if this diatribe goes against accepted norms of propriety, then scrunch propriety up into a ball and toss it out the window. life is too short to grin and bear it...
i want to sell off my uterus to the highest bidder. there is simply nothing noble in this discomfort. it's messy, inconvenient and painful, at times excruciatingly so.
i wonder how those hyperactive women in the advertisements do it. why the hell are they so happy anyway? i mean it is heartening to learn that one is fertile and that one's plumbing is in order. but the monthly reminders: i can so live without them.
lest this be mistaken as the outpourings from the heart of a closet feminist, i think i'll issue a disclaimer. i'm just really whiny. you would be too if everything south of your abdomen felt like it was in a vice... if anything that is even remotely tasty is off limits because your stomach just refuses to digest it without creating the most awful fuss... and if to boot, you feel bloated enough to shoot off into the stratosphere much like a hot air balloon.
*
it gets worse
sometime last night my blanket and comatose self had a falling out and decided that separation was the only way to amicably settle the situation. of course none of this involved my consent. i wish they'd considered the wider ramifications of this solution. i woke up in the morning feeling miserable- heavy head, runny nose, scratchy throat... the works.
the universe is determined to test my limits... and i'm determined to go down fighting (determined about the fighting. the going down bit, not so much). all as long as i can do a little whining on the side...
whine whine whine
*
the last few days have been as close to hell as is imaginable for most delhi folk. what with the suspension of the water supply. and even though living in a girls' hostel entitles me to certain priveleges (i.e. the services of subsidized delhi jal board tankers) that eliminate the chance of me feeling the slightest bit of discomfort i just couldn't help but be really depressed.
i don't know why i found it so disconcerting. maybe it was the woman on the news who said that she'd been feeding her chidren bread for breakfast for the past three days, because she couldn't spare enough water to cook. or maybe it just brought back horrible memories from the flat (only the water related memories are nasty, the rest are quite blissful) of severe drought like situations during exams. or maybe it was because we were eating food in disposable thermocol plates to save water that would be used to rinse them while girls were getting their rooms swabbed with criminal amounts of water, people were taking showers, washing clothes etc.
it just made me so mad. and everytime i told the maids to stop sweeping they just looked at me as if i'd gone loco. i wonder if that's how the clinically insane feel. i'm sure whatever they're saying makes complete sense to them. it's so frustrating to know that you are completely lucid when the rest of the world thinks you've lost your marbles.
i usually resist criticising girls for being "girls" i.e. generally finicky about cleanliness and the like. i loathe crass generalisations. but that just got me thinking of whether this was a valid stereotype (not that any stereotypes are really "valid", but i digress).
even if women are the cleaner sex i can't help but think why. a friend of mine, a devout hindu and a feminist of the most vehement breed (quite unlike one compulsive fence sitter i know, i.e. me), once explained to me why women were not permitted entry into places of worship during their menstrual cycle: due to hygiene concerns, which may at some point of time long long ago been forgivable.
but what if it didn't end there... maybe we still believe that we are dirty and constantly feel the need to remedy the situation.
on a lighter note, if that is indeed true then i am the most genuinely emancipated woman i know. in my defence, i always look clean (unkempt, but clean) and rarely if ever smell objectionable...
at least not enough to have elicited complaints...
*
or maybe i'm just acting out against socially imposed norms...
*
or maybe i'm just really lazy and indifferent
*
or just really lazy
Friday, 16 November 2007
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
Quotable quotes, second in the series of
“practice as if you are the worst, perform as though you are the best…”
Anonymous, quoted in the Delhi Times.
I can’t say I quite blame Anonymous for being diffident, if I ever said something like that I wouldn’t want anyone to know either.
*
Tonight’s dinner was another showdown between Stupendously Befuddled/Overworked Kitchen Staff and the Sisterhood of Disgruntled Eaters (previously known as Dissatisfied Second Helping Takers, an offshoot of the Compulsive Complaining League (regd.).
Apparently there were caterpillars in the baingan aloo.
I said I couldn’t care less, as long as they (the caterpillars) weren’t moving. Its entirely forgivable to be careless in sorting and cleaning vegetables if followed by thorough deep frying. It incinerates all nature of vermin, together with those pesky things called vitamins that try to weasel their way into a perfectly good meal to spoil the fun. Besides, much like most non-veg I’m sure caterpillars would contribute to the protein quotient of our decidedly saturated fat oriented diet (to be fair this most valid point was raised by neha g).
But it was pooch’s response that killed me,
“if you eat a caterpillar, you’ll become a social butterfly”
I laughed, nay, roared…(you had to be there)
*
“let’s become the change we wish to see in the world- join NSUI”
- DU election poster. I’d kill to see what the losing candidate’s flyers said.
