Magic Carpet

Return

2012-01-23T00:35:00.000-08:00

I've been devouring novels for a while,

Drinking in the richness at their core-

Where pictures and passions

Make their homes, rule with grace.

I was content,

No, effervescent

When moments back,

My eyes fell upon a tiny gem.

And nothing remained as before.

Its sharpness pierced,

Its power moved,

Its current sparked,

Its wisdom glowed

Within that little space.

And all at once I knew

What I had lost and found,

What unforeseen, was there

And meant to be-

The revival, the return of poetry.

2011-11-13T21:59:00.000-08:00

Love what I love. That is all I ask of you. No, I don't mean you're wrong if you can't. Or that you should. But if only you did! Can't you see, there is nothing I love more than to laugh with you, cry with you, even though tears embarrass me. Because that is how it's been for so long. I loved what you loved, sang your songs. You taught me everything, it was the only way we could be. But things are different now. I'm growing older, I'm learning new things, and you don't know them all. I'm learning who I am all by myself. My thoughts mean more to me than ever before. They give me more relief, more pain, more doubt and more peace. I'm often wrong, but I'm not weary yet and I have sworn to fight against weariness all my life. I don't want you to predict my mistakes, you are not my mirror, my mould any more. If I grow into you, it was meant to be but do not believe you were solely responsible. You are still the wise one, you are still my teacher. But perhaps I can teach you some things as well. Yes, many times I have felt more awake than you are, more indignant at the right moment, more ready to exorcise my evils. But never, never better. Perhaps I have found out truths that escaped you. Perhaps I've discovered a love you always looked past. I do not believe they are beyond you. Beyond us. That is why I keep trying- angry, angry, but full of love, needing you most at the moment you seem most distant. What we were, what we are, allows more than you let me give. All I ask of you is to take a little.

Summersong

2011-11-11T21:14:00.000-08:00

Well, we got through the summer,

Just like every year.

We sweated and stank

And complained to the absent wind.

We prickled and fretted if people touched us

Though only when it was ‘unnecessary’;

Young couples continued holding hands

That squeezed out salty droplets,

Using the rougher edges of their clothes

As handkerchiefs.

We sighed at the sight of dogs

With their pink tongues lolling painfully

As if their life-cord was being

Wrenched out by some invisible force.

We winced at the lizards that darted past

Hurriedly and left our eyes fright-glazed

At the corners;

Though a few of us found their littleness

Loveable.

We couldn’t make up our minds

Whether to take the window seats on the bus-

Wind and sun or shade minus wind?

But that was only when we had a choice.

Besides, it hardly mattered.

We simmered when we sat still

And oozed when we moved,

And every moment we tried to forget the sun

By telling each other how we hated it.

Oh how we hated it,

We wished we could compress it

With a pinch

Into a speck of smoking black,

And spit its final, feeble fumes

Out of existence.

In hopeless revenge

We rarely paused to give a coin

To a beggar.

But at night, when all we saw was the moon’s

Melancholy glow,

Such hatred seemed futile.

What compassion then,

For those in less luxury,

What abrupt loathing for the self

And abstract world,

For geography and humanity.

What suspension of time,

What ache for words that lay bubbling,

Inarticulate in some volcanic pit.

But we got over it.

Just like every year.

The Butcher and the Washerwoman

2011-04-11T09:12:00.001-07:00

There was a butcher

And he was married to a washerwoman.

Often he would come home from work

With bloodstained clothes.

And his wife would wash off the blood,

Spending many minutes soaking and scrubbing,

Completely free of charge.

They loved each other

And this is how they lived

Till both were too old to work anymore.

The Ugly Duckling

2011-04-06T11:33:00.000-07:00

There was once a little duck

And it wasn’t in his luck

To ever in the future

Turn into a lovely swan-

This ugly bird was fated

To be unappreciated

All his god-forsaken days,

Through night and noon and morn.

His mother tried to love him

But placed the rest above him-

His brothers and his sisters-

Could she help it, do you think?

They were swifter they were stronger,

They would live to help her longer,

They would be a bigger comfort

When her life was on its brink.

Sill, a mother…

Oh don’t bother.

The other relatives were worse

One might suppose they would rehearse

Abuses choices and novel

To hurl at his helpless failing.

For his very sight would fuel

Them into a state so cruel,

It would shock him into silence

Though his heart was full of wailing.

He thought that he deserved it,

No one told him otherwise.

But it didn’t stop him hating,

No, it didn’t stop him hating

Those preaching, preening, prating,

Those gross, infuriating,

Malicious motherfuckers.

Does this come as a surprise?

Time crept by with not much new

But all along the duckling grew;

And in his soul he sensed emotions

He had never known.

Now and then, a random day

He would decide to slip away

And swim to some deserted creek

Where he’d be left alone.

There he could pass his hours

Among the reeds and rocks and flowers

Thinking to himself,

Making music in his head.

The sound of silence cooled him

Only sky and water ruled him

He felt strangely liberated

From misery or dread.

The bit we’re now approaching

Is one I shrink from broaching.

But let us carry on

Since we thought it right to start.

Let us travel to the morning

When our young one went a-journeying

Further than he’d ever gone.

Driven by a pounding heart.

From the minute he’d awoken,

He heard messages unspoken

That stirred him to his depth

And gave fire to his feet.

He swam in the expectation

Of a glorious revelation.

With assurance he dismissed the scope

Of caution or retreat.

When suddenly he stopped

At a vision heaven-droppped,

A host of swans arrayed in white,

Glistening in the morning light.

Luminously white!

Skimming water, feather-light.

Skimming water, not a noise,

Breathing purity and poise.

One spread its wings out wide-

A moment regal, and immense,

Yet full of primal innocence.

And our hero softly sighed

For its enveloping embrace

In which he’d sink without a trace

To a blissful death, he thought.

Then half-ecstatic, half-distraught,

(One at his find, one for his past)

He ventured forward at last

And swam into the flock,

Uttering gentle cries of love.

No holy message from above

Could have prepared him for the shock

That would soon turn him to rock.

At first the swans stood deathly still;

Their silence now much darker.

A gloom was cast on everything

The very land looked starker.

Their heads rose up in outrage,

Feathers furiously bristled.

Their lovely eyes grew hard with spite

Like marble cold and chiselled.

Their bodies shuddered violently

In horror and disgust.

They flapped their wings

They squawked in hate,

They were the demons of his fate,

With voices harsh and hoarse and coarse

They battered down his trust.

They struck him with their wings and beaks

And crushed his hope in dust.

All at once the rejected visitor

Felt the weight of his ugliness

And saw the poetry of life floating by, a mangled corpse.

It was not one quick blow

Whose wound would heal with time;

No, his ugliness had gripped him hard

Like a vice.

He felt its weight upon his wings, his neck, his head, his tail.

It made his feet slow and heavy

As he dragged himself along.

It welled up near his throat

In a tight concentrated ball

That choked him.

Readers, it was my aim to describe

This lost soul’s misery at great length,

Because no compassion on your part

Could match the pain he lived.

But I confess I do not have

The courage to do it,

Or the strength to bear it.

Therefore in brief-

The duck lived for five days longer.

Starvation is a slow process

And he proved surprisingly strong.

But with his will to live quite gone,

He found he could stay away

From food with ease.

So he died without much difficulty.

And without the least bit of fuss.

Another crazy cat lady post. The most meaningful one yet.

2011-01-01T00:49:00.000-08:00

People get gifts for Birthdays. Christmas. But a New Years' gift I wasn't expecting. Who would've thought that it would occur in a form no less than the Prodigal Daughter's return? In my flurry to feed the cats- of ever-increasing number, diverse ages and now conflicting temperaments- I was frozen in my tracks by a long-lost sight. Recognition time: 0 earth seconds (never used smaller units so this will have to do.) A little extra uncertainty in her always-soulful eyes. A little extra timidity in the way she sat on her haunches. Or was I just adding sentimental conclusions to almost half-a-year's departure? Because otherwise, she wasn't a jot different. Unnaturally clean for a white cat who spent most of her time on the road. Eyes so enchantingly, emotionally green they would remind you of witchcraft and jade and fresh grass all at once. No thinner, no bigger. There she was, crouching among a positive menagerie of mewing creatures- most of them unfamiliar to her- trying to get her bearings straight.

She was always the crazy one, the beautiful one. Paranoid, with a bitter distaste for all other members of the feline species. Was she jealous or did she just hate cats? The very sight of another would turn her into this beast- snarling, hissing, fidgety, crotchety; darting under a small stool for refuge, casting accusatory glances at anyone and anything around her. The only cat to scratch us with complete abadon, bordering on zest, when disgruntled. But if the house was clear of other cats, she was a positive puddle of tenderness and affection, melting into your lap with the fragile grace of a wilting flower, looking up at you with those brilliant-green eyes, shadowing you so closely you couldn't take a step without stumbling on her majesty's snowy whiteness.

She was graceful in a way that defeats logic. Even the completely asymmetrical black streak on her forehead couldn't disrupt the perfection she radiated. From those slim shoulder blades to the dark-ringed tail-tip, every fibre of her body seemed designed for a pure, innocent elegance. But what a huntress she was!

Constantly grooming herself, washing her face. Positively cherubic in her sleep. If she were human, she'd probably be one of those frustrating females- stinking rich, maddeningly beautiful, selfish, vain, stupid, and for a grand item to round off the list- neurotic, just for kicks.

But she was my favourite, my absolute, outright favourite. I had no idea where she'd been all this while, and why she was away. It crossed my mind, and her glowing health reinforced this thought, that she might have been lapping up the attentions of another infatuated family while I died at the thought of her injured and alone.

It had happened once, an injury. A near-fatal one too. She, missing throughout 3 whole days, for the first time in her (and my) life. Me bawling shamelessly at her stark, doleful disappearance. And suddenly at the end of 3 days, she comes stumbling up the stairs, her underside a wreck of clotted blood and matted fur and hanging skin, her face small and shrunken; and with the last vestige of strength, surrendering everything to us, she crawls onto the landing and flops down on the floor, breathing heavily. I could have died of sheer relief and distress on behalf of that little thing, who had enough sense to get to the one place that would definitely take care of her.

Well, she got through it with heroic patience and strength. And with her, we all recovered, a little changed for the experience. And when she was gone again, I just couldn't take the thought of another injury, possibly untended. I hoped and prayed that she was somewhere else, betraying us merrily and thoughtlessly as only a cat can.

But she's back, my baby's back! As high-strung, as loving and bewitching as ever. She returned on the first day of 2011 and she's been here today as well. And I hope she won't give me another cardiac arrest EVER.

P.S.- Now I think I realise why parents get hysterical. I think I'll be nicer to my mum from now onwards.

2010-12-12T07:33:00.000-08:00

How does it feel when you know too little to disagree? But you really, REALLY want to. Not too great. I've been there.

What's even worse though, is when your arguments are effective enough to convince opposing groups but not yourself. And you're stuck in the middle. That's not the same as sitting on the fence. The latter is quite a pleasurable stance. Even an important one, at times. To be stuck however, is to be... stuck.

Which reminds me. I've tried asking myself this- if from now onwards, my life had to be one relatively brief set of moments, playing repeatedly in a loop, or extending for an eternity, what would I pick? Listening to a special song? Reading lines of my favourite poetry? A kiss, a hot shower in winter, running down the beach to jump into the sea? Say it wouldn't affect my body but I'd be conscious of the fact that I've done it before. In that case- whatever I picture, dramatic or homely, euphoric or serene, it's SO creepy. And somehow, the loop is creepier than the endless extension.

But if I could actually take that without going insane, I would have been Enlightened in the true sense. The same way I've always felt that living through prison is a tremendous test of character. (One I'd never wish on a person I loved.)

I suppose all this stems from being uncertain about almost everything. I wish, I really wish that there were some abstract ideals of real magnitude I could hold on to as absolutely inviolable. I have people like that, which I'm grateful for. I wish though, that occasionally I could say the same for opinions. Is Literature always the answer, even though nothing else ever feels as right?

But what's strange is, if you asked me right now whether I'm happy, I'd say yes without a pause. Alright, so the lack of a pause makes you skeptical. If I have to pause and think about it, the answer is still a yes. I genuinely believe that it's better not to be born than to live in this world. Since you can't really choose how capable you would be of dealing with it. But I also believe that once you're born, you owe it to yourself to be happy. And that you can be happy, without being a cringing coward or a blatant liar. Dissatisfied with a lot of things maybe, even cynical, even affected by genuine bursts of melancholy. But on the whole, happy. I don't think happiness should be looked down upon, the same way depression shouldn't be looked down upon.

A little make-funning, but all in good spirit.

2010-11-18T19:49:00.000-08:00

Anyone can write emo-stoner-rap-poetry. Maybe not the legendary kind, but good enough to compete with your standard, heartfelt ESRP. I will demonstrate in my first ever attempt.

Mystified nights.

Cold headlights.

Warts on tree trunks explode with woodpecker waste

While maggots fly on gauntlet wings.

Railway station.

City nation.

Meditation Masturbation Molestation Ululation!

Silence.

Silence so I can see.

I see myself reflected in the sunglasses

Of fucking death in his fancy clown pants.

My drunken eyebrows do a ballroom massacre

All across the sky of wisdom and sex.

Oh death,

You crazy lout,

Bean sprout,

You cannot kill me

Because I am already dead.

And so are you.

The appendix is dead.

Silicon is dead.

God is dead, the anti-god is dead, the semi-god, the demi-god, the iron rod...

All dead.

Red is dead and so is my bed,

Sweet steaming cauldron of gyrating dreams.

Jimi is dead, Kurt is dead, Dylan is dead...

(Oh wait, Dylan's still alive.)

Fuck it.

We're all dead.

~Anushka.

______________

Profound, eh?

Tick tock, you're dead.

2010-10-21T09:02:00.000-07:00

Ma, Piku and I are sifting through old khatas. Random-rapid-train-of-thought comes to a halt at an abandoned phase. Piku's tryst with writing stories. One was particularly fresh in my memory.

Me: 'The Evil Egg.' That's what it was called.

Without asking why I chose to mention it now, Piku gives himself a second to look sheepish before collapsing with laughter.

Me: Do you remember, Ma? 'The Evil Egg'.

The very name had set me chuckling, so that it took a while for words to emerge clearly.

Ma: Of course! There were drawings too. Ekta deem, on on the verge of hatching. Ar ekta monster type-er kichhu. Piku tokhon prochur golpo likhto.

Me: Yeah, you know, one can divide his life into distinct phases. Birdwatching. Storywriting. Now its air rifle niye pakami. The only phase that's remained constant is the video game phase.

Piku looks extremely affronted at his life being reduced to such trivial compartments. He lashes out with dignified vigour: And what about your phases? The Michael Ballack phase, and the Brad Pitt phase, and the Irfaan Pathan phase.

Ma butts in: And Sonu Nigam.

I try to give her a withering look but her back is turned to me. Mothers are evil.

Then, injecting a touch of amusement in my voice: Oho, that's like me saying you went through a peacock phase, and a kingfisher phase, and a bluebird phase. The names you mentioned, they're all men, Piku. Different men, but men nonetheless.

Piku: (Ignoring me) And your Goosebumps phase, and your Shivers phase...

Me: If you would only listen. Like the last example, this is Flawed Logic. They're all books! And I dare you to say that books were ever just a phase for me.

Piku glares at me, walks out. I assume the conversation is over. But he returns in a minute, carrying a book which is thrust rudely before my eyes.

Recognition.

The cover is shiny silver, and screams Goosebumps' in its trademark trickling-blood font. A grotesque, green face leers from within the dial of a clock. The book is titled 'Tick Tock, You're Dead' and embellished with not one but two subtitles-

1. 'Readers beware, you choose the scare!'

2.'Choose from over 20 different scary endings.'

When I raise my eyes to look at Piku, he is radiating smugness. Smug too, are his next words: Call this a book? I don't.

I know when I've been defeated.

Because some people make you write about them.

2010-10-18T08:52:00.000-07:00

I'm putting this up after a lot of deliberation, because it's the sort of poem one could easily dislike and I'd be rather sensitive about criticism when it comes to this particular one. It runs the risk of sounding trite, and a trifle sanctimonious but it comes from an intensely personal place inside me. I couldn't write this unless I stripped every word down to its simplest form, even at the cost of sounding juvenile. Anyway, good writing should come across as good writing, whether or not people know its history. And ultimately, I'd rather write something good than give vent to something personal. So that is why I am testing the waters by unleashing this upon the blameless public. Good luck and be honest!

______________________________________________

You will not die, because I will not let you.

I will not let you die.

These words will strike the air.

Again, again, and again and again;

Till the wind blows through their channels

And the sunlight reflects off their walls,

Till the very earth believes it,

And so does the sky,

And so do the trees.

And this is how we will conquer death.

Or if words fail

I will keep you alive through sheer force of thought.

Because you are too good for death.

The world needs more of your kind,

Or at least it needs you longer.

If your time came, you would leave without a fuss-

In fact- chide others for being too dramatic.

Death would not feel important walking you home,

As with your old quietness of tone

And unhurried pace,

You would talk about the same things

You spoke of while alive.

Everything you say has real meaning;

And since we cannot return to the freedom of pure babble,

Our only hope lies in your perfect wisdom.

You prove to the world that truth is not extraordinary

Though it is extraordinarily rare.

You warn the world that by the time

They scrub off their war paint

And stop arming themselves against an enemy who does not exist,

It will be too late.

You remind them that no one knows what an end is,

Let alone when it happens.

You tell them these things,

And yet they do not hate you

For truth is not as ugly as we presume;

The ugliness is mostly in our minds.

You can never be ugly, just like you were never pretty,

Just like you are always beautiful,

Just like you wll never die;

Although the world would regret more through your death

Than it chooses to learn from your life.

Sea Song

2010-09-07T06:31:00.000-07:00

And someday, my love, we'll live by the sea.

I wonder which draws me more-

The idea or reality;

For my vision of sea and shore

Is not tied down to a memory.

Our sea's an aimless, nameless sea,

No map could ever trace it.

It gives no clues that one could use

To place it.

The only way's to run straight on

Towards the sink and swell,

With a salty smell

And a lullaby drone

To guide you;

Till the suddenness inside you

Says this sea remains unknown

Until you face it.

And the sea will start to love us-

As we slowly dare explore it

-Yet remind us of its power

That could crush us any hour.

So teasing, fearing, but endearing

We will play this game, we three-

You, and I, and the sea,

This game of great discovery,

And trust and lust and mystery,

And the thrill of being free

From all the world

Except ourselves.

Ha,haha. Ha,haha. Ha, haha, haha.

2010-08-21T21:42:00.001-07:00

It's kind of inevitable that people studying the same subject will have a range of specialised jokes all to themselves.

Not long ago, I was told a story that illustrates my point. It featured a girl who- in the company of Philosophy/Literature students- claimed Levi Strauss jeans are of superior make because they're so well 'structured'. The speaker, serenely unaware of how her words were tailored for academic humour, suffered an instant explosion of laughter.

Now I'll be democratic and talk of Science. Back in school, we used to have this bilious Physics teacher. Actually, I'm being kind when I say bilious but my work here is with anecdote, not antipathy. She never taught me Physics, and while that relieved me of a potential black spot on my schooldays, it also denied me from experiencing her single experiment with humour. Of course I got to hear of it. Such news has no alternative but to travel.

And this is how the joke goes-

A group of Scientists were playing Chicklet and it was Einstein's turn to catch Newton. Sir Isaac didn't run, he drew a chalk box with an area of 1 metre square on the ground. Stepping inside, he said- 'You cannot catch me because I am not Newton anymore, I am Pascal. Haha.' ( 1 Newton per metre square = 1 Pascal.) Apparently, the entire narrative was rendered in a monotone, with a flat little laugh at the end. How she must have revelled in that moment- that climax of wit and goodwill. I say it without any rancour because this little event was ALL that EVER diluted my resentment of her existence.

