looks on, palpably nervous. This is her first litter. And that's not all. She, brazen wench, is the most premature catmother I have even seen in my entire life. 

She was named Bartoli after the tennis player who wiggles her ass in a strange way while her opponent serves. My cat made similar ass-wiggling movements when she was young. However, I never warmed to the name for various reasons-

a) It became rather embarassing to elaborate on it's pronunciation and origin to elderly relatives. I've already had to deal with a Snowbell being called No-bell. 

b) I've recently developed an aversion to foreign names for pets. India ki jai ho. NOTHING to do with Slumdog, I assure you.

c) Some names have a ring to them. They just sound right. I never did feel comfortable saying 'Bartoli'.

Which is why, In view of her obnoxiously early pregnancy, I have renamed her Juno. Yes, it's after another famous character. And it isn't Indian either, but it sounds less pretentious.

However, now that her name doesn't trouble me, another issue does. Will we be allowed to keep the kittens? My parents are dead against it, and understandably so. We already have 4, and they're a handful. But it's worth it, it really is.

Sometimes I lay my head on one of their stomachs, and I can feel the steady rise and fall of its breathing, and hear it's heartbeat. And when I lift my head, I can feel one side of my face gone warm. 

Sometimes the cats take on a mild touch of fever. On such occasions, just looking into their listless eyes makes me feel like someone's torn my heart out with their bare hands, and burst it, right before my eyes.  It scares me, how violently attached I can get. To anything.

I'd love to add 2 more to my family. But just to prepare myself for a disappointment, I'm not naming the little ones. Naming gives a sense of possession. Possession can give you an emotional high like nothing else, but it can also be dangerous.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Recently, ze phamilee had to gone to some boy's annaprasana. Basically, his initiation into the life of eating what is not goop. While returning home, we saw a CCD on a dark, lonely road. It was probably a well-frequented locality by day, but not to Anushka Sen of Salt Lake. Salt Lake may be a very pretty place  with lots of trees but my para consists of fat retired VIPs, and fat thriving businessmen who name their dog Sundar. It is also at LEAST half an hour away from most places I ever want/need to visit.

For such reasons and more, I thought the CCD in question was strangely located. And the following conversation ensued- 

Me: I think I'm seeing CCDs everywhere! CCD is taking over the world.

Brother (Piku): Do you think the basements of CCD are actually used for terrorist rendezvous?

Me:  Not terrorist, no. Not the conventional kind anyway. They are MAMATA'S SECRET HIDEOUTS! 
*assumes daughter-of-the-lal-mati tone*

Eww weel dreenk coffe, aamra khabo cha.
Buddha will say yayce, aamra bolbo 'NA'!

Piku: Yeah, you know how they say a lot can happen over coffe?

Me: Yep. Well now we know that a lot can happen UNDER coffee!

Ma: *interrupting, as is a mother's duty*

You know, my respect for Mamata has soared since 2 weeks ago. She's definitely been an excellent leader of the Opposition. CPM has been put in it's rightful place.


Realising that she was outnumbered, Ma decided to give way. As for her daughter, she still hasn't figured out exactly why Mamata would need a secret hideout.....
Maybe I subconsciously associate secrecy and scheming with rise of power. Yes, that's a thought. So if you receive certain vile anonymous comments on your blogpost, it MOST CERTAINLY isn't my doing :P