*
I am the ghost that haunts the hostel in the wee hours of the morning. Bored to bits, I decided to survey the various loos for a routine hygiene appraisal. In the event of an emergency, it always helps to know which toilets are the best to duck into.
It made for a fun literary experience as well. The hand written poster in the second floor loo says
“please flush the “H2O” properly after you are done”
I think the writer was a tad confused (composing an admonishing flyer like that does tend to work one up into a frenzy). Because the last time I checked there wasn’t anything particularly objectionable about H2O. I figure it would be rather redundant to flush H2O down with water. On much contemplation I cracked the code, those insidious “” marks may have something to do with it. Note to self: beware of anything that comes cloaked in quotation marks.
Other loos featured fairly run of the mill stuff like, “please grow up” or “try to behave like civilised people” to the downright cocky, “there is such a thing as a flush you know!”. But this next one is a real gem,
“(preceded by dollops of emotional blackmail)… also note that the hand that cleans the toilet also cooks someone’s food. Please be considerate!!”
lunch anyone?
*
“…an apple a day gives you constipation, which though inconvenient and at times painful, does not necessitate the presence of a physician. That said the whole ‘keeps the doctor away’ question is a moot point.”
see, that’s why god invented elder sisters.
*
Quote of the day, courtesy Messrs. N Lal and Sons,
“all econometrics is bullshit…”
*
There is something particularly romantic about my room. These lizards just can’t seem to get enough of each other. Himesh (fat ugly wall lizard) eyed the poor unsuspecting Ensign Uhura (shapely pretty wall lizard) and said something that sounded frighteningly like,
“common baby light my fieyaaah!”
ok that may not have actually happened. Its 4 in the morning and my brain is doing funny things.
Mona, forever the prude says, “tch tch…”
*
I too made some rather regrettable verbal trespasses today,
“we always take for granted the ones we love the most.”
And (I’m still surprised I actually uttered this)
“its not the time you put in, its what you put into the time”
I’m considering a career in corny couplet and one liner writing for greeting cards companies. I could totally corner the market. In the event of my ambitions being dashed against the cold hard rocks of reality, I could always turn to contributing anonymous quotes for the Sunday issue of Delhi Times.
Anonymous, quoted in the Delhi Times.
I can’t say I quite blame Anonymous for being diffident, if I ever said something like that I wouldn’t want anyone to know either.
*
Tonight’s dinner was another showdown between Stupendously Befuddled/Overworked Kitchen Staff and the Sisterhood of Disgruntled Eaters (previously known as Dissatisfied Second Helping Takers, an offshoot of the Compulsive Complaining League (regd.).
Apparently there were caterpillars in the baingan aloo.
I said I couldn’t care less, as long as they (the caterpillars) weren’t moving. Its entirely forgivable to be careless in sorting and cleaning vegetables if followed by thorough deep frying. It incinerates all nature of vermin, together with those pesky things called vitamins that try to weasel their way into a perfectly good meal to spoil the fun. Besides, much like most non-veg I’m sure caterpillars would contribute to the protein quotient of our decidedly saturated fat oriented diet (to be fair this most valid point was raised by neha g).
But it was pooch’s response that killed me,
“if you eat a caterpillar, you’ll become a social butterfly”
I laughed, nay, roared…(you had to be there)
*
“let’s become the change we wish to see in the world- join NSUI”
- DU election poster. I’d kill to see what the losing candidate’s flyers said.
*
I am the ghost that haunts the hostel in the wee hours of the morning. Bored to bits, I decided to survey the various loos for a routine hygiene appraisal. In the event of an emergency, it always helps to know which toilets are the best to duck into.
It made for a fun literary experience as well. The hand written poster in the second floor loo says
“please flush the “H2O” properly after you are done”
I think the writer was a tad confused (composing an admonishing flyer like that does tend to work one up into a frenzy). Because the last time I checked there wasn’t anything particularly objectionable about H2O. I figure it would be rather redundant to flush H2O down with water. On much contemplation I cracked the code, those insidious “” marks may have something to do with it. Note to self: beware of anything that comes cloaked in quotation marks.
Other loos featured fairly run of the mill stuff like, “please grow up” or “try to behave like civilised people” to the downright cocky, “there is such a thing as a flush you know!”. But this next one is a real gem,
“(preceded by dollops of emotional blackmail)… also note that the hand that cleans the toilet also cooks someone’s food. Please be considerate!!”
lunch anyone?
*
“…an apple a day gives you constipation, which though inconvenient and at times painful, does not necessitate the presence of a physician. That said the whole ‘keeps the doctor away’ question is a moot point.”
see, that’s why god invented elder sisters.