In speaking of Science humour, I always recall a scene from Ye Olde Grande Cartoon Network. It was one from of those short bonus episodes of Dexter's Lab. I don't remember what was said, but I do remember Dexter delivered it with great gusto and then collapsed into a helpless heap of violent laughter while DeeDee looked on with an incredible mixture of disbelief, pity and scorn on her face.

And so we continue to indulge ourselves. My kindred spirits and I sacrifice accuracy for the sake of alliteration and puns. My numerically oriented friends see equations in anything, ranging from a bread basket to a puddle. Each group sneers at the other with equal alacrity while feeling an elevated camraderie within itself. The whole deal is slightly sad. But endearing too, in a way.

Ssssh.... what's that sound?

2010-07-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

Secretly they crave to form

A cosy little cluster.

Underneath the bluster,

Only heart and endless-pit draw near.

Some prefer to entertain,

And enunciate with relish

Every spooky syllable

That conjures the hellish.

Those who end on somewhat gentler planes

Invite relief,

Yet incite disdain;

For the fun lies mostly in the fear.

Others dismiss dignity,

And give vent to exclamations

That indicate the squirms

Of their unhinged imaginations.

A few continue to play stoic

Feeling supremely heroic,

Though their eyes betray.

And suddenly the world begins to sway.

Corners mutter, curtains flutter,

Windows all have faces!

The heart's a living paradox,

It freezes and it races.

Creaks infest the air,

Thuds are none too rare;

The moon looks like a malevolent smile

(With yellow staining white.)

And lights begin to flicker from pure spite.

Jokes and giggles are unleashed

To drive away the shapes and shades.

But nothing fades...

What confronts you now

You mortals, is your very doing.

Ghost stories are running loose

And grizzly horrors, brewing.

No chances of refuge exist

Within your home or head.

How can you hope for thoughts serene

When your blur the lines between

The living and the dead?

A P.S. is irresistible. Irresistible is tough to type out fast.

2010-07-12T09:59:00.000-07:00

So once again I churn out the irregular but inevitable nostalgic post. Actually, this isn’t nostalgic as such, but it is a sunny remembrance.

I speak of days in class 3 when my grammar was rather good. Sadly, it isn’t anymore. I’m not sure why, considering I read more now and better books too. But that’s not the point. In class three I was Gremmer Quinn and there was one particular episode where the metaphorical crown took on a brighter sheen than ever.

We were about to start on Adjectives and Mrs. Law decided to throw a tricky one at us, saying she would be very impressed if any of us got the answer. She gave us a sentence- ‘I need __ soap’ and asked us to fill in the blank with an adjective. People tried all sorts of things- white, clean, beautiful but none of it seemed apt and they knew it themselves. I didn’t try anything so far-fetched but my inner Indiana Jones was nevertheless baffled and challenged by the mysterious keystone. All of a sudden something went ‘click’ inside me… just one shade short of grand epiphany and many degrees beyond hopeful speculation. ‘Some’ soap. It had to be ‘some’. I knew nothing about Adjectives of Quantity and hell, ‘some’ didn’t sound remotely like an adjective to me but no other single word fit in better. So bobbing up and down in my little wooden chair, I ventured answering. And I tell you, the nod-smile that greeted it felt like a superhuman conquest.

Those moments are buried with Enid Blyton and Louisa May Alcott. At this stage I’m way too conscious of appearing priggish and overenthusiastic. But it’s ok. You-lose-some-you-win-some. I may have forgotten rules of punctuation. I may invent fake words and alternate spellings to sound cool on the internet (though I'm not alone there.) And my brain through sheer laziness or egotism or some Unidentified Lingering Reason might refuse to learn new words. BUT... at least people in my stories aren’t called names like Jane and Daniel anymore.

Unrelated PostScript: My dad (an authentic and age-old Floyd fan) is trying out Comfortably Numb as his ringtone. Unexpected waves of 'hello hello hello' set to creepy chords is highly unsettling. Especially during domestic settings such as evening tea. Clearly, psychedelic should never become mainstream.

Pardon the Philosophising

2010-06-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

I'm tired of shallow squabbles over hollow theories. I despise assumptions, especially those concerning people. And I'm bored with cynicism and indifference. With each passing day, I grow more and more convinced that the really important things are love and honesty.

You should be able to love yourself, people, life, art, work- with a wholeness, a liberation. That kind of love is self-defining, it lends courage, purity and shape to everything you do while making ethics obsolete. So there's a vitality even in sacrifice and patience if you know they aren't prompted by cold ideals of duty. It's what makes your head burst with colour and the sound of trumpets when you see little dots of people darting all over a busy street. What calls your soul to float up and stretch out upon the clouds on a stormy day. What pushes you to run around the house with a book in your hand and a mad glint in your eyes that will only be extinguished when you've sat someone down and read out the passage that set you on fire. Love. Next to it, religion is a child.

And as for honesty, you should be honest with the same things that you love. And when you realise how goddamn difficult it is, you have newfound respect for yourself when you can actually do it. Every quality touted as crucial to our character is encompassed by honesty. You know how they ask you to think for yourself, be creative, question everything? You can only do that if you have the energy and the balls to hunt out the truth and walk beside it with grace. That's when you're not just on some empty intellectual quest. When you're above the danger of sounding stylish, feeling fancy and learning zilch. Honesty can give you independence of the highest kind, the kind you get when you know you have no one to answer to, nothing to prove, nothing to fear. And independence is freedom. Freedom is the greatest gift life can ever give us. That, and love :)

Title-less story that must be given a title so it shows up clearly in your newsfeed.

2010-06-24T09:09:00.000-07:00

Everyone thought it was remarkable, even disturbing, the way she refrained from showing any resentment. If she ever had her share of angry heart-to-hearts with close friends, they never let on. As far as the world knew, she was a lake of tranquility- undeniably mournful, rather deprived of the old vivacity, but with an uncomplaining resilience that cast a hallowed glow all over her.

"Are you human?" some finally screamed out, still full of fondness but unable to credit a virtue which in this case seemed downright displaced. "It was his fault to begin with! And his new woman acted like a first-class bitch. Together they were unethical and cowardly and they only confessed because they didn't have the brains to get away with it. Surely all this doesn't escape you? Facts woman, not judgements, they're facts!"

She would reply that they didn't escape her, those facts. She wasn't denying any of it. But that didn't mean she had to get angry in the process or stop loving him. True love doesn't need a reason. Besides, she was sure he'd return.

Return?

This was a new angle. Is that why she refused to give vent, or even play a martyr? Was it hope; poor, sweet, misguided hope?

Or was it knowledge? Because he did return.

It surprised everyone. Even his new woman, who was now his newly discarded. They'd been going well she thought, it looked like he was happy, she never harped on the past. They were meant to be a fresh brushstroke on an old canvas. 'So what happened?' the world wondered with her? He broke it off, returned for no apparent reason. Except maybe true love. That needs no reason.

At first people sat up in righteous indignation. He had no right to think he would be- in fact should be- accepted. He had broken two hearts in rapid succession; he was swamped in confusion and bitten by restlessness; he was heartless, unrooted; he was a walking heap of refuse.

But when his old love took him back without reproach, people softened. Okay, he had made a few mistakes. Serious ones but then 'to err is human.' And touched by the light of his lover's divine forgiveness, he too was elevated. She was the Queen of Hearts, he her happy conquest. No one could have been prepared for what followed.

Nothing dramatic, not an event at all. More of a phenomenon. A subtle, growing change like in the quality of light from dawn to dusk. It started with a spring in the Queen's step, a sign of new life which was only expected. As was the rekindled spark in her eyes.

But when did that spark change into a glint? (A hard and luminous glint that shone like a victory shield.) When did that step expand almost to a stride, that elegantly straight back and courageously raised face gain a shade of the military? And when did her man's smile of joy and relief tilt towards the latter? His faithful-puppy trot lose it accompanying wag-in-the-tail?

No one knew when. But all of this had happened.

Though many women thought this extraordinary lady had stolen a triumph for their side, they couldn't suppress a spurt of sympathy when they saw her man slouching under the weight of obligation. As for most people, they didn't feel as kindly towards her as they used to. She had lost a lot of her ethereal charm. Gritty was good, it had its own earthy appeal but it didn't suit her quite as well. Besides, if they didn't know better, they'd say she looked smug. And smugness is always mildly repugnant at the least.

A Year in Fast Forward

2010-06-06T20:00:00.000-07:00

And after all those months of countdown and laughing it off, the ISC is finally 'around the corner.' 'Knocking at my door.' Time to 'take the bull by the horns' and 'burn the midnight oil.' Cliches take over because they have translated into truth and I am swept over by a wave of intestine-entangling fear.

Day 1. Too dazed for fear. First exam. Not so bad! Next exam, pretty much the same. Next exam, pretty much the same. Oma, aar parchhi na re. Boarrr-dummmm. Crawl across the tracks, do you see the finish line? One exam left, also the last scheduled exam of the whole fucking series. But it's Elective English. Must. Go. Brilliantly.

My Grandmother is no more. Numbness. I want to cry and be an emotional grand-daughter, I want to see my world spinning. But only numbness. Cold, hard focus on last exam. Am I a bad person?

Last exam. Wow, I practically predicted the paper! Yesss, I'm going to write an answer on Laaaaaar-kinn! But it's so damn difficult to complete. 15 mins left for bell to ring. Shit, it's finally all coming to an end. Shitshitshitshit. We are going to paint the town RED tonight. Ok, keep writing it's not over until......

.............Trrrringg. NOW! Look at us. The warriors, the survivors, the ones who saw the entire epic through to its conclusion. Come Achillean Adrenalin, sweep me away to the sound of trumpets. But we're all phooossed out, like leftover balloons from a birthday. No energy left. We want to go home.

Holidays. I don't have to study. This feels weird. But good. Some days are not so good. I cry without knowing why. I should've cried on the last day of school. That day, I returned home with dry eyes and shirtsleeves wet from others' tears because how can you dry when you feel dead? Now I'm making up for the backlog.

ISC marks are out. Not bad. But my lowest is in Elective English. Crycrycry. This isn't even grand enough to be a tragedy. Just a little heartbreak and contemplation of death for my ego.

Ok, enough. Grow up, act 18. Now it's time for college hunt. Your life and career depend on it. Oh just say 'career' you old ambition-crazed hatters, that's 'life' to you, isn't it?

Fin ill forms, no- fill in from, NO!- Fill In Forms. Correctly, correctly, fill in forms. Rewrite, rewrite. You should've chosen a more dignified email id you smartass.

So I applied only with English. That's all I want to study. 5 colleges. That should be enough. Na pele porashona chhere debo. Underneath the bravado, heart does enough flip flops to qualify for the Olympics.

Xaviers results are the first to be out. I didn't get through. Just you wait, Xaviers, just you wait. I'll get through EVERYWHERE that has an entrance and then I'm going to stride past your college with a booyah sticker on my ass and wiggle it in front of your main gate and head off to Park Street for lassi and chicken roll.

Looks like I am prophetic. Ektar por ekta, shob-i holo. But JU results are taking their time. Shanto hoh.

Ohmyfuckinggod I got through. I got through! JU or Stephens, that is the question. Think. Don't make a decision you'll regret. Stephens is supercool but SO much reservation? SUCH a high cutoff? Saala snobs. JU syllabus is better. So is it JU? Yes. Yes, I'm sure. Wow. I HAVE A COLLEGE!

And then it begins. College.

Rafat da asks us to read Lovejoy and Welleck. I'm sorry, I don't understand them. I'm not stupid, just new. Rudrani finishes off an author's E.N.T.I.R.E W.O.R.K.S when she's down with the flu. Deeptesh is a poet. Trisha knows everything. I'm not stupid. I miss Rukmini.

Frankenstein. This is goodstuff. Lewis Carroll. Even better. Robert Browning. Love, love, love. And hey, I've figured I can actually write. Thank you blogger seniors of mine.

Travel by bus for the first time. How long can I go on being a lily? But S9 is practically luxury. High seats and pedestals radiate-privacy-prompt-scandalous-conversations with Kd. Lebu-cha and lebu-logense never tasted so good. Summer is a bit of a stinker but you can always enjoy the hawa-hawaii. They call 'em window seats for a reason.

Revive the kurtis, they actually suit me. But no jhola. I have my limits. Plus my bag has a water bottle carrier.

And WHERE are the hot guys? Dhur shala. I know we're the fairer sex but surely the scales can't be tilted at such a dangerous angle. Achha, maybe there is one. No I'm not telling you who.

Laze, nearly graze in the Green Zone; gravitate towards Worldview. Beatles Orgies. I always thought I was a Beatles fan. I was right, but I didn't know just how much.

Too scared to stone but at least I've walked with Johnny and his more 'accessible' friends like the aged Monk.

All this is good, but there are no friends like schoolfriends. A few old ones make things better but my newly discovered soultwin goes off to Canada. Then again, if you wait long enough you get lucky. Find a partner for hysterical laughter and cathartic confessions. Another for secret food sessions and mock changrami. There's the head-tapping, 'halt'-hollering spectre who introduces me to David Ives, tests my patience and wins my love for evermore. And whaddaya know, I even meet the person that scrawls a huge crayon smiley all over my greyscale vision of dying single with more cats than friends. The last find is too sacred for elaboration, too special for avoiding a mention.

What follows is a blur. Exams come and go. Twice. I realise what it's like to study something you love. I get made fun of for taking my ED seriously but Sophocles is the stuff dreams are made of, and Horace is a stud. I choose my optional. Can I read 9 novels in a semester? We shall have to find out.

For now, I'm just looking forward to seeing if our resident rockstars whip out their guitars again for the first few months when 'juniors' are still a big thing :D

Pretty Pink Bathrobe- A Parody

2010-05-06T20:41:00.000-07:00

So I'm parodying (please don't kill me) Leonard Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat. I LOVE the man, I LOVE the song, and I know I'll never compose anything like that so do indulge my wisecracking.

Pretty Pink Bathrobe

It's 12 in the noontime, the middle of summer

I'm craving beer, oh the heat's such a bummer.

With someone to talk to it wouldn't be boring

But you're still in bed on your stomach, you're snoring.

I hear our son in the next room, at his rusty guitar...

A nightmarish sound but it seems alright from afar...

Yes, and his girlfriend came by but left soon.

The only way to stay sane.

There's no point in staying too late.

Were you always this late?

Ah, the last day I saw you rise early was colder,

Your pretty pink bathrobe made you so much bolder,

You took a long shower in winter-chilled water

Then slipped on your bathrobe and made the air hotter.

Now your bathrobe lies frayed like your grandmother's shawl.

You don't use it, on days you don't shower at all.

Well I see you lie there asleep.

Sweaty but still, in a heap.

At moments you move half-wake---

But don't open your eyes.

And what can I tell you my lifeless once-lover

What can I possibly say?

Your ass is still shapely, how so is a mystery,

I'm glad you once thrust it my way.

If you ever talk of the time we first met

Then you just remind me how I'm in your debt.

Yes, and thanks for the bills that you paid.

You didn't do it just to get laid.

And you came by then with eyes like the sun.

You made love look hotter than fun.

That's how the damage was done.

Revenge of Pandora

2010-04-21T07:02:00.001-07:00

Background- Revenge of Zeus

" Zeus' rage shook the heavens when he found out that Prometheus stole the fire. To punish Prometheus and mankind, he instructed Hephaestus to create a woman of stunning beauty from clay and water.

Pandora, the first woman was thus created. She was then given a final gift, a jar which she must not open. Hermes then swiftly brought her down to Epimetheus, the brother of Prometheus. Prometheus had forseen that Zeus would retaliate and warned his brother against accepting the gift. Epimetheus did not heed the warning as he was attracted to the great beauty of Pandora.

Pandora stayed on earth for a while before she became curious about the jar the gods gave her. When she opened it, all the misfortune of the world overflowed to the earth. The 'gifts' were in fact labour, old age, evil, plague - they brought only trouble to mankind. Panicked, she then quickly replaced the jar lid just before Hope could come out. The rest of the evils and dieseas were already released, causing humans much pain and hurt thereafter.

According to Hesiod, not only did the first woman Pandora, release the evils upon the world, she also became the mother of all wicked women. "

__________________________________________________________

Revenge of Pandora (An Imaginative Account.)

It wasn't fair that she got called a bitch.

Curiosity's a nasty itch.

The gods had set her up (did they play dirty!)

No one even cared if she was purty.

Pandora cried "Enough's goddamn enough.

You should know you're toying with hot stuff

And sure as hell you'll get your fingers burnt.

(A useful lesson gods have never learnt.)"

She re-opened the box and took out Hope.

Cooked it, ate it, and puked out the Pope.

Following which the Greek Gods were forgotten.

Revenge is sweet in spite of being rotten.

P.S.- Those who thought references to puking were forced and crass- go read up the Greek myth of creation. My CCB associates would know :)

2010-04-13T19:30:00.000-07:00

The other day some of us were discussing what it would be like if Spiderman got completely sloshed. Imagine if he were to aim that supergluey-webby-trapezey-thingy at a truck instead of a building. Or if he started coughing up supergluey-webby-trapezey-thingy globules. Or if his spidey sense went haywire and he had a paranoid trip. The last could get really messy. I can see it before my eyes- poor little Spiderman sitting all hunched up in a corner of his room going 'NO... PLEASE NO....'

I'm not sure what he would be protesting against so violently. Aunt May's fluffy pink bedroom slippers perhaps. Hey who knows, they might well turn into mutant bunnies or something of equally grotesque ilk.

And then we moved onto Asutronauts, and how a bunch of high, spacesuit-clad men could get higher on the lack of gravity. 'Look, look, I'm flyyyyyinggg.'

It's actually rather entertaining to picture different kinds of people getting drunk- the more studlike or formal their status, the more comical their state.

Think Mao Tse Tung. Lalu. Hitler. Wow, we're on a politician spree here it seems.

However, an exception to that would be Claudia Cardinale as Princess Dala. True she's not exactly a politician but all royals are politicians to some extent. Drunk Princess Dala, sprawled on a tiger rug- all vulnerable and seductive.... now that's hot.

(from the 1st Pink Panther movie)

Death of a God

2010-03-28T04:26:00.000-07:00

He was the god. They were a complete band, woven fine and tight. Each member made it what it was, and each of them got a lot of love. But he- he was the man girls fell in love with. The man whose sheer flair stood out over others' endearing quirks. The camera chose his fingers to focus on, even though he played rhythm guitar. And one would think nobody did backing vocals- that his voice had the power to sift through a magic screen and create silken harmonies.

Being the spoilt child, he was also the biggest bastard of the lot. All five of them had their twisted brand of fun but he really pushed the limits of tolerance. He would make what seemed like an astute, sensitive observation in an interview, and then publicly pulverise it a few days later. He would get away to some cozy, sleepy little shack for a break from the glamour-trip, and then disturb the place quite severely with drunken fits. He would caricature some of the most respectable figures of the music world on stage. No doubt he was uproariously funny. But the nearly crude and deeply cruel zone in which his jokes thrived was not conducive to a sporting spirit.

This one time, he and his band were giving an open-air concert on a grand scale. Towards the end of the concert and at the close of a song, he walked off stage while the rest were left visibly surprised. After a minute or two of consternation for all present, he returned. In his arms was a girl not more than two years old... angelic was the best way to describe her features. Holding her up, he gave a broad grin and said- 'This here girl's my baby, my very own darling. And the next song is dedicated to her.' And he sang into the microphone, holding her to his chest throughout. When he began it was just his voice soaring over a sea of heads hushed into silence. Not another band member joined him and that's the way it remained till the end of the song.