*
Quote of the day, courtesy Messrs. N Lal and Sons,
“all econometrics is bullshit…”
*
There is something particularly romantic about my room. These lizards just can’t seem to get enough of each other. Himesh (fat ugly wall lizard) eyed the poor unsuspecting Ensign Uhura (shapely pretty wall lizard) and said something that sounded frighteningly like,
“common baby light my fieyaaah!”
ok that may not have actually happened. Its 4 in the morning and my brain is doing funny things.
Mona, forever the prude says, “tch tch…”
*
I too made some rather regrettable verbal trespasses today,
“we always take for granted the ones we love the most.”
And (I’m still surprised I actually uttered this)
“its not the time you put in, its what you put into the time”
I’m considering a career in corny couplet and one liner writing for greeting cards companies. I could totally corner the market. In the event of my ambitions being dashed against the cold hard rocks of reality, I could always turn to contributing anonymous quotes for the Sunday issue of Delhi Times.
Monday, 5 November 2007
fester fester
Having given altogether too much of myself away, and disgusted with my own recklessness I have decided to henceforth be as cryptic and incomprehensible as is possible. At least till the end of this post.
So, reader(s) you may be tempted to think that you know what I’m saying, but you really don’t. I scarcely do myself.
****
Mona hangs, suspended to the wall by a tenuous thread at the precarious angle of 75. I’m usually unable to read her thoughts. Not that I think her smile is particularly mysterious or anything (in fact I think she looks like she’s just passed gas and is pretending to be oblivious). But today she is decidedly annoyed with me.
“…look at me. Albeit not by my thumbs, but strung up nonetheless. And look at you…we are a sorry pair aren’t we? The worst day ever was the one on which you learnt to laugh at yourself. And look where its gotten you. You have a compass and nowhere to go, a sun but no shine, a glass but nothing to pour, words but nothing to say, an entire desert and no camels. The stable is there but the camels ran away a long long time ago. You have dust and plenty of it. But what can one do with dust anyway? You have stirrers, but nothing to stir. Instead you stir…”
Mona my love, you couldn’t be more right. But I still fail to not see the humour in the situation. I can’t help but laugh at my own silly self. Today shall be a day for laughter.
To make amends, I shall proceed to busy myself with more concrete pursuits. Can’t you see? I’m already in the process of exorcising spirits, evil and otherwise. Shooing away mystical lizards and moronic pigeons.
Fret not, the peace is in the oven and in no time at all it shall be made. You must be patient with me…
****
Hint: If you convince yourself enough, everything sooner or later is bound to mean something. That notwithstanding, there is much fun to be had from such trickery…
So, reader(s) you may be tempted to think that you know what I’m saying, but you really don’t. I scarcely do myself.
****
Mona hangs, suspended to the wall by a tenuous thread at the precarious angle of 75. I’m usually unable to read her thoughts. Not that I think her smile is particularly mysterious or anything (in fact I think she looks like she’s just passed gas and is pretending to be oblivious). But today she is decidedly annoyed with me.
“…look at me. Albeit not by my thumbs, but strung up nonetheless. And look at you…we are a sorry pair aren’t we? The worst day ever was the one on which you learnt to laugh at yourself. And look where its gotten you. You have a compass and nowhere to go, a sun but no shine, a glass but nothing to pour, words but nothing to say, an entire desert and no camels. The stable is there but the camels ran away a long long time ago. You have dust and plenty of it. But what can one do with dust anyway? You have stirrers, but nothing to stir. Instead you stir…”
Mona my love, you couldn’t be more right. But I still fail to not see the humour in the situation. I can’t help but laugh at my own silly self. Today shall be a day for laughter.
To make amends, I shall proceed to busy myself with more concrete pursuits. Can’t you see? I’m already in the process of exorcising spirits, evil and otherwise. Shooing away mystical lizards and moronic pigeons.
Fret not, the peace is in the oven and in no time at all it shall be made. You must be patient with me…
****
Hint: If you convince yourself enough, everything sooner or later is bound to mean something. That notwithstanding, there is much fun to be had from such trickery…
Sunday, 4 November 2007
Things have come to a head in academics land. But I read a lovely sentence today and felt like putting it down.
“…societies vegetating on the periphery of an industrialising Europe like a vast reservoir of labour power periodically called into action by the spasmodic actions of metropolitan capital”
yum… I love how such delicious propaganda sneaks into text books.
I really like texts where the authors put in an effort to make it interesting, sort of like an inside joke between him and the reader. Like this book we referred to for linear algebra last year, the epithet for the chapter on Vectors was “arrows of outrageous fortune” (Shakespeare, from Hamlet, P.O.D. I think)
And that holds more so for teachers as well. Like when rohini compared being in an ergodic set to like being stuck in “hotel California”, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave… it was hilarious and actually the best possible description.
I read not so long ago that Kurt Vonnegut once said to his students:
“…if you really want to disappoint your parents and don’t have the nerve to be gay, go into the arts.”
And while I’m at it, something I read over the summer-
“worlds on worlds are rolling ever
from creation to decay
like the bubbles on a river
sparkling, bursting, borne away”
- Shelley
don’t know why I put it down in my notebook, but it must have made sense to back then, it doesn’t even sound particularly profound right now. Actally sounds quite stupid. Maybe its just econometrics eating away at my brain… bleh…
I’ll wrap up this much plagiarised and sufficiently pseudo post-
“the hour of departure has arrived and we go our separate ways- I to die and you to live. Which is better, god only knows”
I hope that when I die I have the presence of mind to be eloquent like old Socrates (who if I recall correctly was in the process of being put to death). Either that, or to have some clever and charitable person around to make up an impressive sounding sentence and give me credit posthumously. I’m going to start working on the invitation list right away.
“…societies vegetating on the periphery of an industrialising Europe like a vast reservoir of labour power periodically called into action by the spasmodic actions of metropolitan capital”
yum… I love how such delicious propaganda sneaks into text books.
I really like texts where the authors put in an effort to make it interesting, sort of like an inside joke between him and the reader. Like this book we referred to for linear algebra last year, the epithet for the chapter on Vectors was “arrows of outrageous fortune” (Shakespeare, from Hamlet, P.O.D. I think)
And that holds more so for teachers as well. Like when rohini compared being in an ergodic set to like being stuck in “hotel California”, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave… it was hilarious and actually the best possible description.
I read not so long ago that Kurt Vonnegut once said to his students:
“…if you really want to disappoint your parents and don’t have the nerve to be gay, go into the arts.”
And while I’m at it, something I read over the summer-
“worlds on worlds are rolling ever
from creation to decay
like the bubbles on a river
sparkling, bursting, borne away”
- Shelley
don’t know why I put it down in my notebook, but it must have made sense to back then, it doesn’t even sound particularly profound right now. Actally sounds quite stupid. Maybe its just econometrics eating away at my brain… bleh…
I’ll wrap up this much plagiarised and sufficiently pseudo post-
“the hour of departure has arrived and we go our separate ways- I to die and you to live. Which is better, god only knows”
I hope that when I die I have the presence of mind to be eloquent like old Socrates (who if I recall correctly was in the process of being put to death). Either that, or to have some clever and charitable person around to make up an impressive sounding sentence and give me credit posthumously. I’m going to start working on the invitation list right away.
Saturday, 3 November 2007
Hear me out (2): on love, loneliness and beauty
I’ve promised myself this will be a short post. Given that the corner around which my exams are is inching closer and closer with every minute, one would think that I should be single mindedly breaking my head over academic pursuits. But one needs to vent in short intervals… hence, a blog is born. What is sad is that I’ve recently gotten acquainted with my thoughts. Thinking as a constant state of being, the protagonist, not like some super sexy woman in an item number who does her thing, departs poste haste, absconding for the rest of the movie, leaving you anxious and salivating. But more like a constant monologue, a narrative that follows you around, to everything you do and see and feel and experience, very Kevin Arnold like (these pop culture analogies are really robbing this post of the serious thoughtful tone I was aiming for, I didn’t say that, the monologue did). And why that is sad is just as you start to get comfortable with what and how you are thinking and you envelope yourself in them (the thoughts I mean), looking for the other side of every coin and the ‘blogability’ if you will, of every stray occurrence, you suddenly find that you have no time for them (the thoughts I mean). Every minute thinking and writing is a minute away from some other gainful pursuits…studying or working or cleaning your room…washing clothes…making conversation (all of which have stood neglected off late, except the room cleaning and dirty clothes, that’s a constant feature in my life). And tragically (oh so very tragically) when, at the expense of thinking and writing you indulge in these tedious tasks, all they give you is more fodder for thinking and writing and meandering (which MS Word informs me is not even a verb, its an adjective, but what the hell)
This isn’t exactly a lamentable travesty or anything. And I’m not going to wax eloquent about the cruel world and how it has no room for the softer more abstract things in life. This world is of our own making and we choose to live in it and by its rules. This is just an observation. Or maybe just an excuse to avoid unpleasant obligations.