They were used to improvising, this band, and they had a chemistry that transcended practice sessions. Sure they could've struck up accompanying instrumentals, or sung in seconds. At least tried to. But they were too stunned to do anything except listen. A twenty-three old man, unmarried, not even in a steady relationship. Singing a song for his daughter. (Where the hell did she come from, where was she these two years?)

What a song it was though. Raw and mature, controlled and liberating. Intense with a core of peace. It was haunting in the familiarity that ran through its newness. The voice leapt high and low, bent and flowed, taking the readers out of a trance into an earthquake and then lulling them back into a trance.

You had to listen, there wasn't much else you could do. So they all listened. And watched. Watched the stagelights shine on his sweaty forehead and wild curls; watched his muscular arms enclosing a wisp of a child who kept unnaturally calm all along.

A few cynics called it a gimmick. They expected a few explosive letters from semi-celebrity women claiming to be the mother. And they expected the child to disappear from the spotlight soon enough. But nothing of the sort happened. The child remained with him, for better or for worse. He refused to elaborate on her origin, and her origin showed no enthusiasm in revealing itself. No fall of the idol here.

All this made matters tricky when he died. Suddenly, of a drug overdose. It was quite unexpected because he wasn't a hardcore junkie, he preferred alcohol. But there it was one morning, the newspapers in a state of frenzy announcing the death of a god. What would happen now? To his fans? To his daughter? (She was just around five.) His parents had given up on him long back but would they be alright with this? Could they?

Wait a minute. What would happen to the band? Young, riding high on a wave of acclaimed talent, and bursting with unexplored potential. Every bit of the fame and riches they had accumulated was well-deserved, and they deserved more still.

They weren't just creative, they were driven. So instead of declaring themselves a bunch of washed-out martyrs, they continued to make music. Their keyboardist had quite a fantastic voice actually and he excelled at compositions. Most of their original songs had been jointly written by him and their late emperor. He decided to take the rest under his wing. By the end of the year, the four survivors put together a decent album with a lot of intricate touches. There were heartfelt tributes to the One Departed, and some deep introspection on their conflicted minds.

The album was rated as a good effort. That was it. Critics who loved it didn't rave with effusive abandon but topped their critique with dollops of indulgence. 'What resilience, what a remarkable feat considering their loss. It was the best they could have done. How much better could a human race cope with the loss of their god?' And even these conditionally appreciative reviews appeared less frequently than the neutral sort.

Then by the time five years passed, the four got themselves some worldly experience, some hard practice and a new lead singer. The new singer was already a sensation among his generation. He had played with a variety of backing groups and was known primarily as an individual performer. It was clear that they weren't trying to recapture the lost glamour, because this guy wasn't a star as much as an artist. Short, stocky and with bushy eyebrows, he looked quite ordinary. But there was a quiet confident aura about him as he stood smiling on stage and looked right at the audience with steady soulful eyes. There was an honesty to his rugged beard and rich, deep voice that could shift scales and hit highs effortlessly. The album that they produced was interesting- a departure from their previous style. But it felt comfortable, and a true product of the time and emotions that floated in the air.

Well, that's what they thought themselves. But whereas their last album was looked at with appreciation and sympathy, this one seemed to light a spark of annoyance! 'SELLOUT' stung fans screamed. 'Sellout' the old believers lamented.

'Why are they desecrating our faith, our ways, why are we being left in the lurch? How could the band even THINK of replacing their jewel, their best-loved face with this bland, middle-aged mortal. And they were aiming at a smooth transition, without trial by fire. How presumptuous.'

'Indeed' the world echoed. 'They aren't even young anymore. Not that young anyway. Screw sympathy.'

'A private message from Shakira on Windows Live'

2010-03-21T11:49:00.000-07:00

How often do you see THAT line heading YOUR hotmail inbox?

Letter from a Professional Confessor

2010-03-04T08:34:00.000-08:00

To whom may be concerned, (pun alert!)

This is imaginative, not autobiographical. I just happen to be in love with the 1st person. It's so... satisfactory.

__________________________________________________________

A while back I looked into the mirror and saw a red streak running straight through each eye. For a while I harboured suspicions of conjunctivitis. Then I realised that it wasn't the season for conjunctivitis. 'I'm going mad' was my next hunch. A drastic conclusion to arrive at, and without any biological basis. But now and then, the world inside and outside our heads suggest certain things to us. And we have visions that seem to come from nowhere. Only we ourselves know that they have a source. Everything has a source.

Take the 'madness' theory. I connect madness to some kind of hysteria. Whether or not things are calm on the surface, there's violence underneath- pumping, pounding, hurtling, hounding. Enough to make the blood shoot upto the eyes. That's where the connection lay.

Inside me, conditions are a lot like that now. And the ridiculous part is, mere thoughts are causing all that fancy violence. Half-formed ideas one minute, too-clear perceptions the next. Personally, I prefer the first.

Vagueness is frustrating, but it can be distorted to suit your needs. It's far more annoying to see everything just the way it is. Because it tends to strip the world of all glamour. It can expose the corny idealism propelling a romantic line. It can force fanciful minds to accept how stupid that beer belly looks below his narrow chest, or how those ear-rings are far too large for her shrunken little face. It can pin your heroes down to dust and stain your dreams with a bilious blotch.

Cynicism is different. Like dull grey, the bleakness of cynicism can have its own understated elegance. Even transparency has a luminous charm. Disillusionment on the other hand is too colourful. Both points of view are nothing compared to a tiresome realisation of just how petty the world can get. How people keep ON lying. Because then you teeter on the brink of asking that nauseating question- 'what's the point of anything?'

I'm suddenly reminded of moments that dominated my head to great effect at one point of time. But they're stupid now, especially when viewed through that bleak, reality-ridden eye.

Like the time when I was little, a friend's pet dog bit me and I was so sure I'd die of rabies. Even though I knew it had been given its shots. I never told a soul for days and throughout those days, I cried myself to sleep, praying that I wouldn't die. In my defense, hydrophobia is horribly frightening. But I don't want to defend myself really, because everything about it was so bloody boka- the secrecy, the uncharacteristic surrender to Divinity. Years later, I was just as silly about another incident. I got physically intimate with this guy, the most I'd ever got. But I didn't have sex. And I still worried about getting pregnant. Isn't that silly? I shuddered at the slightest sign that my jeans were growing tight, and everytime I needed to pee I wondered if the urge came on more often than usual. Such antics at an age when my maturity was already epic among my friends.

Damn my maturity, or what you people call my maturity. I would probably never use that term for myself if you didn't tie it around my neck with a shiny bow. It's the reason you guys came to me for advice, year after year. So that when the whole lot of you walk around me, laughing, nodding, I see my maturity pushing you onwards. I see a little piece of me glowing inside every one of you, keeping you alive like a magic spell. And I see how much I've lost along the way, how those pieces strain towards each other, searching for a unity that that they refuse to find in their generous fragmented existence.

The true tragedy lies in the fact that I've got used to it. I'm losing my powers, my status, I'm not the acclaimed angel or do-gooder of the group anymore. What d'you know, it hurts a little! Turns out I want you to keep coming to me. Running to me. Keep making me feel good. It might drain me of ambition and drive. But it rewards me with a temporary fizz of self-satisfaction. I can hover in mid-air for a few seconds, and pretend I'm flying. I wish my confession of cowardice could dilute the self-loathing, but it doesn't. So is there any chance of redemption?

Maybe. Now that I mention 'hope', my mind has settled on another random incident from the past. There was this time my cat's leg got pulverised, and I scaled a high wall completely shorn of footholds just to get her. I went through the experience of holding a helpless ball of fur in my arms. Knowing her pain was acute enough to make the wounded leg tremble while the rest of her body was frozen stiff. Smelling the stink of rotten flesh and pus. I can't explain to you the horror of these very facts, let alone the mood- magnified by her silence and the sight of bare bone. But to love someone enough not to shrink away from her pain, and then watch her recover through slow degrees... It can restore your faith in the healing power that lies latent in us. Will it survive the test of further trauma still? (Larger Issues, as some would say.) Through the whirls of madness, there's an uncertain but strong voice that answers with a yes.

Imagine All The People

2010-02-19T20:35:00.000-08:00

Nisha never wrote about people she knew, though the prospect was tempting. There was too much mental baggage associated with them. For one she felt guilty about exposing their innermost thoughts. Conclusively she felt presumptuous in gifting herself the status of mind-reader. Most of all she was plain scared of how her inspirations would react. If they identified their literary counterparts, egos might be bruised. If not, she might doubt the accuracy of her portrayals.

To skirt these bumps, Nisha decided to rely on imagination. Her characters would naturally be based on experience-- nothing is born out of vacuum. But she would never mould any purely according to someone in real life. It was difficult, crafting complexities where memory was forced to take a backseat. Difficult not to get carried away down the familiar streams of character analysis. But she did it-- spinning layers are after layers, interchanging and rearranging them till the final result was always a perfect fit…

And because they were so completely hers, Nisha loved them passionately. Much like a first-time mother who can’t get over the magnitude of her tremendous feat.

Whoever read Nisha’s stories was deeply impressed. Especially by the characters. Readers found them so full of subtleties; yet larger-than-life, dramatic. The general sentiment was-‘Each character is quirky and entirely convincing at the same time. We would gladly lose ourselves in the maze of their mannerisms and secret thoughts.’

So Nisha was hailed as a genius all set to redefine the boundaries of creativity. She was gratified, and revelled in the world moulded by the sheer pulsating force of her whirlwind mind.

But secretly, she ached to see some more honesty flow from her fingertips.

‘You may be a genius, but you don’t have balls’, her soul whispered from time to time. ‘What more do your stories generate than a temporary intoxication? Glamour can do that too. Your readers would be equally taken with a palace-chandelier or a Pashmina shawl.

Convincing and sincere are not the same thing, my little escapist and until you’re sincere you’ll never disturb them.'

That’s what she wanted to do, really. Disturb them. Burst their bubbles with an ugly plop. Stab the cushions she piled around her stories. Reach into the fresh wounds and tear out great hunks of cotton wool- scatter them over the world and watch faces wrinkle up in disgust. No one likes rain that refuses to go pitter-patter on the window pane. But people do have a grudging respect for honesty- a respect she craved.

Did Nisha listen to that voice? No. She didn’t even turn it into a character, in case she was forced to recognize herself.

Soul-eww-shun

2010-02-14T06:30:00.000-08:00

At times you’re forced to meet

The hidden voices in your head.

Find out they scare you shitless,

Wish them damned and dead.

Your head is crammed most painfully

With unanswered ‘why’s.

Hot rage is spilling over

Through your nostrils, ears and eyes.

Rage at what? Oh everything!

Yourself, more than the rest.

For losing faith and certainty

In how you’ll stand The Test.

‘There must be some way out of this’

You growl and groan with passion.

There is- a way that’s not just clean

But never out of fashion.

Set out each conflicted thought

In literary streams.

Give every twinge of fear a place,

Don’t cover up with dreams.

Just pen it all down prettily

(There’s brownie points for rhyme.)

Make it sound intense enough.

And you’re absolved of crime!

Isn’t it supremely easy?

Isn’t it a load of fun?

Why do people moan about

How tough it is to Get Things Done?

A Prode (An Ode in Prose)

2010-02-09T04:34:00.000-08:00

Call it shallow, but the first thing that comes to mind when I think of her is coffee. Coffee, unabashedly hot, brewed in a jiffy by the ever-ready Shiulidi. Coffee, served in glossy solid-colour mugs that left no confusion about their appearance; so you could say ‘I want red!’, or ‘Gimme lime-green!’ without fear of tripping up on patterns. They came in multiple sizes, those mugs and we started out by switching between them. But ever since Rukmini said ‘Shiulidi, aaj amader jonno gaamla gaamla coffee banao’, we’ve been given the largest possible size. A choice which never roused complaints. Extra caffeine, extra energy.

Well, energy was a bonus rather than a necessity. Because our attention was always kept in rein. By the shelf at our side- spines of tenderly wrapped, intensely desirable books lined up to create art. By heaps of answer-scripts all around; gold mines each one, containing ridiculous gaffs by the Other School. Not like we tore them apart. If there’s one thing she’s taught me, it’s an instinctive jerk away from the road to uppity-ness.

And there was more to classes with her, so much more. Stuff that ran deeper than coffee and stirred emotions warmer than humility.

I remember the first time I met her, she asked me if I liked Dickens. I was hmm-ing and errr-ing when she interrupted with ‘See, if at this stage you don’t like Dickens…’

You shouldn’t be studying Elective English I anticipated, cringing.

‘… It’s perfectly understandable. How would you, if you’ve had classics stuffed down your throat when you were young and unprepared?’

And it was love ever since.

I remember the first Class. On Poetry. Then suspicious and uncool. Modern-abstract aantlami or decadently sugarloaded swill. Nevermind that half-my life was spent in laughing hysterically at Roald Dahl’s grizzly rhymes. Nevermind that when I was taught ‘My Last Duchess’ in class 10, I rushed home and read it out to Ma. I didn't even notice the response since I was going ‘ohmygod, OHMYGOD’ inside my head at the sheer subtle power trapped in each line.

What made me think I didn’t like poetry? Whatever it was, She dispelled it in a matter of minutes.

With her, I first realized the music of language. Heard the light trip-trap or the slow, scraping crawl of words across a page.

I learnt to respond to the writer and his work, to be teased and drawn into guessing games, to challenge them right back, to flit between sentences, pause at a break and look around in leisure.

And Rukmini was always there. Rukmini who?

‘One of your classmates will be joining us from next week. But I’ve forgotten her name.’

‘Sriparna? Supurna? Debadrita?..... Priyanka? Anumita? But there’s no one left!’

‘Na na... arre oi meyeta, kokrano chul.’

‘OHHHH. Must be Rukmini.’

‘Yes, that’s the one. She’ll be coming here too.’

‘I see.’

Rukmini, the only girl of my class I forgot to name while ticking off the students who could join us.

Rukmini and me. And She. We were all 3 together on the balcony, going into rhapsodies at a thunderstorm while Ode to a Nightingale waited patiently inside. I can still recall that scene.

The ferns- shuddering masses of darkness. A plastic bag whipped violently from ledge to pole. The swimming pool a glittering lake of chaos. Lamposts reflected in puddles- psychedelic strips of light. Gold never looked as haunting...

The aerial view showed a lot of things at curious angles. And each time there was lightning, amidst the constant flurry of rainspray, the whole landscape looked all the more surreal.

If that day was about silently soaking it in, the greater part was about talking our traps off. Between us, I wonder what topic of conversation was actually left alone. They spanned from Jim Morrison to Narayan Modi, homosexuality to the abysmal condition of the ISC. How trivial we were at times, Rukmini and me, how Intense and Indignant at others. Come to think of it, she was never indulgent. She always made us feel worthy of her respect. HER respect. Which wrenched the maturity out of us.

I can’t even begin to describe how grateful I am to her. I do like myself for who I am now. If I met me, I’d think I was really cool. But I know I have a shitload of flaws and some are positively despicable. Minus her influence, I would be one-tenth of what I am even now. And that’s a scary thought.

2010-02-06T00:07:00.000-08:00

In my next life, I will be an Arabian Princess gorging on dates and kebabs. A new and effective wave of feminism will have swept over the world by then, allowing me to have a harem of men. Though such easy promiscuity is sure to get boring after a while. When it does, the men shall be disbanded. (What a delightful word- dramatic, but official. See, I have royal tendencies already.)

Anyway, relax your ethical antennae. When it comes to my pet camel, loyalty will prevail. What should I call it? Tuglaq, maybe. Or Sandy. Forgive the hopeless lack of originality. In my next life, all that is to be redeemed. Belly dancing, ghazals, urdu poetry- I will nonchalantly juggle these arts. 'With one hand' I'd like to add, but then it wouldn't be juggling. Even exaggeration has its boundaries.

What has no boundaries is imagination. Am I glad for that :P

2010-01-27T07:38:00.001-08:00

When I was younger, I used to crib about not being smart or creative Enough. It used to piss me off like hell when anyone called me a 'genius', because even BRILLIANT people don't always deserve that adjective; I bloody well didn't and desperately wanted to. But now, in a weird way, I'm almost glad that I'm not a genius. Because I think it's left a lot of room in my head for common sense.

Yes, when I see perfection being created by a body, or a voice, or words; when I see the capacity of sheer talent to drive the talented AND the admirers wild- I know that my life is lacking a certain magic. But it's alright. Because I also see a lot of people who just don't know what to do with the hurtling speed of their minds, and the overwhelming levels of stimulation they experience. I see them getting restless, and angry. Like an artist stabbing the canvas ferociously with his brush, till a storm of paper-dust is kicked up, and the colours get coarse. But I have a little trick- no wait, a way to be more at peace with myself and the world. A trick is trivially clever. This is something too simple to be clever, and too significant to be trivial.

I firmly believe that everyone has a right to their own opinion. There are very few things that are universal and absolute. So it's alright if one is internal and abstract whereas another is brimming over with political consciousness. It's alright if this guy's stoic and that guy's rebellious.

Goofy or sunshiny approaches to life can be as fulfilling as dignity or cynicism.

The important thing, is to TRY and be sure of who you are. And acknowledge, in all your clarity of thought, why you're doing what you do. If you can face the inner workings of your mind, if you take a step in full awareness, then even compromise and compliance can be acceptable. After all, it isn't possible for every step you take to be a glittering display of courage.

And once I realised this, I became FAR more comfortable with a whole lot of issues. Now, a passionate and convincing speech refuting my own beliefs isn't a threat to my identity. Instead, I have an opportunity to analyse and savour the speaker's skill.

Yes, I still get pissed off. On a deeper level, I still get disturbed. And rightly so. It's important to have some things you care about that fucking much. It's important to get touchy or even explosive, feel weariness at banality and horror at pure evil, cling and clutch onto ideas with a mad hope. The difference is, that I've become tolerant of variety. Me isn't the only person to be.

I've gathered respect for the middle path, and abandoned blind admiration of extremes.

I don't look on life as a crossword puzzle to be figured out, or a challenge to be taken on with a heroic grimace. I've learnt not to get uptight and be hopping around in righteous indignation at everything.

And I'm pretty sure that this philosophy hasn't left me functioning on a surface level. Because inside my head, I question my position to an insane degree. And I let myself feel as deeply as I'm capable of. Even if it makes my head spin. Because when I'm left staggered by the intensity of my own highs and lows, I am assured of my own humanity. By humanity I don't mean compassion or any virtuous shit. Just lack of vocabulary for 'being a human being and Lovin' it'. So if you say I'm preaching easy or limited living, well- I'm going to take you down and kick your stuffy little ass. Nah, I'm just kidding. Say what you will, in the name of free speech. I am toh chilled out :D

And what Are words, after all?

2010-01-16T07:29:00.000-08:00

Today, my mother said 'thong' when she meant 'sarong.' The sentence taken as a whole just made it worse. My eyes and mouth turned into spheres of crystallized disbelief.

I suppose this is revenge for the time I asked her the difference between 'orgasm' and 'organism'. BUT AT LEAST I WAS LITTLE THEN.

Trip or Treat

2010-01-08T05:55:00.000-08:00

So finally, I visited the forests. They always fascinated me- their blend of wild and still, alluring and scary. Well, that's what photographs and poetry had told me. And experience recently confirmed.

I'd seen mountain woods before, but those tall, slender conifers give out a rather airy-fairy vibe... ethereal grace and whatnot. The forests in and around Chalsa are different- with broad leaves giving birth to shifting shadows, creepers forming tangled screens and muscly roots reaching far into the earth (even peeping through it.) Both are beautiful. But it's always more exciting to have your elemental side stirred. That's what the latter does.