The monologue is smiling sheepishly…
****
The universe is a cruel cruel place, especially to old people. And perhaps crueller still to those who are coming to grips with the fact that they are indeed, ageing. Take VH1 for example (yes my universe as of now is encapsulated within the confines of VH1). Every morning after breakfast, as a ritual I allow myself 20 minutes of pre-study T.V. and I invariably fall prey to VH1’s seductive, instant-gratification charms. But its always a bitter sweet experience. You can’t survive VH1 ‘Classic’ without feeling positively decrepit. Songs that I used to listen to as a child, the first tune I ever hummed compulsively, the first delicious visual treat to which I glued myself, the first crush, the first dirty lyrics we strained to decipher…the first and most harmless of guilty pleasures. And I’m always tempted to say, “it isn’t that old is it (those poofy 80’s pyjamas may still make a comeback)?” But sooner or later you resign yourself to admitting that it isn’t the songs that are old… it is you. And then you realise that 1985 was more than 20 years ago… two whole decades… so much happened while you lived in blissful ignorance, thinking the whole world was standing still for you. Its scary.
And then I look at my old pictures from school and college and more recent ones as well. And I hate myself for ever thinking that I wasn’t beautiful, that I was imperfect. That I wasn’t thin enough or pretty enough, or that I had too much dandruff or that my skin was terrible or that my clothes were distasteful. I ask myself, when are we ever going to be that young and beautiful and happy again? To have so much to look forward to…so much more time to procrastinate and put things off without it bothering you. So unblemished…so un‘adult’erated... sigh…
****
While on the subject of VH1, I caught the most beautiful song about 20 minutes ago, which pretty much got this blog restarted after a full day’s hiatus. It was “all I want is you” by U2. I don’t know why that song in particular really made me think. About being in love and being lonely and maybe even both at the same time. About the convoluted ways and means we adopt to get what should be a seemingly simple desire to fulfil. To be loved and well maybe that’s too ambitious… to not be lonely. Most people I know are lonely in some way or the other and almost accustomed to it. With some strange void in ourselves that we think can only be filled by a real live person, anything else just wouldn’t do, certainly not some inanimate object. I remember being very much in love and distinctly recall that it wasn’t even the tangible physical presence that was the most pleasurable. It was the assurance that there was something all my own, that no one could rob from me, that no you realise that 1985 was more than 20 years ago… wasn’t alone. I’m sure there are people for whom completeness lies in their work or their passions, I just don’t know too many people like that or in fact any at all. I know of people who pretend to not care (ahem…). And also of people who will do anything to avoid having to not care, people who cannot stand to be alone for too long. And I don’t know who to feel worse for, because it is something worth feeling sad about, me thinks.
But I’m fairly optimistic, and that just absolutely kills me. Hopeful that we are all heading slowly and steadily toward our respective happy endings. With someone who we hope will understand us or no…maybe that’s too ambitious…someone who will put up with us. And not hold against us the one most inexcusable idiosyncrasy of all - that we are who we are and how we are.
****
One last thing that I absolutely must say (if I’m breaking the promise I made to myself, I might as well do it in style). It’s about my neighbour. I think she is a most beautiful creature and my reasons go beyond her obvious aesthetic appeal. Every morning Ketho will spend a full 5 minutes (that’s more time than I spend on one of my usual supersonic showers) in front of the mirror, checking herself out, a nip here a tuck there, fluff her hair, turn around, left right, side profile, front…the works. And it doesn’t bother her that people are buzzing around her…brushing their teeth, washing their utensils in the wash basin, heading to the loo. She just stands there resolutely doing her thing. And every morning I wish more and more that I could be like that. Its not a question of vanity or self obsession, its about being comfortable with yourself and comfortable with the world knowing that your appearance matters to you.
I remember back in the office, whenever we’d go down the elevator, Sutta would invariably sashay up and down in front of the elevator mirror and admire himself. One day I finally asked him why he was being such a girl and he just winked and replied, “must look good for the lady mustn’t I?”. I envied him so much for that split second.
Ponnie used to joke about there being no dearth of reflective surfaces in the metro station and I remember how we used to laugh at the prospect of endless self scrutiny. But rather than embrace it I increasingly find myself shying away. Not that I’m uncomfortable with what I see (cue to the flat club: knowing smiles all round). I just can’t stand that someone else will catch me doing it. Which is strange given that I hold public displays of self directed affection in such high esteem. I sure am peculiar sometimes, even if only to myself.
This isn’t exactly a lamentable travesty or anything. And I’m not going to wax eloquent about the cruel world and how it has no room for the softer more abstract things in life. This world is of our own making and we choose to live in it and by its rules. This is just an observation. Or maybe just an excuse to avoid unpleasant obligations.
The monologue is smiling sheepishly…
****
The universe is a cruel cruel place, especially to old people. And perhaps crueller still to those who are coming to grips with the fact that they are indeed, ageing. Take VH1 for example (yes my universe as of now is encapsulated within the confines of VH1). Every morning after breakfast, as a ritual I allow myself 20 minutes of pre-study T.V. and I invariably fall prey to VH1’s seductive, instant-gratification charms. But its always a bitter sweet experience. You can’t survive VH1 ‘Classic’ without feeling positively decrepit. Songs that I used to listen to as a child, the first tune I ever hummed compulsively, the first delicious visual treat to which I glued myself, the first crush, the first dirty lyrics we strained to decipher…the first and most harmless of guilty pleasures. And I’m always tempted to say, “it isn’t that old is it (those poofy 80’s pyjamas may still make a comeback)?” But sooner or later you resign yourself to admitting that it isn’t the songs that are old… it is you. And then you realise that 1985 was more than 20 years ago… two whole decades… so much happened while you lived in blissful ignorance, thinking the whole world was standing still for you. Its scary.
And then I look at my old pictures from school and college and more recent ones as well. And I hate myself for ever thinking that I wasn’t beautiful, that I was imperfect. That I wasn’t thin enough or pretty enough, or that I had too much dandruff or that my skin was terrible or that my clothes were distasteful. I ask myself, when are we ever going to be that young and beautiful and happy again? To have so much to look forward to…so much more time to procrastinate and put things off without it bothering you. So unblemished…so un‘adult’erated... sigh…
****
While on the subject of VH1, I caught the most beautiful song about 20 minutes ago, which pretty much got this blog restarted after a full day’s hiatus. It was “all I want is you” by U2. I don’t know why that song in particular really made me think. About being in love and being lonely and maybe even both at the same time. About the convoluted ways and means we adopt to get what should be a seemingly simple desire to fulfil. To be loved and well maybe that’s too ambitious… to not be lonely. Most people I know are lonely in some way or the other and almost accustomed to it. With some strange void in ourselves that we think can only be filled by a real live person, anything else just wouldn’t do, certainly not some inanimate object. I remember being very much in love and distinctly recall that it wasn’t even the tangible physical presence that was the most pleasurable. It was the assurance that there was something all my own, that no one could rob from me, that no you realise that 1985 was more than 20 years ago… wasn’t alone. I’m sure there are people for whom completeness lies in their work or their passions, I just don’t know too many people like that or in fact any at all. I know of people who pretend to not care (ahem…). And also of people who will do anything to avoid having to not care, people who cannot stand to be alone for too long. And I don’t know who to feel worse for, because it is something worth feeling sad about, me thinks.
But I’m fairly optimistic, and that just absolutely kills me. Hopeful that we are all heading slowly and steadily toward our respective happy endings. With someone who we hope will understand us or no…maybe that’s too ambitious…someone who will put up with us. And not hold against us the one most inexcusable idiosyncrasy of all - that we are who we are and how we are.
****
One last thing that I absolutely must say (if I’m breaking the promise I made to myself, I might as well do it in style). It’s about my neighbour. I think she is a most beautiful creature and my reasons go beyond her obvious aesthetic appeal. Every morning Ketho will spend a full 5 minutes (that’s more time than I spend on one of my usual supersonic showers) in front of the mirror, checking herself out, a nip here a tuck there, fluff her hair, turn around, left right, side profile, front…the works. And it doesn’t bother her that people are buzzing around her…brushing their teeth, washing their utensils in the wash basin, heading to the loo. She just stands there resolutely doing her thing. And every morning I wish more and more that I could be like that. Its not a question of vanity or self obsession, its about being comfortable with yourself and comfortable with the world knowing that your appearance matters to you.
I remember back in the office, whenever we’d go down the elevator, Sutta would invariably sashay up and down in front of the elevator mirror and admire himself. One day I finally asked him why he was being such a girl and he just winked and replied, “must look good for the lady mustn’t I?”. I envied him so much for that split second.
Ponnie used to joke about there being no dearth of reflective surfaces in the metro station and I remember how we used to laugh at the prospect of endless self scrutiny. But rather than embrace it I increasingly find myself shying away. Not that I’m uncomfortable with what I see (cue to the flat club: knowing smiles all round). I just can’t stand that someone else will catch me doing it. Which is strange given that I hold public displays of self directed affection in such high esteem. I sure am peculiar sometimes, even if only to myself.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Hear me out: of appearances, sounds, images and words
This is just some random musings and observations, part patriotism and part amateur sociological meanderings
****
Was bored and generally looking up stuff on the internet yesterday. Came across this fabulous site- http://www.censusindia.gov.in
Ok I know what you're thinking (the absence of any gainful pursuits in my life among other things) but I'd recommend you to visit it nonetheless. I got a fantastic kick out of it- looking up different cities, towns, villages etc.