This time, our trip was planned in a way that didn't allow us to penetrate the wild. Elephants, cheetahs, West Bengal has 'em all. But we only noticed bison

and some peacocks around a salt lick. That too was a little marred by tourists. I especially remember one who peed in full view, walked away from the criminal location with forced nonchalance, then asked his wife to wave her red dupatta at the unsuspecting brutes. Spanish hangover, anyone?

Equally striking was a female who kept screaming most ineffectually at her toddler. And actually seemed to revel in her miserable position. If you ask me, these miscreants could carry off the 'bison' tag with authenticity.

There was an exciting moment though, when one of the horned dadas suddenly launched into a run, and covered miles of marshy land within seconds. Mud and water sprayed from its hooves, a peacock shrieked and the crowd went momentarily berserk. For a while, we all waited for some big cat to appear in its slinky-ominous regalia. As you can guess, we learnt not to count our carnivores before they were sighted.

But that's NOT to say my trip was dull. Nossirree. Just Driving down some of the roads sent me into raptures.

I learnt what art sunlight can create by passing through brambles and branches.

Another revelation was the transformation of forests over time.

Morning- Dry vines and leaves weave a film of brown against a dense, intense green. Lighter shades of green emerge in patches, as if to assure us that the wild has its softer side. The sky decides: 'no-matter-WHAT-you-say-about-my-hundred-faces-blue, blue,BLUE-is-my-colour!' The wind secretly ties a rocket to your legs.

Afternoon- Everything is sleepier and more alive all at once. The whole mass of forest is a shuddering, breathing living creature. You want to go for a drive.You doze. Then some gaurdian of your aesthetic pleasures pokes you in the ribs. All it takes is a glimpse of the road. You sit up with a spark lit inside, swearing not to fall asleep now.

Early Evening- The sun, the SUN. So much larger, and red-orange... far too serene for fire, but with a violent emotional undercurrent. Isn't there some song called Tears of the Sun? Or is it a movie? Either way, that's the phrase the evening sun keeps drawing up from my mind. As for the trees- the shades and shapes begin to blend, the bird-calls take on a sudden unearthly quality, the shadows hint at the possible breakthrough of a grey, winding trunk from their depths. Goosebumps.

Late Evening onwards- We made the driver stop the car and turn off the headlights for a few seconds. Oh god, what a thrill! Even when the headlights were on, the darkness of parts beyond their reach was heightened, taking the interplay of light and shade into a whole new dimension.

Of course, with a wealth of the earth's whims to choose from, we visited areas other than forests too. But to avoid an epic blogpost, I will have to skip it all. Because I want to talk about the place I was staying at. And now that I've entered this zone, my fingers have already begun typing, preparing ground for an ode on the Fireflies.

I discovered them while walking by the tea-gardens within the resort. At night. At first, I saw only one, which made me squeal anyway. Then I noticed another. Ooh, Lucky, I thought. Then I saw them all. Slowly floating out of the tea-leaves with curious ease, as though gravity is a myth. Spun out of the stuff that dreams and trances are made of. Edges of stars that have broken and drifted away, mingled with earth and weed. Dotting the night air. Glimmering so faintly; no brightly, no. You never reach a conclusion. And then you stop trying, because you aren't sure whether you'll ever come so close to believing in the mystical again. And you want to savour the moment.

Dear Mother Nature is infallible, but the human company we kept was pretty damn interesting too. Travelling with us was a family friend (we'll call him SB)- a lawyer with NO pretensions of the stiff upper lip that our legal biggies adopt so happily. Apart from his constant (and never tiresome) stream of repartee, his greatest contribution was a Mask.

It wasn't spooky, and it wasn't monstrous. It was... shocking. More twisted and vile than anything usually considered human. However, it had a smug leer that you might have easily have seen on your boss, or on a man in a dark alley. Now we went OVERBOARD with that piece of work. Of all people my brother easily looked the most repulsive on donning it. Something about the way he stood hunched. And he must be having expressive eyes 'cos there was a real glint flashing beneath the rubber folds (eyelids) sprouting a fountain of grey hair (eyebrows.)

One of my funniest moments was when he walked out, mask et all, and calmly sat upon a bench by the walkway. At that time, a troupe of college students had just landed at the resort. There was a girl walking past the bench. When she saw that monstrous figure sitting there in the darkness, she did a smooth 180 degree turn and just took off. Soon enough, there were shrieks and yelping renting the cool silence. Choosing the perfect moment, Piku moved away wordlessly, leaving the rest to figure out things for themselves.

In 15 minutes, we found the students huddled around together on the lawn, and a FURIOUS debate was on- concering ghost vs. prankster. You'd be surprised to hear the petrified passion with which some argued for the side of ghost.

Another hilarious incident occurred on New Years Eve. A stage had been erected just outside our cottage, and performances were going on (ranging from Badi Mushkil Hai Khoya Mera Dil Hai to Tuni'r Ma and Poran Jai Joliya.) Guests were moving about freely. By the time a round of introductions had ended, we found ourselves with an elderly couple (we'll call them Mr and Mrs Pleasant) in our cottage. Though the possibility of invitiations was dubious, it all seemed cool to me in the start. They were both dapper and benign in appearance, rather given to smiles. But by slow degrees, they unravelled a peculiar core.

The real fun started when the man referred to himself as SB's childhood friend. Apparently, they had met only once in 88, when both were far from blossoming buds. Moreover, at that time- SB had found the wife in great consternation because Mr. Pleasant had slipped off somewhere without warning.

No sooner did the words 'childhoood friend' escape the man's mouth than I saw SB's eyes gleam.

SB to Mr Pleasant: Achha, I remember meeting your wife for the first time. She was crying because you were lost.

Mrs Pleasant: (Mildly) I was crying, really?

SB: (Still talking to Mr Pleasant) Kintu bolun toh, do You remember My wife's name?'

Mr. Pleasant: E baba, I can't say I do remember... oh dear... what was it again?

SB: Hemangini.

Mr. Pleasant: Hemangini Hemangini. Tai, na?

SB: Na.

Mr. Plesant: What? It's not?

SB: It's Debjani actually.

Mr. Pleasant: Oh. Uhh...

SB:But Now it's Shaitani. That happens to all wives. That's why I'm travelling on my own. (Note: SB's wife- named Itu- was staying back in town with her ICSE-inflicted daughter. The family is fully functional)

Mrs. Pleasant to me:

(Wishing to thaw the discomfort but unable to break free of the name chains)

You look just like our Sraboni.

SB: But her name's Sraboni too!

Mrs. Pleasant: Shotti? No, you're just teasing.

SB: But now it's Poushali. (Note: This is winter. December=Poush in Bengali.)

That's when Mr. Pleasant decided to use his connections and ordered some very good fried fish and Black Dog. That's when SB decided to spare him. HAP-PPEE New Year everybody :D

Happy Burrrrthday Dear Jeeeee-sus

2009-12-24T19:39:00.000-08:00

My mother is sitting in the next room and reading out next year's horoscopes from a Bangla Magazine. Apparently, she will fall ill Sometime in the course of 365 days (would you believe it?!) and her children-especially the first-born- will have trouble concentrating on studies. Well I'm not complaining. Hopefully I will do something productive in my distracted haze-- like catch up on movies-criminal-to-not-have-seen, go cycling somewhere I've never been, stop rhyming unintentionally and actually write something meaty.

'Meaty' reminds me, I had one of the most Satisfying Christmas dinners of my life this 24th. At a place called KK's Fusion in Swabhumi. I don't know if they're always as good as we found it, but yesterday they were on TOP of their game- from the soup, to the Turkey in Blackberry Sauce to chocolate pancakes stuffed with ice-cream. The way I ate yesterday was verging on obscene, but hell, it's the 21st century. We have no standards. We is bad. We is cool. We is bold and beautifool. (What, I never said I'd stop rhyming intentionally. That was intentional, yes.)

And I don't care if I become fat. Fat is a social stereotype. Fat is in the eyes of the beholder. Fat is as fat does. Wait, fat isn't even derogatory so why am I trying to disprove its existence?

Indulge me, this is my Birth Month. I'm glad I was born a December Baby. Although my parents didn't ask me whether I was up to braving a turbulent and tainted world, they made some good decisions. This is a time when everything sparkles in the sunlight- be it a defunct Daisy Duck Clock by my computer, or coconut trees across the road. 'Coconut trees?', you think... wiggle an eyebrow if you're into dramatics. But wonder no further my friend, I'm not in Hawaii or Goa. This is just a pretty part of Salt Lake. Ignore the fact that beyond the slender, graceful Cocos nucifera lies a putrid canal- referred to expressively as 'Keshtopurer Khaal'. And remember, there are advantages to living in a place far away from everyone you like.

Another cool thing about December is-why pretend?- gifts. My Grandma is Mother Christmas. Roly-poly, twinkly-eyed, each wrinkle radiating the vibrance and warmth of laugh lines- aar ke hobe? Dida hasn't been very mobile for almost a year a now. But she has this amazing network of people who'll act as her scouts with the enthusiasm of little boys at role-playing computer games. And every year, I'll find her sitting on the bed, with a stuffed jhola on her lap and a smile of serene anticipation on her face. One can almost hear a soft voice whispering 'just for you' and 'look what I've got' from all corners.

That smile of hers would paint an empty card with Christmas Colours.

Of course, I have the good luck of knowing Mrs. Claus jr. too. Anumita Das. Among the things she gave me for my birthday this time, one was a selection of Neruda- in English AND the original. You know what? I will learn Spanish. I could never make 'No Ammonia' sound orgasmic like Penelope Cruz does in the Loreal Ad. But I WILL be a professor of Literature and read out Neruda in the original to my class. And everybody will go- 'Duuuuude, that was hot!'

Ok, don't run away. Indulgence. Birth Month. Remember?

But you know, I think I Could teach for a living, at least for a few years.

I was teaching my chauffeur's daughter English that day, and it was tough because her school has done NOTHING in preparing the foundation. They expect her to TRANSLATE and make sentences when they don't give her practice in spelling-dictation. She has no idea about how to string together words with prepositions. It was a challenge, trying to make her grasp the basic concepts. Without slipping into jargon or getting pulled along by the tide of technicalities sweeping through my brain. But I REALLY enjoyed it! There's something so fulfilling about watching comprehension dawn on a previously blank face, and detecting a glint of pride where uncertainty used to rule. I'm going to catch hold of her as regularly as possible, whether she likes it or not.

An entirely different but equally challenging experience was teaching one of Eliot's obscure poems to my 14 yr-old brother. Eliot, class 9, you heard it. How doth the little Council improve its shining status. How can a teacher explain open-ended Spiritual Conflict to a class already trained in wringing 'messages' out of literature? These things make me want to do something revolutionary. Pardon the fantastical choice of word.

Anyway, since it is MerryChristmas and nearly HappyNewYear, I will end on a suitable note.

Snatches of the past week----

Certain relatives of mine are so much fun when high. Think of someone poring over a menu card and going- 'Pork Steak. Palk Strait. Pork Steak. Palk Strait.' She also said- 'Ei size-zero Santa. Where is your bhuri?' to this man in Santa Costume. Admittedly, he wasn't as rotund as they used to make 'em.

And I'm still not over Carol Night in DI. HIP-HOP to a REMIXED Christmas Carol.

'Lala dhik chik. Your Christmas Tree's Delicious.' In addition, there were references to grinding topless which I don't remember word for word. I Had to choose between righteous anger and hysterical laugher. I go for the 2nd, what about you?

A Ghost Story.

2009-12-17T02:28:00.000-08:00

I first saw him the night I'd read a short story on a teenage ghost. I thought too much about it and dreamt all sorts of disturbing things. It was when I woke up, a little weirded out, that his presence struck me. Naturally I thought I was still dreaming. Which wasn't a huge comfort, 'cos hey- I might well choose a supernatural world over creepy dreams that felt so real. Anyway, there he was- looking as though he'd just come through the window and didn't know what to do next. Faint, and sort of colourless, but with all his lines so well-defined that he appeared intangible and material at the same time.

If I had looked closely enough, I would have been able to make out the pupils of his eyes. As it was, I noticed the hint of a belt below shirt-folds. A fraction of skin (or were they socks?) peeped out from under just-a-bit-too-short trousers. I remember wondering whether his shoes were polished... I couldn't tell because he glimmered all over. Yes, they do glimmer in real life. Or the afterlife, call it what you will. It struck me even at such a time. And partly to calm myself, I said out loud- 'What my imagination lacks in originality, it makes up for in detail.'

The words sounded so ridiculous in the night air. The abstraction practically ricocheted off the walls with a loud, dull thwack. He merely looked me in a way I couldn't fathom. Then took out a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. Soon, he was wreathed in curls of smoke that somehow were even wispier than the usual.

'You know I don't believe in you', I said, rolled over to face the other side, and went right under a pink flowery blanket. When I woke up, my room was empty and I thought last night was done with. Sleeping in a pink flowery haze would effectively neutralise any twisted freak of mind. But 'I don't believe in you' was a statement I had to repeat on many more occasions.

And he never seemed to care. Sometimes he'd just look blank (he never spoke), sometimes mildly curious, sometimes faintly apologetic for shaking my skepticism to its foundations. I just couldn't figure out why he was there. Initially I thought it was by accident, and his lost puppy-dog air seemed to confirm my hunch. But he was surprisingly at ease with his company and whereabouts. His confusion seemed more linked to his state- as though he needed time getting used to being a ghost.

Ghost. I took care to avoid using the word. Firstly, ghosts weren't real. I stuck to that. Secondly, it might offend him. Who knew? Maybe Disembodied Spirit or something more technical is the term they prefer. But despite being so cautious, I slipped up in an entirely different way. I blame it on the moonlight.

Of all moments, he looked most substantial in the moonlight. It's funny really. When water merges with wine, the result is still a clear, light liquid. But when he stood in a flood of silvery light, the various shimmering translucencies came together to give this depth to his form. And he was posessed with a radiant energy, that was- well- so alive. Then, it didn't matter that his feet hovered above the ground, that he walked through walls. I felt- that I could touch him. So I did. Of course my hand went right through him like he was a cloud.

And suddenly, this whole new part inside me opened up. A pulse, a bloodrush- but with none of the warmth associated with those. Not that I got chills either. How would you describe certain things- like bookends, spiderwebs, dusty leaves? The earth after rain, the keyhole of a never-opened door. Flashes of these and more, swam about in my head. The very air I breathed had the quality of morning mist, and it filled my lungs till the point of bursting. Reeling slightly, I sank back on my bed for support, my vision branded with burning spots.

When it all cleared, he was gone. And he hasn't returned since. I wonder why... I didn't think he'd mind. After all, he'd hung about in my room for quite a while. Without my permission at that. But always for a short while, and never at an awkward moment. It took me so long to accept that he wasn't imaginary, I found no time to panic.

I guess I do miss him, and the novelty of what he represented. Cigarette ends glowing pale blue, ash which looked like stardust. Wordless responses. But that touch, it's done something to me.

There have been moments since, when I've felt someone reach into me, tap out a code and unlock those hidden dimensions. It happened that time I saw a tribal dance on T.V.- the drumbeats, the sways and leaps, and the chanting, oh god the chanting. It was an intoxicating whirlwind of the rawest elements, but too mystical to be earthy. It left me breathless. The same happened when my pet dog gave birth to puppies.

I realised then that my ghost- I mean, whatever he was- has left his imprint on me. I suppose I'm glad. Just a bit nervous, thinking about what my first kiss could do to me.

Life ij a hard

2009-12-15T19:50:00.000-08:00

When I regularly see myself at the bottom of self-updating blogrolls, I know that the world is blogging hard.

P.S- There's a Sherlock Holmes movie coming up. It had better be good. Holmes was my Very first crush.

Marshmallows and Matribhasha

2009-12-07T20:30:00.000-08:00

A family friend gifted us marshmallows the other day. In a flash of blinding clarity that followed, I realised the true purpose of marshmallows. The small non-toastable ones at any rate. They are boredom food (Note: Food you eat when you are bored.) There is a certain category of food that wears this title with grace. They don't taste Goooood. Because gooooood food deserves a little more involvement than boredom allows. But they definitely don't taste bad, 'cos that would be off-putting. In fact they don't taste like much at all.

And they have a very satisfying texture. Generally the kind you need to chew.

Finally, they are not heavy so you can go on, and ON, AND on eating.

That, is boredom food. That is marshmallows.

I realise I've been affected a lot by the commodities that have entered the house recently.

My mother bought this toothpaste a couple of days back. It's cover says-

Emoform.

The toothpaste for bleeding, inflamed gums and sensitive teeth.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who finds it funny. It is rather despicable to be The Sole Person under influence of American Social Steretotyping.

Oh Oh, speaking of American. This is nothing to do with those starred and stripy people. Basically the whole cultural issue reminded me of the new change in the CISCE structure. English is getting renewed emphasis. Which is ok. EVE's gonna get the sack. Which is Better than ok. But if I read correctly, IT ISN'T COMPULSORY TO PASS SECOND LANGUAGE ANYMORE. And this genuinely upsets me. Vernacular is going to become obsolete!

Bengali classes were a farce anyway. A bunch of smart-asses (us) who didn't give the syllabus a chance. A syllabus SO unbelievably outdated and dreary that it didn't deserve a chance. And a cluster of old teachers who saw themselves as valiant martyrs, championing their cause against us piddling little culture-deficient snobs.

I don't blame the teachers, honestly I don't. If I had to teach for YEARS, a subject no one cared for, I'd be bilious too. And I do blame us for being so unenthusiastic but honestly, the root of all trouble was the syllabus.

EVERYTHING was in shadhu bhasha. Hello Mr. ISC, I don't want to disturb you, but I dropped by to say that OCCASIONALLY, it would be nice to read things written the way we talk. Just to remind us that what we speak at home is Bengali too. And it was so fucking morbid! It was tough to keep track of whether more people died or cried. Actually, the latter wins because half the people who died Also cried. If only, if ONLY they'd plan out the syllabus better, the classes could be so inspiring. I've had my dad read out some Bengali short stories to me. I've had my Elective English tutor read out Bengali modern poetry to me. And I remember being enchanted, dazzled, mystified! No mild admiration, that.

In fact, sometimes, some things in our syllabus would Really get us.

'Bonolota Sen' was more poetic and Romantic than half the stuff I've read by British Romantics.

There was this one day when we completed a very depressing but beautifully written chhoto golpo. For a while there was an awkward pause. Then people suddenly start giggling and making idiotic jokes. The teacher could have been a bitch if she wanted to (it's not like she'd never been) but she just said- 'Either you guys didn't get it at all, or you're really moved.' And we were moved.

Then we LOVED the one by Parashuram. Mr. Rajshekhar Basu. Who translated the Mahabharat. Wrote a dictionary. Allegedly helped Aurobindo make bombs (yes through scientific procedures, not by reading aloud to gunpowder.) And produced the most UPROARIOUSLY funny satires I've ever read. We should have had more stuff by this guy. Instead of bloody essays telling us how our generation is doomed.

Well, I think I've exhausted my energy for now. But I needed to say this. I feel that as someone who loves Literature, I'd be a different person if my school had inspired me to go back home and pick up a Bengali book. Of course there were people who still did. And it's not like my parents didn't try. But in my defence, my reactions to literature tend to be quite strong. And after discovering Saki and Keats, when I had to go and bury my nose in specimens of archaic morality, and LEARN lists of adjectives-I developed a minor revulsion towards 2nd language. Not Bengali. Just 2nd language. But it was enough of a hurdle.

Men. Women. Love. Sex. And yes I'm totally trying to grab your attention.