The web is a beautiful place. Did you even know such information was out there?
****
The universe seems hell bent on denying me slumber. At night I feel fresh enough to take over the world put off studying for hours on end, but two minutes into doing anything even remotely constructive my boredom cells kick in and put me off to sleep. And trust human beings to disrupt a well earned (preceded by 1 whole hour of studying) nap during the day. There was some absurd demonstration happening down at the Haryana Roadways depot right in front of my hostel balcony (I knew I should have picked the garden view suite). Absurd because for the life of me I couldn't understand a single thing they were saying… and I think I was the only one really listening. Something about the bhrasht sarkar and humaari maange. There were repeated murdabaads and zindabads, but I don't know who they were directed at. I mean why would anyone in the sarkar , if it is as evil as you claim, come down to a shady area beyond camp at 12:00 noon to puree karo anyone's maange. I just failed to see the rationale of it all. Even if what they were saying was coherent, who was listening? Loud complaints against a most predictable scapegoat… and the only one who heard it was me…
****
15 minutes into this post sleep fuzzy-headed pondering I got a call from college. PD (having momentarily shaken herself out of a prolonged stoned stupor) wanted me to come over and consult with her on gifts to be purchased for visiting recruiters. Of all the money the placement cell wastes, this is the one outlet that I abhor with a vengeance. What do those stupid trinkets mean anyway?
"We’re really glad that you saw fit to exercise your feeble imaginations beyond b-schools and consented to come on campus. We need you much more than you need us. And even though you give us jobs that make absolutely no use of what we spend busting our asses over for two years and jobs that would make morons feel like brain surgeons, we're really happy you did, we're sooo fortunate". Is that what we're trying to convey?
This unfortunately is just the tip of the sordid iceberg. Last month's obsession was new curtains for the placement cell. Yup, that'll get us all jobs won't it…sheesh
****
The first thing that ammu chechi warned me about on the eve of my arrival in the hostel was the veritable sea of bongs that I would encounter and have to co habit with. And I must admit the prospect was initially, entirely unpalatable. Bongs have this way of making you feel excluded when you’re surrounded by a horde of them. Having spent three years of college fraternising with mallus, befriending people from other cultures was not new to me, and I never felt like a lost outsider. But this was different. At first I was perturbed and used to complain about them in my head all the time.
Some argue that people from the North East also tend to exclude themselves from mainstream society. But I know for a fact that that isn’t at all true. They behave like outsiders because they are treated as such. They’re usually so ridiculously outnumbered and they have very distinctive features. I don’t know if this is true, but I feel their community pride and strong kinship is more a product of social ostracism, a defence mechanism if you will.
With bongs, its decidedly different. They go out of their way to distinguish themselves from the rest because they associate a large part of who they are with their language and culture. Varda calls it cultural chauvinism. But really, there shouldn’t be anything objectionable about being proud of where you come from. They have a legacy of some of the greatest minds to have gained prominence in any field. So why does this jar with my sensibilities?
I could think of only two reasons, either I don’t have any sentimental affiliation with my community, no sense of pride in being a Punjabi and I just envy them. Or maybe the Punjabi in me is fundamentally different from Bengalis. Maybe the distinguishing trait of my community is to blend in as unobtrusively and comfortably as possible in any situation. That doesn’t necessarily make us superior, especially if we do it at the cost of our own identity. It could be both or neither.
Given that we hear and read so little about illustrious people from the north east I’m tempted to say that the key lies in extensive documentation of a community’s achievements. But that may have perverse outcomes like cultural stereo-typing. The intelligent Bengali, best for all academic pursuits. The loud and brave Punjabi, called upon for any nature of physical work. It’s a tough situation and I wish I could come up with an answer.
But I would like to issue a request to whoever reads this. Please refrain from referring to people from the north east as “chinkies”. It’s the worst possible thing we can do. They’re not Chinese, they’re as Indian as you or me. I’m saying this because I wasn’t aware that it was offensive till I got out of home and went to college.
For my part, henceforth, I’ll try to resist being bitchy about bongs. (at the risk of reducing my readership’s interest quotient by 50%)
****
A while back I was working on a submission and like most assignments, this one dragged on till the wee hours of the morning (my ability to go without sleep for extended periods of time is my biggest enemy, I just end up dragging my feet on everything). Somewhere around 3 in the morning I got terribly bored and went to watch some T.V. One of the girls was watching a south Indian movie (tamil I think) and even though it was entirely incomprehensible for me, she was so engrossed I didn’t have the heart to tell her to change channels. So I sat and started to watch it with her and within a matter of minutes I had discerned the entire plot. The son of the family had died and the young priest who was supposed to perform the last rights just couldn’t bring himself to go ahead with the task. Reason: he’d had a long and passionate affair with the deceased fellow’s wife and in fact her only son was a product of their illegitimate union. It amazed me that the images and melodrama were enough to communicate the plot. It may just have something to do with the fact the story was a tad hackneyed, but nonetheless it made me realise that we are a very visual and demonstrative people.