2009-12-01T22:39:00.001-08:00

1. Apart from India, (cos that's, you know, us) which region do you think has the hottest women? My vote goes to South America. It befuddles me how Latinas could have the most slender midriffs and the most delicious curves at the same time. And it irks me why they're allowed to.

2. This question I have found incredibly entertaining to spring on people. Especially when it's taken seriously- would you rather die a virgin or a teetotaler?

3. Can Germans make 'Ich Diebe Lich' sound romantic? No offense to them. Brilliant race. It's just that all their words have the feel of bullet-rain on a steel window-pane.

4. If women in the Victorian Age could be ‘handsome’, then were the men purty?

5. Why was the Bangla word 'meyechhele' ever meant to imply 'girl'? That's like calling your mother mababa. And your aunt mashimesho. And making women sound like wee-men. Total stupidity.

6. What if humans could switch genders like sea-cucumbers? Would homosexuality still be an issue?

7. (Courtesy Priyanka Kumar): Why and how do men make conversation while they pee together?

Ending with the above question does not mean I am a feminist.

Updates

2009-11-28T19:02:00.001-08:00

1. I have now saved at least 5 Airtel Service Numbers under 'Pissoff.' You do not know, you do not KNOW what pleasure there is in seeing 'Pissoff Calling' flash on your cell phone screen and then- serenely, sweetly- just let it go on ringing. Or you could cut them off. (I know that different people have their own ways of dealing with these infernal calls. In fact, the methods of 2 fellow freaks in blogosphere have caused me mild frustration before. But yeah, one should take a stand against such Consumerist Conspiracies. If you received E.V.E.R.Y. call of this kind, you would have spent at least half an hour of your life on Phone Service. The horror.)

2. My brother chanced upon a printout which said:

'Events- May Day Dance, Dog Cart Ride, Wedding and Confessions, Kill pheasants, Feeds Strawberries, Tess Slaps Alec.'

He asked me what that was about with a look of extreme curiosity. Now people who will be giving an exam with me on 7th December probably know that it's a list of incidents from a novel. ('Tess of the 'D'Urbervilles.') My brother is fresh from his Sports Day. His house won it. Hungover on the victory cake, he thought... yes- he thought it was a list of Sports' Day Events. The last item did confuse him somewhat. I would be a lot more worried right now if it didn't.

3. On the Playlist-

a) Since I've been Loving You- Led Zep.

Sahana once said, "This song is so good, it makes me want to do someone!" I don't think I can improve on that, nor do I want to. But god, the more I listen to Led Zep, the more thankful I am that they happened. Music would NOT be the same without them. I can't recall any band that's made more contributions to catchy, musically rich, and historic guitar riffs.

b) Julia- John Lennon. (He wrote it for his mother after she died.)

Half of what I say is meaningless

But I say it just to reach you...

Seashell eyes, windy smile...

Morning moon, touch me.

*shivers*

And that response has Nothing to do with the cold.

c) A Woman Left Lonely- Janis Joplin.

Janis Joplin was a woman if there ever was one. I absolutely adore her. That kind of raw, unadulterated passion is overwhelming and liberating at the same time.

4. A lot of what I'm reading is making me happy. Maybe it's just because this is 1st Sem and I can leave out what I don't like. But that aside. There are gems to unearth in the dungheap that every syllabus is thought to be.

'You shouldn't take a fellow eight years old

And make him swear to never kiss the girls.'

'Take the prettiest face,

...is it so pretty

You can't discover if it means hope, fear,

Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these?'

(Both by the incomparable Mr. Browning.)

'Tithonus.' I'd forgotten just how good it is. And I'm glad the last time I'm studying it isn't for the bloody ICSE.

Even 'Tess' . Ok, it's sentimental, it's melodramatic. But I know people like that and I love them. Ultimately, 'Tess' is intense and honest, which gets me.

Then, a lot of literary criticism is Very Cool. Even if it's saying some outrageous things, it says them with flair. If you hate a novel, a good essay on it can actually give you something interesting to think about without taking away your right to hate.

Harold Bloom was one stud. M.H. Abrams was another. Someday, even I will write something that breathes life into a lost little first-year. Something lucid, witty and insanely perceptive all at once.

But first- Oh I don't know what. But I do know that my stellar essay will not be written anytime soon. In the meantime, we can all play with virtual fishes.

Not Random. Not product of boredom. Not sum wyrd shit im tryin out.

2009-11-27T17:19:00.000-08:00

She's a nice person with no pretence,

Born with oodles of common sense.

A genuinely good girl- one of the best.

But when as a kid she travelled by train,

She yearned to yank the emergency chain.

Just like all the rest.

________________________

He was a normal man.

With a job ( he didn't hate.)

A family (he loved and was loved by.)

A hobby he was passionate about. (Painting.)

Above all, he was happy. (A fact worth noting.)

That changed the day

An astrologer told him

He would be famous after his death.

__________________________

Sometimes you just know.

And then you remember the time

Some idiots claimed they knew.

How hellishly sure they were.

How that annoyed you to tears.

And then you think-

'Am I being one of them?'

And then you think-

'Of course not.'

Sure?

'Yeah, I'm sure.'

How?

'Well. I just know, y'know?'

When I was your Age.......

2009-11-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

When I first found out that moonlight is just reflected sunshine at night, I was heartbroken. At that age, it was Very necessary for me to take sides. And what better opportunity for partiality than choosing between 2 celestial bodies? I was a moon-fan of course.

Glow without glare.

Romance- It's just so conducive to violins, whispers and lakes turning into mirrors. No, I was not an original kid.

A hint of undefinable mystery. (Thinking logically, it's pretty obvious where the mystery comes from. Stolen light must appear dubious to our inner psychics. I'm cool with that now of course. A little bit of stylish deception never did any harm.)

Simlarly, when I learnt that the right brain controls the left side of the body. I am a leftie. Being a minority ka bachha, I was for EVERYTHING left. Ganguly. Left-over food. Even communism. I wanted nothing to do with the damn right. It felt very cool. Made up somewhat for the lack of originality.

And then.

Cruel disillusionment.

The right controls the left!

Such trauma little me had to go through. No wonder I grew up to be so mature.

2009-11-24T02:39:00.000-08:00

I would never be the wife of a poet. This is what Matthew Arnold chooses to write on his honeymoon at Dover Beach.

Honeymoon at a beach. Sand grains glistening on wet skin. Bright sails fluttering in the breeze. What a radiant picture of classic romance. Right? Jaast you take a look.

...the waves...
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

...

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

That's like saying- 'let's love each other, because hey, love doesn't exist. So let's try honey, shall we?' No wonder he didn't publish this poem until Much Later.

Then there's Coleridge. I've heard this version of his life where he married his wife just because she was pregnant.

Then he had to go and fall in love with another woman who-

a)Was Wordsworth's sister. (This just confirms my belief that W.W was at the root of all mischief. Such unperturbed self-satisfaction had to rise out of pure evil. His heart may have danced with the daffodils, but one can only wonder what else he danced with.)

b)Had the same name as his wife- Sarah!

Oh Wily Wordsworth-

What is this, some form of higher poetry?

Life imitating art maybe?

A joke for you to share

As you sit on your wooden chair*

Lay out your porcelain with flair

And sip on organic tea?

*Note: (Yes wooden. Cut off a blessed tree.)

To make matters worse, Sarah Coleridge had to go spill boiling milk on her husband's foot. Boiling milk. How bland. Some opium concoction or even hot chocolate would have been more glamorous.

And then STC goes and writes a l.o.n.g. poem about his experience, where his calls his friend Charles 'gentle-hearted' no less than thrice. But not Once does he mention his wife. Not in accusation of her klutzy behaviour. And definitely not in thankfulness for the spiritual revelation that he had, once he was done crying over the Spilt Milk.

No, poets do not make good husbands.

Ten, ten-tuh-ten.

2009-11-22T08:06:00.000-08:00

Here are 10 universal truths. By universal, of course I mean my own personal opinion.

1. No matter how much you eat, there is always room for dessert.

2. Contrary to popular belief, I am not at all a curious person. But if you start on an enticing piece of gossip, you ought to abandon that phony demure-ethical aura and Finish It!

3. Did I say gossip? Make that 'dramatic news'. Gossip is a myth.

4. Singing Christmas Carols is a near-infallible route to happiness. Especially when Christmas is far-off.

5. The Beatles DO have a song for every mood. Every.

6. During pre-exam chaap, I wish I could go back to the times when fat was cute and exams were identifying colourful shapes. And when I didn't say things like- 'By the way, Byron was bi. Hey, I just punned. Sort of.'

But at the end of the day, this life's always good.

7. A good way of saving time in Winter is to take baths on alternate days. I swear I always smell fresh. I wouldn't try this tactic otherwise.

8. If you have to get lost, get lost inside a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig, soft, warm, fluffy blanket. It is like an alternate world inside there, I'm telling you.

9. Once people have crossed 5, they try very hard to reach 10. Go conformity! Go stereotypes! A toast to Round Figures! (And no pun intended here.)

10. If you have read a creepy story, do not envision its movie version in your head just before you go to sleep at night. Or do. But be prepared for the weirdest dreams in the world. I speak from experience. Possessed showers, mutant pigs in schoolbuses and serial killers all in one night aren't good for health.

P.S.- Recommended Reading: Haroun and the Sea of Stories, Short Stories by Truman Capote, poetry by Roger McGough and Carol Ann Duffy. They are keeping me alive.

P.P.S- Do people make lists because they have an innate desire for order, or because they like setting down thoughts at random? This is not one of those situations where you look indifferent and reply with 'Hmmm, profound' in a deep voice. I am genuinely intrigued.

Semi Fiction

2009-11-19T19:07:00.001-08:00

Infinity as a concept isn't exciting, it's disturbing. Anything endless is too much for the human brain to take. But it can be exciting when seen through something eee-nawr-muss. The size reminds us that grand infinity is present, and the boundaries stop that presence from going beyond a deliciously vague silhouette.

Which is why I love My Place.

When I go to My Place, I can see the sky set against the field. So in effect, I know where the sky begins. And ends. But the field is so fucking huge, that at any given point, I can’t see both extremities at once. And that gives me a curious sense of freedom.

At this point, one says things like ‘it’s my own special discovery and I have it entirely to myself’. Unfortunately, there are a few others who know about it. They go there too, even when I’m around. But yes, in a way, I still have it to myself. All I have to do is take a few steps forward. Leave those nameless faces behind. And then just forget about them.

Easier done than thought to be. For there is no dearth of distractions.

Just stare, stare at the sky that’s never quite the same colour. One day, you’ll find it a happy shade of blue- the blue of wide-eyed innocence and baby bedsheets. On another, it’ll be a blue so rich, so luscious, it seems liquid. And then there are days it isn’t blue at all but dark grey, like secrets that can’t be revealed.

It’s not all about the sky. There’s the wild, wild grass which at times is magically trimmed, and for the most part is magically overgrown.

There’s the long line of old wall, broken by cave-ins and rusty gates. The gates are rusty, because who uses gates when there are walls to scale and trees to climb?

I can do almost anything there. Think. Zone out. Sing and dance. Pretend to be on the verge of discovering a crime or confessing love to my Person. Anything I do there feels right.

Even voyeurism. Oh yes, I spy on people, on the innermost, secretest corners of their lives. I spy through the wall. Not a hole or a crack. But scribbles. I know that 'Lily loves Luke' was written by a lonely English student, obsessed with alliterations. I know that a certain dirty knock knock joke was written by a chubby, 13 yr old boy who peeks at the Calcutta Times when his parents aren't looking. I know that 'I was here. Yes, I.' was written by my kind of person, and probably the only one I would talk to in My Place. IF we met. I haven't met any of them. But I know all of this because I read walls for a living.

It's not an easy thing to do, and My Place never gives me a hint. Because it doesn't think of itself as mine. I can tell in the way it responds. For one, it hardly does. I’ve never felt it waiting for me. Or detected a sense of fulfillment when I arrive. But that has its own charm. Something that vast couldn’t possibly be owned, not by anybody. It’s free. And I feel free when I’m there. That’s about as deep as the bond will ever get.

It works for me though. It works just fine.

Where have all the icebergs gone?

2009-11-15T07:43:00.000-08:00

Chapped lips and snakeskin fingers.

Mosquitoes on the rise.

Shorter days (which admittedly, I like.)

But no thanda.

Winter, you were my favourite season. I stuck up for you by abusing stupid Western metaphors on frosty death and deathly frost. For WHAT? Now I know why Nature gets saddled with all sorts of sad cliches. Hmph. Go fight for yourself, I abandon your cause.

P.S- I just saw Priyanka's comment on my last blogpost and Actually laughed out loud. Not like the time I tried to be cool and said lolzz in front of my EVE teacher and got glared at.

Anyway Priyanka, 'tis merely a phase. For now, this post will have to do. Much like this miserable excuse for a winter.

Three Little Thoughts Went Out to Play

2009-11-08T05:28:00.000-08:00

1.When my brother first started reading silently, he came to us, PATHETICALLY distressed. His reason? 'When I read silently, I can... I... I can *turns a shade paler*... hear a Voice in my head.'

2.Class 11, School trip to Kerala. Frst 48 hours of the journey spent cramped on a train. Some in critical condition for holding in their pee, just to stay away from the pocha public bathrooms.

Get off train. Get onto bus. Sit. Legs twitching to dance and hands itching to punch somebody. Camera getting tired of intellectually staged pictures and craving some genuine pretty scenery. Sit longer.

Suddenly the bus turns a bend, and Munnar hits us in all its glory. Explosions of fiery flowers on mountain slopes. A sudden chill in the air. GREEN! And MIST! AND clear sky!!

For a while we all go quiet. Even the cameras. And then Rukmini decides to say- 'Bhogobaan, tumi shotti God.'

3.In plus 2, we had a certain female in our class who I will refer to as Kamal. She was quite a character. Once, when IB was dictating Macbeth notes, Kamal was writing something Very Different in her own diary.

I suppose guilt gives off some kind of suspicious smell. Or transmits brainwaves. Because IB wasn't taken in for a moment. After throwing a couple of pointed glares in the required direction, she called Kamal upto her desk. And what happened next is proof that life Does have a sense of humour.

The diary was coloured yellow and shocking pink. And its cover just happened to scream the title- 'Hot Stuff.' IB looked at it, and merely asked- 'You're telling me you write Macbeth notes in a diary called.... Hot Stuff?' The little inflection in her voice when she came to Hot Stuff was remarkable. Like the arched eyebrow that kills all talk. The ultimate hair-flick. It glittered with triumph, sarcasm and amusement all at once.

Suddenly, EVERYBODY was laughing. It's only apt that on the last day, IB was made to present Kamal with a sash saying 'Miss Hot Stuff'.

3 random old memories. Don't know why they strike me now, or why I wanted to write about them. But what the hell, I did what I wanted and now I will go back to wondering what's there for dinner.

Pictures from trip

2009-10-08T19:42:00.000-07:00

A little late, but still. Minimum photo-editing guaranteed. And my acknowledgements to Piku for some of the chhobis.

The shadow.............

.......... And the boy behind it.

An Ent in Disguise?

Light...

......And shade.

'Lips Lolly.' The cheap candy movement lives on.

Maths papers strewn randomly all over a path. See the equations in the enlarged version if you don't believe me.

Further example of math-driven angst.

Little Red Leaf.

_______________________________________

Sunsets.

_______________________________________

The moon at noon. Well, not noon exactly but close enough for me to rhyme.

Fuh-lowers

Self- explanatory.

Dramatis Personae

2009-10-03T08:05:00.000-07:00

For the sake of economy, I'm going to keep this post free of any build-up. Instead, I will dive straight into introducing the interesting characters that featured on my trip- inanimate, intangible et all. If you think what you're reading NOW is a build up, you're wrong. It's... *adopts mystical tone*... an illusion. Okfine. Bring forth the first victim.

Cha: When you've just woken up and you're hunched over in cold, when you're trying to figure out whether you really see cloud and mist and snow everywhere and it's not just you all bleary-eyed... then, to feel the hot liquid trickling down your throat and seeping into your system is like NOTHING else in the world. That's when your heart starts humming. That's when your day begins. That's when you're ready to take a bite of the light, crumbly biscuits from the local confectionary.

Queen of the Party: Daju is the Nepali equivalent for bhaiya. Since it's the only Nepali I know, it gave me great pleasure to use it wherever I could. Over the course of 8 days I met multiple dajus, but one really stood out. This guy is tall and skinny. His face is weatherbeaten and it's constant expression is a blend of solemn and obliging. THIS guy owns a T-Shirt that says 'Queen of the Party.' Just that. No baubles, no loops, no hint of a feminine colour. It's like- 'I'm not gay. I'm not metrosexual. I'm just the Queen of the Party, dude. Deal with it.' It won me over right away :D

Mount Kanchenjungha: Now, we have seen this mountain so many times. But not too many times. For some strange reason, we just can't get enough of it. Is it the hype? Geography-class Nostalgia? The stature, the sight of sunlight on snow? Whatever the reason, it always left us feeling overwhelmed. Sunrise or sunset, viewpoint or chance glance, cameras always clicked like crazy around it. And when it was dim, we tried to discern its outline through the clouds. Knachenjungha, you be da cool one.

The Batu: Batu aka Bangali Tourist. You'll know them at the beach by the boudis. They wade ankle-deep into the water, (squealing at the great risk they're taking), with their saris billowing out like sails. Their husbands look on, positively satiated with pride and indulgent affection. The men sprinkle a few drops of salty water on their wives' heads and together, the couples wade back on shore, beaming as wide as the horizon behind.

In the mountains, they can be identified just as easily. Look out for the brown Monkey Cap. Their determination to reach the end of the steepest uphill path, even if they're withered and wilting by the end of it.

And then you have general characteristics- The gleam that flickers in their eye and the questions that hover on their lips when they catch sight of another Batu. And they WILL eat at the Kakababu restaurants. The ones that serve Bangali food. Or else they'll find some other means of procuring familiar food. I swear we saw a man with a fish tucked under his arm, marching towards his hotel with the intention of eating Maachh Bhaja for lunch.

The Stream: I caught sight of it on my first morning walk. Braced by the mountain air, I was in the mood to climb anything remotely climbable. That's what I did too. Totally unequipped in terms of footwear, I slid and scraped and clutched and praised the firmness of roots. And then I happened to see the stream. I was desperate to go down there and we even found a path leading to it- a deliciously narrow, winding little trail that led through the woods.

However, the kids who accompanied me decided not to take it because there were people bathing at a point ahead. I don't know if they were just being awkward adolesents or whether I have lost all sense of shame altogether but I was very miffed. If people were bathing in a public place, they were obviously aware of the risks. I wasn't going there to leer or lech goddammit! But we discovered another way to it.

Hop onto a ledge.

Carefully, turn around and let yourself drop onto the ground below. A light graze. Who cares? The stream is calling!

Walk over moss and bracken. Don't slip. There's a foothold! NO NO, that's a pit! Ahh, finally.

Bare feet on cold stone. Colder water running over bare feet. Gurgling sounds set the background music to faint voices in the distance. Wild flowers lend their touch of colour. And the leaves, determined not to be left behind, are just as bright as any flower ever was. VIC-TOW-REEE.

The Nepali DSP: He write shayries in Nepali and Bangla. I don't know whether he saw the latent Batuness in my mum, but he zoned in on her like a surveillance camera out of 1984. He spouted many lines, including these-

Kashboner pechhon theke nodi dekhte bhalo laage.

Bashboner pechhon theke chaand dekhte bhalo laage.

Aar tumi jokhon guti guti paaye amar pash diye doure jao,

Tomar pechhon thekei tomake dekhte ekdom darun laage!

(I like watching the river flow behind fields of kashphul.

I like watching the moon behind bamboo forests.

And when you run past me on secretive little feet,

To watch you from behind yourself is simply marvellous!)

He even sang the Nepali version of a popular Rabindra Sangeet and asked my mum to join in with the original. It sounded beautiful- light, tripping and very rich at the same time.

The thing is, not for a moment did he give the vibes of a show-off. He seemed like the most uncomplicated soul on earth- in love with languages, and with entertaining people. I for one was entertained.

And there was so much more: Adda over beer and ginger snips. Bluff tournaments. The furry, floppy-eared mountain dogs. Singing at the top of our voices to counter motion sickness on long drives. I can't write on everything, but I'll try to remember it anyway.

P.S- If you're wondering where I went, it was Mirik :P

Frankenstein

2009-09-20T01:37:00.000-07:00

As the doctor worked, his horror grew. It grew till it filled him completely. It ran in his blood, both with and against the flow. It peered out from behind his pupils. He felt it cut against his insides when he turned. When he walked, his horror seemed to leave behind a trail of frozen slime.

And it creeped out into his work. Every little piece he touched was stained by his it. His breath formed a fragile but indestructible shield in which his horror flourished with the pale, sickly quivering of its cover.

The dormant cells were crystallisations of his fear and revulsion. And the moment they were finally set alive by an electric spark, the doctor's sanity exploded with equal intensity.

Was it a wonder then, that the creation was ugly? Born against the force of so much ill-feeling, his muscles were quite twisted. His heart had come alive at the pinnacle of extreme paranoia, so it beat with a hot madness. And his eyes, on opening, reflected the first thing they saw- blind horror at the phenomenon of life.

The poor monster. He never had a chance...

Walking down the road alone at almost 8 pm

2009-09-12T08:51:00.000-07:00

Almost 8 pm. That's all I know of the time. Because 8pm is my deadline, and I must reach home before that.

It's raining. The streetlights are all blurry and rainbowy again, the way rain always makes them. I see a chain of those little decorative electric lights. Or tuni bulbs. ‘Tuni’ is a funny name. Leaves absolutely no room for dignity or grandeur. Kind of endearing though, if you think about it...

Who put these lights up now? A pujo enthusiast in a fit of impatience? Maybe they’re in honour of the Salt Lake metro, strung along the construction zone as they are. That’s a FIVE years-early celebration. All these enthusiasts. Making the world a brighter place.

Stumble. Splash. And the heel of my shoe is dripping with slush. Damn 'em puddles. Or 'poodles', as the French teacher in our university calls them. I want a dog. Not a poodle though.

Don't get distracted. Look left, Look right, Cross the road. There comes a car, with a neon ring of light at its two ends. Rings that grow larger and disperse with the air as they approach my raindrop-lined eyelashes.

The other side.

Too late, car, you couldn't run me over!

The wind rises, it tugs at my umbrella with impetuous force, and I can feel the pull all the way down to the tips of my toes. I'm Mary Poppins! Creepy-crawlies of the world, beware! Before you get to me, I will rise with the wind, holding on to my Big Black Umbrella and float away.

I like black umbrellas, don't you? They're classy, in a very British way. Hang on. British not equal to classy. Am I a victim of the infamous colonial hangover? English student too. Oh dear.

But right now, potential personality problems don't interest me. They don't interest anyone else either. Did I say I'm 'walking down the road alone at almost 8pm?'

Well, it was almost 8pm when I started out but it's past 8 pm now. And I’m not really alone, I wasn’t all this while. There are people evrywhere. People, and cars. And autos and ricksaws. Drenched bedraggled crows and drenched disgruntled dogs.

But we're all in our own little bubbles of darkness and storm, with rainsongs rushing through our head and rainwind rushing through our legs. Some, like me, walk under our umbrella-worlds. Others are getting too wet to notice anything.

I'll deal with the logic once I get home. That's a different world altogether.

Etiquette

2009-09-05T03:35:00.000-07:00

It was a sultry afternoon,

As hot as it could get.

She would be burnt to cinders

If she weren't drenched in sweat.

More out of need than want she bought

A carton of fresh juice-

Icy-chilled, with fruity tang;

She put it to good use

By drinking it with all her zest.

She sucked upon the straw

And felt the cold juice splash within

Her stomach, throat and jaw.

Drops of water glittered

On the carton's minty green,

Against the light the straw glowed

With a pink translucent sheen.

In unadulterated bliss

She sipped and sipped and sipped.

Though the heat raged on, to her

It seemed the sun had dipped.

Till suddenly she heard

A little gurgle, then a hiss.

Her drink was coming to an end,

So was her newfound bliss.

To reach the little bit left

In the carton's lowest quarters,

Involved a process wrong in many ways-

Too loud, for starters.

Discarding femininity,

Upsetting every mind

That believed in the principle

Of discreet and refined,

Were other sins involved,

And add to those a frightening fact-

The level of attention

That her action would attract.

She thought and thought and thought

And thought, and thought and thought and THOUGHT.

Would she, should she, could she?

(Yes she COULD, but she OUGHT not.)

The remnants of her drink called out

To her seductively.

Finally, she realised that-

To act productively:

One must finish what one started.

So she closed her eyes and.. SLURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPED.

And since she'd gone so far she just

Went all the way and burped.

She got glances that were scathing,

But they were very few.

She got glances indulgently amused

But they were low in number too.

Most didn't even notice and

Went on their usual way.

While she sat and slowly savoured

The lingering flavour of her day.

Chit-Chat

2009-08-15T05:32:00.000-07:00

What if Hamlet and Banquo ever planned a murder together? Yes, Hamlet of 'To be or not to be' fame; and Banquo of the long monologues.

Banquo: Hey, let's kill him.

Hamlet: You think we ought to?

Banquo: I suppose not. But I want to.

Hamlet: So do I.

Banquo: You think we ought to?

Hamlet: No. But it seems we both want to.

Banquo: And we can.

Hamlet: Can we?

Banquo: Can't we?

Hamlet: Of course! Unless...

Banquo: Yes, exactly.

Hamlet: Exactly what?

Banquo: There's always the unless.

Hamlet: Oh that. There's also always the issue of more-less. What we'll do is wrong, but is it more wrong and less right, or more right and less wrong?

Banquo: I thought I was master of rhetoric. Ok, how about this? What we'll do is right, because rightness is in the eye of the beholder, because life is never simple and has shades of grey; and I know all this because my mother gave me a big fat book of idioms when I was a kid, but that doesn't mean I'm a mama's boy because the obvious isn't always true.

At this point, Lady Macbeth interjects: Or how about you're both a couple of PANSAYYS?

Hamlet: That's not true. SOMETIMES, we like to move it move it!

Lady Macbeth: But those are rare moments, aren't they? Ah well. How do I care? As long as my darling Macbeth gets the crown.

Banquo and Hamlet: WHAT?

Lady Macbeth: Don't you know? The witches predicted it.

Banquo and Hamlet: But then what about us?

Lady Macbeth: Obviously, you're in the wrong play. You guys just wasted too much time. Hung around loooong after you were supposed to leave.

Banquo and Hamlet look at each other and gape.

Thus, ends a tragedy.

P.S- This was on a random impulse. I still think Shakespeare is boss.

To Neutralise any Emoness I might have indulged in

2009-08-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

Have you ever stared at the sweeping lines of your own body, felt the smoothness of your own skin, and thought- 'Wow, I'm beautiful!' ? It's not the kind of beauty one thinks of in context to lust or envy. It's the kind that all human beings are capable of realising- the beauty of living flesh and blood, of form, proportion and harmony. You know you have it when you’re happy just to be alive. Then, your clumsiest step is a challenge to gravity. You don’t sweat, but give off entrancingly musky odours. And each time you blink, you paint the world with fresh colours.

I wrote this last morning. Why can't I feel like this everyday? :(

Why mothers are mothers.

2009-08-07T08:02:00.000-07:00

Ma: Achha, I've been hearing things and I'm worried about what's in the facebook.

Me: It's not 'in the facebook.'

Ma: 'On the facebook' then.

Me: OOF Ma, it's not about 'in' or 'on', it about the 'the'. The 'the' is redundant.

Like one doesn't say- 'he is a gay.' It's just 'he is gay'. Forget about the article, forget it ever existed!

Ma: Ok. But social networking is creepy.

(In the end, they always hit the nail on the head. But oh, the painful process towards the end.)

What would happen if my personal diary decided to take revenge on me

2009-07-31T04:59:00.000-07:00

I have my very own trashcan man,

And he’s just right for me.

I built him out of substances

Through which you cannot see.

So all the secrets that I dump

In him stay safely stored,

From prying eyes belonging

To the curious or the bored.

I didn’t give him eyes ‘cos

That would be a little freaky.

It wouldn’t do to have those eyes

Accuse me, or turn leaky.

My trashcan man is strong, but he

Is soft enough to be cuddled.

That way I can hug him when

This world gets much too muddled.

No, he has no arms or legs.

Those get in the way

Of a hug. Besides, he sits

And hears me out all day.

He has no use for arms and legs

So why would he have hair?

Hair frizzes or turns grey with stress,

Of which he has his share.

(What with all the secret-keeping.)

But it must make him proud,

To be the one who keeps my life

Free from the faintest cloud.

But what’s that? Surely it can’t be

The letter I had burned?

And over there? It looks to me

Like Mama’s face, concerned.

I even hear the crazy words

I said about my friends

That day- just out of spite-

But then I plan to make amends!

Suddenly it’s all a blur.

Oh wait, the fog is clearing…

And a figure grows distinct.

And now, the figure’s nearing!

It’s my very own trashcanman!

But how is it that he moves?

Without the use of legs or arms,

And when I disapprove?

His face is still devoid of eyes,

So I’m sure he cannot see.

But somehow, I feel a piercing-

Almost brutal- gaze on me.

My Trashcanman, don’t hurt me!

Many, many, pleases!!

HELP ME SOMEONE!!! (At this point

The narration ceases.)

List.

2009-07-25T00:21:00.000-07:00

1. 'An American Prayer' by the Doors has to be the most deliciously blasphemous prayer ever. Oh, to have a voice like a narcotic. But then, oh to LISTEN to a voice like a narcotic! I don't mind being the audience really. We get treats.

2. I sometimes wish I'd gone to Delhi. At least then, I'd have no one to blame but myself. Yes, I'd rather fuck things up myself than have to live by rules that are jarring to my very core. When I know I'm dependent on people who crumple up my life and stuff it into one measely little box, I just want to SCREAM out loud, tear through the suffocation. What hurts me more is that I'm forced to accept certain things about people I've lived my whole life respecting, actually admiring. I find in them traits that are downright FILTHY. But deep-rooted, and stubborn as hell. Like cancer. Ah well. Everyone has feet of clay. If only we weren't taught to blindly idolise, though.

3. When I am 20, I will get a tattoo. Celebrating 20 years of association with a BAAST fraand . We'll both get a tattoo. But where oh where? It has to be discreetly positioned, and it'll hurt less if it's not on bone or vein. Calculations must follow.

4. Shuorever bachha vs. child of a pig. You tell me. This is when the significance of Vernacular hits me right between the eyes.

5. Sometimes, people make me question my own worth. They attach tags to me that I never DREAMT of in context to myself. Or else they think I'm the very prototype I despise or sruggle against becoming. It makes life hard for me.

You see, I've always been a little image conscious. Can't quite explain why. For a long time, I've harboured a positive abhorrence for making myself look ridiculous and unattractive in public. And I find it very tough to accept not being liked. I think it's partly because I generally am liked, and I've got used to it. Also, getting along with people makes life so much more... I can't use a better word than 'fun.' I just don't relate to those who are so HUNG-UP about finding everything distasteful and lowly, and provoking others to be at their worst.

But then I know that my craving for a dream social life (which mind you, doesn't involve glitz and celeb status) isn't necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes, I've made an extra effort to compromise, or to do away with someone's preconceived notion of me. And it's led to the establishment of friendships- or at least moments- so pure, so absolutely fulfilling.

I know this for a fact, that I can feel intensely. About anything. Weather, a book, dessert, a smile, these can make me go wild with elation, and keep me in a gigantic effervescent bubble for a whole day. And when a connection with a person gives me that same heady feeling, I just KNOW that there's more to the world than the don't-carers see. MY brand of Happiness. No matter how strained or cringing the efforts for it are. A spark of pure, unadulterated happiness can make me rise beyond everything that I find murky and mundane. It's a feeling like nothing else. And that'll carry me through.

I'm starting to think that this 'list' was just an excuse for point number 2 and 5. Clever, how I didn't follow up one with the other. An intermission in passion. In which you can give me sympathetic looks, or just stare at your toes and hum a cheap tune. Considerate me.

One Hit Wonder

2009-07-21T05:30:00.001-07:00

He sat sprawled on one of the small, squishy sofas that were arranged with meticulous disorder about the corner of the nightclub. It was not a very expensive nightclub. The leather skins of the sofas were of a shade that is kindly called ‘shocking’ pink. Apart from the dance floor- where neon lights of all colours flashed, spun and rippled - the room was illuminated by a faint white glow that gave the pink a somewhat morbid tinge.

Looking at the crowd, one would be tempted to call the place truly constitutional. It seemed to believe strongly in the fallacy of discrimination. The man in question was not the sort that any establishment would boast of. The heavy stubble that might have been attractive on more chiselled faces, the puffy features that might have seen more chiselled days, the crumpled lurid shirt……

None of it was startling, but when noticed, gave off a vaguely repulsive aura.

He wiped his mouth with his hand and held a bottle up against the light, to ensure that its contents had been emptied. Then he stood up. And staggering, like the eternally caricatured but sometimes pitiabe drunkard that he was, he made his way to the bar.

He wondered why he had chosen to come to a disco. Sure, he loved dancing but he knew he was in no mood to dance right then. The music pounded against his head like a vengeful fist, and the psychedelic lights made him feel slightly dizzy.

He’d probably thought that a crowd would cheer him up.

Yes, that must’ve been it....

He’d always liked crowds, from his brash adolescent school days, through his smooth, charismatic stage days, upto now. New people- and lots of them- gave him a kick. Provided that he was noticed, of course. He didn’t have to be the centre of attraction, but he had to be noticed. Goddammit, he was a creature made of living flesh and blood, how could he NOT be noticed?!

It struck him that he’d never really grown out of his childhood.

Ah well. You can’t all be mature, can you?

Fresh and youthful, they’d called him. With a voice like falling snowflakes. He’d smiled at that one.

He found that he had reached the bar. The young bartender eyed him warily.

If the bugger was drunk to just the right degree, he’d stay longer, he’d pay for more. But trouble was to be avoided at all costs. A disco had been shut down only a few weeks ago. Some issue about a girl… the usual… sad case, if you came to think about it.

All of a sudden, a curious expression came over the older man’s face. Something was different. What was it? The song. They were playing some song. He knew it; the melody ran in his blood! But it sounded unfamiliar; it wasn’t how he knew it.

‘What… what song… when…’

The alcohol induced slur did nothing to help the incoherence of his phrasing.

The bartender grew a trifle anxious. ‘Pardon? You… you want to know the name of the song?’

‘I know this song, this is my song!’ (Said with a ripple of childlike laughter, that in this context was almost grotesque.)

After a moment’s awkwardness, the bartender seemed to have a minor epiphany. Smiling and more relaxed, he asked- ‘Oh, you mean this song is… was special to you? Of course, this is a remixed version... obviously.’

‘This is MY song. Why is it like this, what the hell have they done to it?’ There was now a touch of hysteria in the voice.

The bartender, disconcerted again, was silent.

‘It isn’t supposed to be like this’, the man persisted. ‘Do they even know I’m here? How, how DARE they do this to my song in front of me?’

He was on the verge of shouting. One might have thought he was pulling a prank. It seemed straight out of some cheap, hackneyed melodrama. The people nearby gave him all sorts of glances, some abhorrent, some amused, a few apprehensive. A couple of other bartenders and some other waiters hurried towards the scene of brewing chaos.

‘What’s the problem, sir? I must ask you to be calm, or you’ll upset the others.’

‘Up…upset who? I’M upset. You should be worried about ME! But no one ever has been. It’s alright, qu-quite alright. Just... just ask them not to destroy my song, please….’

The childish note, once again. Why was it so disturbing? Did a gruff voice and a midlife crisis HAVEto imply gravity?

The song had changed by now, but he hadn’t noticed. He wouldn’t, either. The old tune was stuck him his head, with no plans of leaving.

‘Sir, if you don’t just walk away calmly, we’re going to have to ask you to leave. We can’t afford to let this kind of behaviour persist in our club.’ These being the first aggressively spoken words in the conversation.

The man leaned on the counter. ‘Let me tell you a little… (after a pause)…. secret. From an older, wise---wiser man. Enjoy your life now. Don’t stand behind the counter. Get out, and fucking DANCE. Sing. Before life hits you like… like a… like a pile of shtale shit.’

He reached out and grabbed the first bartender’s sleeve.

A gleam of intense annoyance sparked in the latter’s eyes. His mouth quivered, and for a few seconds, he wondered what course of action to take. But before he came to a decision, the man had let go and was walking away.

The bartender followed the other's steps, watchful of any possible trouble. He wasn’t trembling with loathing, or anger, or anything of that sort. He’d had this sort of experience before. He just had to be cautious, as his profession demanded.

But without warning, a wave of some unidentifiable emotion swept over him. What was it, pity? He couldn’t be sure. But for a moment, that man had looked so old, so tired. Strange, what a slight stoop of the shoulders can convey. What was the issue about the song anyway?

As these thoughts hovered in the bartender’s head with the transience of his very own disco lights, the one-time singer walked towards the exit. He was unconsciously humming the tune of the only hit record he’d ever made.

The lights flashed for a moment on his bald spot. Then he was out.

2009-07-17T01:20:00.000-07:00

Something funny happened yesterday.

After class when we’re preparing to go home, or lounge about the campus, or scout for food, 2 seniors enter the room. They put up 2 poems on the notice board. Apparently, we’re required to critically appreciate any one of them and submit it to the H.O.D by 4 pm. (Which is in about 2 hours.) And apparently, based on our critical appreciation, we get assigned tutors.

We take a look at the poems. They are positively OUTRAGEOUS.

Snippets of conversation float around the classroom-

‘Arre, how cool!’

‘What the fuck? No it’s not.’

‘This one’s longer, but it’s easier.’

‘It’s interesting that they don’t assign us tutors based on our entrance ranks’ (This from me.)

‘Achha, these poems are STRANGE. Do you think they’re nonsense verse?’

‘This is GRAMMATICALLY wrong!’ (This from me too. I wonder why I perform this uninvited self-flagellation on my blog. Call it honesty. Or catharsis. Or whatever.)’

Anyway, I write out half my critical appreciation, wanting to get over with it as soon as possible. Less than halfway through, I realize that some have not only finished but also found out that no one’s taking up the writings. So I temporarily abandon it. Good thing I did, ‘cos I discovered soon after that it was a hoax.

I maintain that my half-review was subtly snide, and the person behind the gag would have known that I’d seen through the poem. However, my formal presentation has earned it various labels. Which basically all fall under the omni-encompassing roof of chomuness. Oof, I tell you. Nothing but a petulant, martyr-like, long drawn OOOF.

But why does this make me happy instead of desperate to redeem my image? Because I have a feeling that college is going to teach me a few things- to sift out the genuine from the pseudo, for one. To be less judgemental, for another. I was talking to a few people, and they surprised me. If eyes are the window to the soul, they’re definitely not the window to the brain. And to judge people’s intelligence by their faces is downright naive. This other thing I might pick up over the next few months is to laugh or shrug off some stuff, instead of taking everything seriously. After 14 years of schooled passion and solemnity, a shake-up is required.

But speaking of school, those old days were crazy in their own way. All the Half Blood Prince talk reminds me of my Harry Potter Phase. Pottermania, as it was officially called. I used to think Rowling was a witch, writing the Harry Potter series to prepare us for a sudden, dramatic breakthrough from the world of magic. I used to think that a protruding, incongruent patch of bark on our banyan tree was the entry to wizardom. In my defense, that patch of bark was shaped like a cave.

Schooldays were singing jaali songs for Teachers’ Day. Which involved replacing ‘I asked my love to take a walk’ with ‘I asked my friend to take a walk’

Schooldays were writing sequels to sitcoms, and drawing glam cartoon versions of ourselves.

Schooldays were people willing to degrade themselves to any point, for the sake of accompanying a ‘baast fraand’ to the sickroom.

And the best part- no one was alone in her stupidity. What comfort to be sure, but I still wouldn’t go back for anything.

WHEEE

2009-07-07T19:52:00.000-07:00

I told someone that the MOMENT I would get through to JU- IF I got through- I'd jump into the jheel and swim across it. Well thankfully, I learnt of the results in my own, safe, sweet room. That too, from a friend who nearly put you-must-go-for-St. Stephens Pills in my coffee whenever we met. So I have been spared the execution of my promise.

What to say...

I am a hypocrite. A coward. But I am happy. And loved. And with no fear of pneumo-laria. I'll live :P

P.S.- Priyanka and Reeti- I'm SO glad you'll be somewhere on campus. Don't worry, I won't stalk you.

Bridal Chorus

2009-07-05T20:12:00.000-07:00

So Sahana envisions for herself the cosiest married life possible- little suburban villa with porch and pretty curtains; a bright green square of garden where warm-furry-limpid-eyed-dog will NOT pee. Throw into this radiant scene, a coolio husband and superbabies. Now Sahana is not your average dreamer. The husband has a known face. The kids have pre-decided names. And it's not like she expects all this to grow out of nowhere. An elaborate proposal and an orgy of a wedding feature in her plan as well. When I say orgy, I mean orgy. Do caramel mountains, chocolate fountains and marshmallow confetti convince you?

Shalmi, on the other hand, is the untamed sprit. Anywhere the wind blows. A pleasant, unplanned drifting along, interrupted by sudden burts of mischief (equally unplanned.) Wind.

Which led me to wonder, what kind of a future do I see for myself? I have ABSOLUTELY no freaking idea. Sahana thinks I'll end up with a Physics Professor, erudite, but boyish, with a winning smile. Shalmi called me Meg of Little Women. I don't think she was referring to the marriage part of it, but if she was, then my future husband is a penniless loser who happens to be a 'nice man.' And he will die young. And a part of me will will turn to ashes but I will survive. I mean, REALLY. What do you guys take me for?

Personally, I'd like to see myself with an intense brooding poet, who I will salvage from the murky depths of his own tortured mind. But I know that's not happening. I don't have the guts to marry that sort.

The only definite thing I've said about my domestic future is:- if I end up with 2 sons and Rukmini ends up with 2 daughters, we'll swap a kid of one gender for one of the other. I see myself as more of a daughter's mother, and she as more of a son's. WHAT? Don't judge us, we're only 18.

Farewell? Maybe.

2009-07-02T20:44:00.000-07:00

Ok. So I might actually have to leave town. Just thinking of it hurts me... physically. I've heard this from people- the most raw and intense thoughts are often impossible to write on. The artist needs to stand back from his object and take in the view as a third person. Only then can he catch every twitch, every sigh, every glimmer. And only then will he have the courage to set them down as they should be.

There's probably something in that theory. Right now, my fingers are hovering over the keyboard; it doesn't seem as if they belong to me. Making them type out something coherent is a drain on my energy. I mean, REALLY, do I REALLY have to leave?

Leave behind whimsical thoughts on cloudy days? Because there's hardly a monsoon in Delhi.

Leave behind cabbies who take one look at me and know that I can't speak Hindi? Cabbies who actually force me to cross the road instead of letting the meter rise over the course of a traffic jam. No WAY will I get that kind in Delhi.

Leave behind my concert DVDs, my movies, some of my books? It's all very well to say that their contents are locked up in a little box in my head, and I can sift through the treasures when I want. It's not like being able to hold them in your hand and knowing that you own them.

And blog, the blog's important too. I'm sure I won't be able to blog this regularly, unless I have a hep roommate with a wireless internet connection on a shiny laptop. Of course, I'm presuming she'll like me enough to let me use her laptop. For all I know, she could be a hardore Facebook addict- the kind that snorts thunderbolts and screams bloody murder if deprived of a minute's social networking.

As for family. These are just some of the things I'll miss about them---

Correcting my mother's grammatical faux-pas (which she claims, are an inevitable result of visiting villages for fund-raising)... groaning over her purchases of the most EMBARRASSING Hindi song compilations, for the sake of ONE lonestar in the entire album..

Discussing politics and legal issues with my dad, and feeling quite self-important.... eating the divine mutton-preparations he makes...

Discussing ideal weapons for murder with my brother.... also, influencing him to support my favourite reality show contestant... also, I JUST REALISED- if he gets a girlfriend while I'm away, I won't be there to accuse him of sacrilege and secretly go 'awww'.

As for the cats, who are very much family.... their insane sleeping postures, their moodswings and idiosyncrasies, their resemblances to celebrities ranging from Fa Hien to Big Moose... what makes it worse is that I won't be able to keep in touch with them through phone or e-mail. What if they forget me by the end 3 years? Oh fuck. That would kill me.

I'd talk about friends and this one teacher whose 'changed my life', as the cliche goes. But all that would require a whole blog. Instead, I'm going to end on a shallow but utilitarian note. Never mind if I'm dragging all my emotions down to a cheap conclusion. What if the bathroom of my hostel sucks? THE HORROR.

2009-06-24T10:14:00.000-07:00

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.

To the Censor Board, with NO love

2009-06-17T21:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Miss Sarajevo

2009-06-15T22:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Well.

RIP, Pavarotti.

2009-06-13T20:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Some sentimentality

2009-06-08T00:33:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-01T19:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Piku and Me: THAT'S NOT THE POINT.

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

2009-05-27T19:54:00.000-07:00

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........

I'm Thunder-struck

2009-05-15T03:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Song of a Circus Clown

2009-05-11T04:23:00.000-07:00

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.

Beggar's Day Out

2009-05-06T23:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Dear UU

2009-04-30T20:42:00.000-07:00

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.

IF I HAD A FREAKING BOYFRIEND, I WOULD NOT WISH TO DISCUSS HIM WITH YOU.

IF YOU HAVE A FREAKING GIRLFRIEND, DO NOT BRING HER ANYWHERE NEAR ME.

Nature is male. And insecure. And obeys Murphy.

2009-04-28T08:10:00.000-07:00

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.

I <3 A..A Milne

2009-04-25T03:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Happiness is a warm gun. BANG. Burn.

2009-04-19T05:12:00.000-07:00

Strange things make me happy.

11:11 pm/am.

Sneezing.

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.

I DISAGREE.

I scare myself. As always.

2009-04-14T21:12:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-13T21:56:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-04-06T19:28:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-04-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-02T06:03:00.000-07:00

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

My EYE ESSSS SEEEs are OOOWWWEEVURRR.
I am still UHLAAAA-IIIVE.

Tralala.
Boom-chika-boom-boom.

I am embarrassing myself to an embarrassing degree.
BUT.
I
DON'T
CARE.
(I will tomorrow, though. *whimper*)

I pray you, remember the blogger

2009-02-27T05:11:00.000-08:00

I have MANY ideas in my head, each of which are hating me for locking them up. Nevertheless, I get very involved with my ideas, and when I'm in the flow of writing, nothing stops me.

Hence, there is to be no flow. Not yet.

But there will be, immediately after the ISCs.

For now, I am on my way to the 'everlasting bonfire', and I'm definitely not taking the 'primrose path.' Yes, I have been studying Macbeth.

If you laugh at me for it, and if you are fair complexioned, then I will say what I have been wanting to say to someone for ages-

THE DEVIL DAMN THEE BLACK, THOU CREAM-FACED LOON.

Tata.

It happened a month back

2009-02-15T20:55:00.000-08:00

I was playing badminton with my brother. Neither of us is very good at it. Every winter, we see the dust accumulating on our badminton racquets and are overwhelmed by pity. So we extract them from their covers, whip them about and circulate the air around our house for an hour. This is a daily procedure. By the end of winter, we improve. By the start of next winter, we resume our ventilating activities.

On this particular occasion, Piku was getting very easily distracted, and I had to holler at him throughout the game. There came the point when I got so annoyed that I was about to walk off. When I was stopped by the sight of something. For the first time, I noticed my neighbour’s house.

There were creepers growing all over the front wall. Creepers retain their disregard for order, no matter how you plant them, and how much you prune. These were no exception. But even in their wildness they were delicate. Flecked by small white flowers, they looked like the hair on the head of a jungle princess.

Flitting in an out of the creepers were sparrows. There were so many of them that the whole mass of leaves, tendrils and stem shook and rustled. The petals of the flowers floated to the ground, slowly, lazily, drifting this way and that with the breeze.

The whole air was alive with the chirping of the sparrows- so similar to their flight- a flurry of quick little arrows, taut with the force of life.

Damn nature. You can’t act all cold and dignified around her.

2009-02-13T21:41:00.001-08:00

Today is the death anniversary of P.G Wodehouse.

I wish I knew an Hon. Galahad Threepwood.

Lord Galahand, The Joker, Shrek's Donkey, and Calvin. Together, we could take over the world.

And if we got a bit distracted (which is more than likely), then The Bride from Kill Bill might prove useful.

I have GOT to make this happen. I'm telling you, you'd better join us now that there's still time.

ADDITIONS TO THE ARMY:

King Julian (Madagascar)- Thank you Spriha, for the suggestion.

Taz. He is more self-actualised than Gandhi could ever have hoped to be. The look of pure, unintelligent bliss on his face says it all.

James J. Braddock- After watching 'Cinderella Man', I've realised that one can actually talk to a boxer. And get a verbal response.

Mark Zuckerberg. AKA the precocious-young-man-who-invented-Facebook-and-destroyed-all chances-I-ever-had-of-a-respectable-career. I will have him 'removed' once we reach our goal.

Roxy Hart, from Chicago- Sassy, zany, funny.

Fred and George Weasley. 2 of the few characters Rowling decided not to destroy. She has GOT to realise that breaking people's hearts and adding a 'realistic touch' are not the same thing. At all.

YODA from Star Wars! To our great mission, most instrumental, he will prove. Agree with me, do you not?

Don't ask me why. I don't know.

2009-02-11T22:31:00.001-08:00

Pablo Neruda wrote-

'I want to do with you

What spring does with the cherry trees.'

I want to do with you

What spring does with the cherry trees.

I want to do with you

What coffee does with cream.

I want to do to you

What storms do to the sky.

I want to do to you

What bubbles do to vision.

I want to do with you

What darkness does with darkness.

I want to do with you

What a baby does with crayons.

I want to do to you

What stripes do to a tiger.

I want to do to you

What scratches do to blood.

Helium Overdose

2009-02-09T20:31:00.000-08:00

I had a conversation with someone recently, which reminded me of this HILARIOUS thing. When I was in class 8, seven of us wanted to form a band. It really didn't matter if we could sing. Well, most of us could. What I mean is, it really didn't matter if I could sing. And as for instruments, why did good vocalists NEED all that kind of fancy back-up? Look at Enrique. Look at the Backstreet Boys. Look at Blue. Who noticed the instrumentals in THEIR songs?

If you don't hate us already, then prepare for worse. We had to find ourselves a name. The suggestions themselves were highly suggestive.

Bluebell.

Glitz.

Untitled: We thought this was really cool. We imagined confusing the audience about whether we were NAMED untitled, or were just plain untitled.

The age old concept of initials. In this case, the only feasible combination available was BAASSSP. Yeah, we rejected it. But that doesn't really redeem us.

We finally decided upon........

*drumroll, flourish and every conceivable dramatic device for presenting entrances*

.....THE SHADOWCATS.

And no, we weren't going to be any old cover band. We were going to be a hundred percent original. This is the song we came up with-

'In the shadows of the night,

When you can't see far...

Out there, there's a light-

And it's upto you to find it.'

Now here, I wanted to introduce 'In the shadows of the night' as a mysterious, haunting refrain. But I was overruled. They thought I was taking the title too seriously. Hmphh. I still maintain that it wasn't a bad idea, WITHIN the parameters of our deadly agenda.

At this point, my friends started a new stanza.

'Let the thought of your love

Make you strong.'

I am glad to say that I fought like an angry cat against this. Despite being a self-conscious, retarded adolescent, I had some sense in me. And I am also glad to say that I have moved on since then.

But you know, some things in people never change. I have always been rather unlucky regarding the people I like. They are usually above 40, or dead, or chauvinistic pricks. And yes, a lot of them indulge in serious substance abuse.

A few days back, I was watching American Idol, and I was struck by a certain 26-yr old. He is moderately cute, but REALLY charming, and it was mainly his voice, that planted the seeds of a mini-crush in me.

Guess what? He's gay. Apparently. Knowing my luck, it's a certainty. I think this foreshadows what my Valentine's Day is going to be like. Would you believe that I have NEVER had an interesting Valentine's Day? Now that I've developed into a most dreadful snob, it doesn't matter. I can discard the whole business as commercial and pretentious. But what I wouldn't mind, is a greeting from a man who

a)looks like Farhan Akhtar

b)IS like Obama

c)writes like Ted Hughes/Roald Dahl/O.Henry/Maugham/Ogden Nash/Oscar Wilde

d)speaks like Jim Morrison/Russell Crowe/Simon Cowell

(I DO leave a lot of options open. This proves it.)

Toast- NOTHING TO DO WITH ME.

2009-02-05T02:06:00.000-08:00

Since people never read the title, I guess I should give some sort of introduction.

This is from the point of view of a slice of bread which gets toasted and then eaten for breakfast.

I watch them getting chosen-

Slowly, one by one.

I wait eagerly for my chance.

I am tired of being like the average:

Pale, anaemic, really;

And clammy to the touch.

To top it all,

Our horrible posture-

Limp, flip-flopping, toppling over

With unenviable ease.

We share a house.

Like most things today,

It is flashy packaging

And no substance.

We can see right through it,

Literally so.

I don't enjoy a permanent view of our neighbours.

Some are bad eggs,

Some, sour grapes.

As for the sweet ones,

They're not the same these days.

The effect of too much dieting, you know.

Anyway, it is finally my turn

To get out of here!

How exciting!

A draught signalls the arrival of

Master.

He takes me to the machine,

And I occupy my alloted seat.

It is lovely and warm.

Already I can see the transformation

Taking place.

A delightful brown spreads evenly

Over my body.

I stand straighter, and straighter, and straighter still.

My curves grow more well-defined.

It is now a bit too hot.

But beauty comes at a price.

There, I am ready.

No wait,

Some kind of gel is being applied

All over me.

It feels nice and cool.

Master is so thougtful.

Where will I go now?

Where do they go,

The chosen ones?

Why do they never return

To the sorority?

I suppose I shall soon find out.

Hey!

Looks like a tunnel.

But there are SPIKES on the celing.

And the floor.

This is scary.

Hang on. NO NOT IN THERE!!!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.....

OW! OWW! OW!

*CRUNCH*

Family Time o.0

2009-02-02T22:34:00.000-08:00

I don't know what kind of post-dinner conversation is considered normal, but I wonder if this is:

Me: There's a joke which goes like-

Epitaph on a dentist- 'Stranger tread this spot with gravity/ Dentist Brown is filling his last cavity.'

Ma: *chuckles*

Me: You know what? If I end up getting buried, I want my tombstone to say something as cool as that.

Ma: Stop talking such bullshit.

Me: What's your problem? Is it talk of death that upsets you, or have I offended your Religious Sentiments?

Ma: Do you know that Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead...

Me: ...Wanted to get burnt, yes. Big deal.

Ma: BURNT?

Me: Yeah yeah, cremated. Same difference. Oh but then people are incinerated now, aren't they? I don't like that. There's something grand about flames. Not about electric, a sizzle, and some ashes.

Ma: But it's much better for the environment.

Me: That's a different issue. Besides, I like the concept of returning to the earth.

Ma: Our body is supposed to be composed of 5 elements. Earth is just ONE of them. Why should it be given preference?

Me: Well, there's air and water trapped in the soil.

Ma: And SKY? Haha, gotcha!

Me: Once my body gets decomposed, carbon and stuff will be released into the SKY. There, so that's that.

Ma: Okay, I've had enough of this.

Me: You don't need to worry, I'm not picky about these things. If you want me to be cremated, that's fine by me.

Ma: WANT you to be cremated??? I don't know what gets into you sometimes!!!

Me: Grrr, this is just a hypothetical situation. What I'm saying is, IF I had a tombstone- IF and ONLY IF- I would like it to say something funky. I'd like to go down in a glamorous way.

Ma: Why 'go down', what's so glamorous down there?

Me: MA. I cannot BELIEVE you said that. By going DOWN, I meant going down in people's MEMORIES, not DOWN INTO THE EARTH!!!!

Ma: Well I never know when you're being literal and when you're being figurative. Either way, you're just trying to make a statement.

Me: And YOU, are a pseudophobe. Anything off the beaten track, and you shrink from it, going- 'Oh my god. How sham, how hollow. How thankful I am that my spirit is not tainted by such superficiality. *rolls eyes*

Ma: Alright, alright. Maybe you have a point there. Now go take your medicine, it's time.

Me: I don't give a damn. Pseudophobe, pseudophobe, PSEUDOPHOBE.

*I stomp off*

I think I'm overestimating your kindness

2009-01-27T04:49:00.000-08:00

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-

Jerk

(Minimally offensive.)

Jerk!

(Slightly better.)

Jerk.

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

J.e.r.k.

(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.

My own benevolence sickens me

2009-01-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

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]

Sixpence for your thoughts?

2009-01-19T01:20:00.001-08:00

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.

Colourpencils

2009-01-12T23:46:00.000-08:00

In a tin on my desk,

They stand day after day.

Unused,

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,

Preoccupied,

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'.

2009-01-06T04:49:00.000-08:00

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.

I like cameras

2009-01-03T05:33:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-29T20:14:00.001-08:00

This is horrible! I'm SURE Priyanka's put a curse on me.
And I churn out yet another Post-Promise-Post.

Eta ektu silly but bear with me.
Also, I'll leave out forewords in the future.

____________________________

He was madly, badly in love.
His love was so great, it could not be contained and soared into the skies above.

He stared at her face.
It was more beautiful than anyone else of her race or of any other race.

He leant towards her, he grew very near.
Her liberated heart did not mind physicality, so he was without fear.

As he grew closer, her large limpid eyes
Seemed to grow larger, and all talk of Aparna Sen having the largest eyes seemed nothing more than scandalous lies.

Then her eyes appeared to merge and become one.
And though most great things are solitary (for example- the Victoria Memorial, Brian May's guitar, and the sun),

She suddenly resembled a cyclops.
And it is during moments like these that romance falters, or even stops.

______________________________________________

P.S- This is inspired by the time I peered too closely into my cat's eyes, and they really appeared to merge! It looked scary.

I can explain!

2008-12-29T06:37:00.000-08:00

Before you start sniggering....

I have modified my resolution. I will not come on MSN. I will continue to Blog. Yes, now snigger.

Ok, so here's a piece that was written earlier but held back. I had to let it out. What right did I have to restrain it's freedom?

_________________________________________________________

He was so happy, it made me sick. I never saw him look miserable, not even when he had toothache.

I thought his world was one of racing cars and comic books, ping-pong bolls and bubble-gum. In my head, I called him 'half-witted', 'depraved'.....
Surely, I asked myself, it was better to live a sad truth than a comfortable lie? And his life was a lie. It had to be.

No abuse of politics... no intellectual outrage at the hopless state of our education system... he was blind to everything that was going wrong!

Then one day I asked him why he thought the world was perfect. I'll never forget his reply.

'The world's a shithole. I've always known that.

But optimists like YOU think there's hope. That's why the angst.

You think a change is coming... I don't.

You think working yourself upto fever pitch will bring the change. For me, it's a bloody waste of time. Almost everything's a waste of time, really.

The only thing worth being is happy. Good for the digestion. You should try it sometime.'

I tried. It didn't work. But I've stopped calling people optimists.

I grow old, I grow old. I will not wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

2008-12-27T02:29:00.000-08:00

Finally, I turn 18.
I can't make corny 'Oh then toh I will call you didi' jokes anymore.

People asked me if I had a party or not. I'm not really sure of what to say... I ate a lot. That's half the party won, right?

Funny, I don't feel like particularly like an adult. I think it's because I felt like an adult years ago. I came across this picture of me today. I was little then, and reading a book with an extremely pesudo-intellectual expression my face. Prophetic, one might have called it. The book was titled- 'I love pet animals.' I repeat- 'prophetic.'

But then, now that I am LEGALLY an adult, there are lots of things I can do.

Vote- Doesn't excite me too much. Who the hell do I vote for? The earthquake or the hurricane?

Drive- THIS, I am really eager to do. And YES, I CAN reach the accelerator.

Have a bank account without benevolent guardianship looming over my shoulder- This reminds me.

Must.

Get.

Rich.

I am DYING to make a movie, and I need to fund it. My fame must spread beyond YouTube and Facebook Videos.

Marry- YECH >.<

To talk of marrying when I I haven't dated anyone as a non-adult.... Which is alright, I suppose, and it'll make the first relationship special, and yada yada yada.

But then again, I've had to hear jokes about me and the school peon. Who has more personality than half the teaching staff, but you get my point.

Ooh, and there's one more thing I can do. I don't even need the law for that.

Boss around my brother :D

He's going to grow taller than me soon, and he's starting to get better than me at punja. I need to establish my superiority in some way, right?

Anyway, Happy Birthday to me. These are the occasions when one starts a new blog. I can't do that, but I'll make a compromise. This is my last blogpost before the ISC.

Ruddy dose, achig head.

2008-12-24T07:54:00.000-08:00

Bloody colds should be shod dead.

What's in a name?

2008-12-17T03:17:00.000-08:00

Nisha first saw her when she reached the bus-stand before time.

Nisha was hardly ever early. With stray curls flying in every possible direction, and a half-zipped bag slipping off her shoulders, she would meet the schoolbus just as it appeared around the corner. Having entered the bus, she would proceed to empty her skirt pocket.

The makers of her school uniform had shown some foresight in making the pocket capacious. However, even they couldn't have predicted the level on which it would be exploited.

Poking its head out of Nisha's pocket was an object that vaguely resembled a spiked club. It was a hairbrush, a monster hairbrush designed specially for straightening out stubborn tangles. Somewhere in the cavernous depths of navy blue, rested a rubber-band and hairpins.

Besides these hair-flattening weapons were the house-badges. In these few moments that they weren't pinned onto a shirt front, they co-existed harmoniously, even harmonically, clinking and clanking against each other!

The final inhabitants of the pocket were a cell phone, handkerchief, and occasionally- a pair of socks.

Nisha was lucky too. She had missed the bus a few times, but so had everyone. She was convinced that she had a guardian angel who allowed her an extra half-hour of sleep each morning, something The Efficient Ones lost out on.

But on that particular morning, Nisha was early. And just a few feet away from her was the little girl- a streetchild.

She was playing with a puppy. She was thin, quite thin but there was a peculiar grace in her movements. She rolled about, scraping her skin against the roughly hewn stone, streaking her dress with dust and grime.

She was so unconscious of herself, so devoid of restraint, that every fling of her limbs seemed to speak of a glorious freedom.

Half the girls at school were always fiddling with their hair, adjusting their shirts.

They would cast surreptitious glances at any surface that was remotely reflective. A new pimple could ruin a day, a satisfactory image evoked smug little smiles.

The young girl was smiling too. But the difference!

Her teeth stood out startlingly white against her dusky face, her eyes glittered with pure, unadulterated joy. The puppy seemed to be smiling back at her as it bounced about, its tongue lolling, its miniscule tail a blur.

Nisha suddenly felt a tremendous unpsurge of tenderness towards the girl.

Who WAS she? Did she have any parents? Was she cruelly treated, unwanted, the stray animals her only playmates?

Was she the illegitimate child of a flourishing businessman and a poor dancer? (The girl's movements were a joy to watch.)

Maybe she was an undiscovered genius! Those long eyelashes, those waves of hair- surely they hinted at a latent sensitivity, a natural refinement.

Minakshi! That was her name. It didn't matter what her parents called her. Every person was born for a name. This child was a Minakshi.

In a haze of dreams, Nisha hardly noticed the arrival of the bus. All the way to school, she was lost in thought.

___________________________________________

The following week, Nisha continued being nearly-late-but-really-not. In spite of that, she couldn't help wishing for another glimpse of Minakshi. Maybe one day, she wold discover Minakshi making chalk drawings on the road- they would be intriguing, enchanting... artistic masterpieces, all! And then, she, Nisha would introduce her to the world. She would become Minakshi's patron, mentor, an older sister of sorts!

Sometimes, Nisha would laugh at herself for being so fanciful. She was on the brink of obsession! She could hear her some of her friends' responses to her thoughts-

"Fuck man, how cheesy can you get?"

"Some day, the world will have more social activicts than poor people. THEN what will you do?"

"A paedophile, and a lesbian one at that!"

Ah well... she could've been worse- suicidal... exam-phobic! Her obsession was a poetic kind.

Then, there came the day when she saw Minakshi again. This time, she wasn't early, the bus was late- also a rarity.

She nearly didn't recognise Minakshi. The girl's hair was neatly tied back into a ponytail. Her frock, though faded and ill-fitting, was perfectly clean. And on her shoulders was a brand new schoolbag.

Accompanying Minakshi was a woman. There was no mistaking that small, bony figure, those feminine features. And the eyes- large, dark with a dancing spark in their centre. Undoubtedly, she was Minakshi's mother.

Minakshi was saying something in Bengali- rapidly, with vigour. Nisha wasn't really paying attention, when a certain word caught her ears.

'Please.'

The mother replied, saying- 'Na Tuktuk. Amar dara hobe na.'

'PLEASE'? The girl spoke English!

'TUKTUK!' Cute. Comical.

As the whimsically gifted name of Minakshi whithered in an instant, so did the aura of romance about the child.

Suddenly,the whole affair seemed grossly ridiculous. The 'please', so incongruous on Tuktuk's lips, rang in Nisha's ears like a jarring alarm bell. The name Tuktuk itself... the very sound of it was hopelessly lacking in glamour or elegance.

The colours of the schoolbag glared in the sunlight. All of a sudden, Nisha noticed the cartoons on it. They were garish, crude. For a second, their frozen smiles and glassy stares were pos'tively frightening. They seemed to be leering at her, mocking her stupidity.

'Really, some day I should go see a psychiatrist' Nisha thought to herself. Then, with the familiar rumble, her schoolbus appeared around the corner, and the whole incident passed out of her mind.

Did You Know?

2008-12-11T03:03:00.000-08:00

People think I'm overflowing with the milk of human kindness. What did I ever do to give that impression?

I'm smiling all the time. Well, I like keeping myself happy. How magnanimous is that?

People say I never lose my temper. I'm hardly ever rude. There's a blooming difference. I DO get mad. Sometimes I get so mad, that I feel like sitting on a monster elephant and just trampling over any miserable little creature that crosses my path. But I prefer not being rude, because it spares me from listening to stupid or hurtful replies. Also because I enjoy my popularity.

And I listen to all the sorrows of the world. Well, the world DECIDES to unburden their sorrows to me, because they like my advice. My advice is sound because I have an unhealthy curiosity in human psychology.

I am not trying to put myself down. I frickin' love myself. And that's the point.

I can be self-centred, shallow and hopelessly egotistical.

I can be jealous, and just plain mean-minded.

If I had more guts, you'd know how nasty I really am. Not nastier than the average human being, but not too much better either.

There you have it. Digest it. Believe it. And if you still love me like you always did, then I'm thankful to have you for a friend.

I agree, the image of Anushka Florence Nightingale Sen is far pleasanter to believe in. But it doesn't exist. Like the Easter Bunny. So grow up already.

Stray thoughts on a winter morning

2008-12-06T19:48:00.001-08:00

I'm a canvas for the world.

The sunlight forms ripples on my skin,

Streaks my hair golden-brown.

As my elbow digs into the bed,

The matted covers print it

With a psychedelic pattern.

The scruffy flower

Drawn on my arm by a friend

Is still there.

Faded but content-

A grand tribute to the last row.

The 'FLOWER' label scrawled next to it

Laughs cheekily,

Enjoying its lack of subtlety.

And the music.

As it washes over me,

It paints me with so many colours-

A velvet plum,

Canary yellow,

The green of woods on a misty winter morning.

If you look carefully, you'll notice them.

They glow when I smile.

Yesterday's conversation

Has been carefully written out

On my mind.

The letters entangle themselves

In one another;

Straighten out, skip and spin.

Spin.

I feel like I can sense the earth spin,

Hear it hum.

Not a twitch escapes me,

Not a whisper goes unheard.

And I know I'm not alone.

Do you know it too?

I can hear you listening,

I see you seeing.

P.S- I have to say something else. It's semi-relevant, because it's to do with winter. From now on, I will wear shawls.

I am never going to be thin, and giving up on birthday/christmas cake is a leetuhl too painful. Hence, I am going to be resourceful. La Shawle will come to my rescue.

It hides bulges. In case you're wondering, stoles aren't as flattering.

It actually looks pretty sexy.

It is ethnic. I am tired of the abundance of western-wear.

I hope I have the guts to carry out my resolution, because the idea IS appealing. I just have to find the right kind of shawl-manufacturer. Modify the garment, to make it more teenagerish.

My Rollercoaster (from Juno)

2008-12-04T03:54:00.000-08:00

This song really makes me feel strange, in a good way.

Lyrics-

you were on my mind at least nine tenths of yesterday

it seemed as if perhaps I'd gone insane
what is it about you that has commandeered my brain?
maybe it's your awesome songs or maybe it's the way
when I look at your face I can tell that you're not going to be stopping soon or even slowing down
and if we keep up this pace pretty soon we'll know the name of every kid and every grown up booking house shows in their town

and if home is really where the heart is
then wer're the smartest kids I know
because wherever we are in this great big world
we'll never be more than a few hours from home
and that's important because I need to travel
I've had this itchin in my shoes since I was just a little kid
and before I had a mini van I road the Greyhound bus
my mom would say "I hope some day you get paid for being Kimya Dawson"

and now I do and it's not much
but it's enough
I've got my Scrabble game, food on my plate, good friends and family
and now there's you understanding why I do the things I do
knowing that you do them too makes me really happy

on the road again
just can't wait to get on the road again
the life I love is makin' music with my friends
and I can't wait to get on the road again

on the road again
just can't wait to get on the road again
the life I love is makin' music with my friends
and I can't wait to get on the road again

from a distance, the world looks blue and green
and the snow capped mountains white
from a distance, the ocean meets the stream
and the eagle takes to flight

Darkness imprisoning me
All that I see
Absolute horror
I cannot live
I cannot die
Trapped in myself
Body my holding cell

do do do do do do do
do do do do do do do
do do do do do do do
do do do do do do do
I'll be your cryin' shoulder
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be do do do do do do
I'll be the greatest man of your life

'cause I like going for hikes and riding bikes
and playing video games in the middle of the night
and I'll stay up late and I wont even care
that we're getting up early to go to the state fair
I'm gonna ride the biggest ride it'll be out of sight
then I'll share an elephant ear with you if you'd like
because we are alive so we've gotta live life
to the fullest you spin the bottle and I'll dim the lights
four five six seven minutes in the closet

you were on my mind at least nine tenths of yesterday
it seemed as if perhaps I'd gone insane
what is it about you that has commandeered my brain?
maybe it's your awesome songs or maybe it's the way
you go straight to the top you're not scared of getting squashed
you know just when to jump off
you're so brave
and then you run to the right it seems there's no hope in sight
and you drop down to the tube that takes you right to level eight

life is a highway and I'm gonna ride it
every day's a winding road yeah
my rollercoaster's got the biggest ups and downs
as long as it keeps goin' round its unbelievable

life is a highway and I'm gonna ride it
every day's a winding road yeah
my rollercoaster's got the biggest ups and downs
as long as it keeps goin' round its unbelievable

Song-

http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=pYh2Jv48mko&feature=related

2008-12-03T03:11:00.000-08:00

Suddenly, I have this overwhelming desire for Mango Bite. Not for it's taste. I'm not even sure I'll enjoy that chemical tang and sugar sweetness anymore. I just happen to miss it.

The yellow-red-green, crackling wrapper.

Comparing the translucent type to the opaque. Pretending to prefer whichever one I got, if my brother got the other kind.

Buying something for 2 rupees.

It's time to check out the parar bajar. The dogs there get chicken and rickshaw rides for free. After that, it would be a slight let down if they didn't store Mango Bite anymore.

To think or not to think.

2008-12-01T02:13:00.000-08:00

"Thinking is what sets humankind apart from the rest of the world. It's our main weapon. Use it."

"Don't think so much! You'll only confuse yourself. Impulse is the best guide."

I keep hearing both these kinds of statements. And both are said with equal conviction, by equally intelligent people. Which goes to show, that both are correct. And both are wrong.

If you've recuperated from the flurry of 'both's, then I'll continue with what I mean to say.

IT ALL BLOODY DEPENDS!!!!!

Everybody's got to do what they've got to do.

I honestly respect soldiers, and wish I had the guts to go to war.

I can't. I won't.

I do believe that not being a material person has distinct advantages. (Though I think a phrase like 'material' is childishly simplistic.)

In fact, I'd love to be able to make huge sacrifices, for a simple reason.

If every single damn thing I own is taken away from me, I want to be able to carry on.

The detachment here has NOTHING to do with the moral science classes they shove down our throats at school. It's NOTHING to do with the principles of preachers who've learnt to quote the sacred texts before they tried to understand it. This kind of detachment is power. The kind of power where nothing controls me.

BUT. I'm not capable of it. The very thought of being computer-less, and ipod-less, and book-less makes me grimace. I know that however much I try, I can't be a Swami Vivekandanda, or a Chittaranjan Das. That doesn't stop me from respecting either of the two. And it doesn't stop me from being prepared for the consequences I might have to face.

So whether you're the sort who needs to think, or the sort who doesn't, DEPENDS ON WHAT SORT OF PERSON YOU ARE. As well as the situation you're in.

"If Macbeth was Hamlet, and Hamlet was Macbeth, two great tragedies could have been averted."

As for me, I think a lot. I agree, sometimes I think excessively. But that doesn't mean ANY sort of thinking is pointless.

For one, thinking is fun! Not everything CAN think. Thinking is a privilege. And it can lead you to discover a lot of entertaining things.

For one, most people are so conscious of making impressions and projecting an aura, they keep a lot of things about themselves under wraps. Scratching the surface of their layers can be intriguing.

When you've held a certain opinion for years, and you suddenly realise that there's a hell of a lot more to it than you thought, it's a revelation! And it carries with it all the wonder, the frustrating but strangely thrilling confusion that any revelation does.

So there's a lot to read. I'll never be able to complete my must-read-books list. Same goes for my must-watch-movies list. And my must-hear-songs list. So what?

I won't stop reading. Or watching movies. Or listening to music.

And SO WHAT if I can never think out all my problems? Or think my way to the very core of the truth? Or discover who I really am? If I can get to see beyond what's plain for any idiot to see, then I've achieved something.

Another thing.

Acting on impulse ALL the time would be perfect, if I could take the results. But I'm not strong enough for that. There's still a lot of life I want to see, a lot of things I need to do. I need to keep myself intact for all of that.

There are people whose help I'm going to need, and people to whom I owe certain things. I'm not going brush EVERY bit of that away by jumping on every little whim.

There's yet another thing.

Some people HAVE to think, if the world has to go on. Scientists have to think before they're creating something. They have the right to do what their heart is telling them, but if it means there's a chance that I'll be blown off the face of this earth- SORRY. I come first.

Politicians have to do a hell lot of thinking. Freedom isn't anarchy.

Teachers have to think. They have to think, to know how to treat different students differently. How would you like being spoonfed as though you were retarded, or left in the lurch, as though there's nothing you can't manage?

And people are under the impression, that thinking means being worried all the time. Being insecure, not daring to take a risk. I agree, we're only young once, and we have to let go. We have to be prepared to make mistakes. But who says we think only because we're scared to make mistakes?

Sometimes, we want to be sure that we're doing what we really want. Because we're intense. We feel. And we don't want to treat things glibly. We know that we might end up making the wrong choice anyway, but we're lessening the odds. Sparing ourselves the regret. In those cases, we think, just a little bit so that we can listen to what our heart is saying. Oh yes, thoughts aren't all cold intellectualism. They just rummage about in our heads, tweak things a little bit into shape, so we can see what our instinct is trying to tell us. It all comes together.

Magic Carpet

Return

Summersong

The Butcher and the Washerwoman

The Ugly Duckling

Another crazy cat lady post. The most meaningful one yet.

A little make-funning, but all in good spirit.

Tick tock, you're dead.

Because some people make you write about them.

Sea Song

Ha,haha. Ha,haha. Ha, haha, haha.

Ssssh.... what's that sound?

A P.S. is irresistible. Irresistible is tough to type out fast.

Pardon the Philosophising

Title-less story that must be given a title so it shows up clearly in your newsfeed.

A Year in Fast Forward

Pretty Pink Bathrobe- A Parody

Revenge of Pandora

Death of a God

'A private message from Shakira on Windows Live'

Letter from a Professional Confessor

Imagine All The People

Soul-eww-shun

A Prode (An Ode in Prose)

And what Are words, after all?

Trip or Treat

Happy Burrrrthday Dear Jeeeee-sus

A Ghost Story.

Life ij a hard

Marshmallows and Matribhasha

Men. Women. Love. Sex. And yes I'm totally trying to grab your attention.

Updates

Not Random. Not product of boredom. Not sum wyrd shit im tryin out.

When I was your Age.......

Ten, ten-tuh-ten.

Semi Fiction

Where have all the icebergs gone?

Three Little Thoughts Went Out to Play

Pictures from trip

Dramatis Personae

Frankenstein

Walking down the road alone at almost 8 pm

Etiquette

Chit-Chat

To Neutralise any Emoness I might have indulged in

Why mothers are mothers.

What would happen if my personal diary decided to take revenge on me

List.

One Hit Wonder

WHEEE

*Bridal Chorus*

Farewell? Maybe.

To the Censor Board, with NO love

Miss Sarajevo

Some sentimentality

I'm Thunder-struck

Song of a Circus Clown

Beggar's Day Out

Dear UU

Nature is male. And insecure. And obeys Murphy.

I <3 A..A Milne

Happiness is a warm gun. BANG. Burn.

I scare myself. As always.

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

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

I pray you, remember the blogger

It happened a month back

Don't ask me why. I don't know.

Helium Overdose

Toast- NOTHING TO DO WITH ME.

Family Time o.0

I think I'm overestimating your kindness

My own benevolence sickens me

Sixpence for your thoughts?

Colourpencils

I like cameras

I can explain!

I grow old, I grow old. I will not wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Ruddy dose, achig head.

What's in a name?

Bridal Chorus