People accuse North Indians (i think my injured punjabi pride is re-surfacing) of being “showy”- living in loud, ostentatious houses, wearing loud, flashy clothes and being loud in general. But aren’t we all a little bit like that? A wedding isn’t a wedding unless it’s big, a death isn’t sad enough unless we’re all terribly inconsolable at a funeral… and maybe that’s ok. Maybe there is peace to be found in abandoning inhibitions and embracing how we really feel.
****
In retrospect this post sounds slightly muddled. But I still agree with everything I’ve written. Even if it ends up contradicting itself :)
****
Was bored and generally looking up stuff on the internet yesterday. Came across this fabulous site- http://www.censusindia.gov.in
Ok I know what you're thinking (the absence of any gainful pursuits in my life among other things) but I'd recommend you to visit it nonetheless. I got a fantastic kick out of it- looking up different cities, towns, villages etc.
The web is a beautiful place. Did you even know such information was out there?
****
The universe seems hell bent on denying me slumber. At night I feel fresh enough to take over the world put off studying for hours on end, but two minutes into doing anything even remotely constructive my boredom cells kick in and put me off to sleep. And trust human beings to disrupt a well earned (preceded by 1 whole hour of studying) nap during the day. There was some absurd demonstration happening down at the Haryana Roadways depot right in front of my hostel balcony (I knew I should have picked the garden view suite). Absurd because for the life of me I couldn't understand a single thing they were saying… and I think I was the only one really listening. Something about the bhrasht sarkar and humaari maange. There were repeated murdabaads and zindabads, but I don't know who they were directed at. I mean why would anyone in the sarkar , if it is as evil as you claim, come down to a shady area beyond camp at 12:00 noon to puree karo anyone's maange. I just failed to see the rationale of it all. Even if what they were saying was coherent, who was listening? Loud complaints against a most predictable scapegoat… and the only one who heard it was me…
****
15 minutes into this post sleep fuzzy-headed pondering I got a call from college. PD (having momentarily shaken herself out of a prolonged stoned stupor) wanted me to come over and consult with her on gifts to be purchased for visiting recruiters. Of all the money the placement cell wastes, this is the one outlet that I abhor with a vengeance. What do those stupid trinkets mean anyway?
"We’re really glad that you saw fit to exercise your feeble imaginations beyond b-schools and consented to come on campus. We need you much more than you need us. And even though you give us jobs that make absolutely no use of what we spend busting our asses over for two years and jobs that would make morons feel like brain surgeons, we're really happy you did, we're sooo fortunate". Is that what we're trying to convey?
This unfortunately is just the tip of the sordid iceberg. Last month's obsession was new curtains for the placement cell. Yup, that'll get us all jobs won't it…sheesh
****
The first thing that ammu chechi warned me about on the eve of my arrival in the hostel was the veritable sea of bongs that I would encounter and have to co habit with. And I must admit the prospect was initially, entirely unpalatable. Bongs have this way of making you feel excluded when you’re surrounded by a horde of them. Having spent three years of college fraternising with mallus, befriending people from other cultures was not new to me, and I never felt like a lost outsider. But this was different. At first I was perturbed and used to complain about them in my head all the time.
Some argue that people from the North East also tend to exclude themselves from mainstream society. But I know for a fact that that isn’t at all true. They behave like outsiders because they are treated as such. They’re usually so ridiculously outnumbered and they have very distinctive features. I don’t know if this is true, but I feel their community pride and strong kinship is more a product of social ostracism, a defence mechanism if you will.
With bongs, its decidedly different. They go out of their way to distinguish themselves from the rest because they associate a large part of who they are with their language and culture. Varda calls it cultural chauvinism. But really, there shouldn’t be anything objectionable about being proud of where you come from. They have a legacy of some of the greatest minds to have gained prominence in any field. So why does this jar with my sensibilities?
I could think of only two reasons, either I don’t have any sentimental affiliation with my community, no sense of pride in being a Punjabi and I just envy them. Or maybe the Punjabi in me is fundamentally different from Bengalis. Maybe the distinguishing trait of my community is to blend in as unobtrusively and comfortably as possible in any situation. That doesn’t necessarily make us superior, especially if we do it at the cost of our own identity. It could be both or neither.
Given that we hear and read so little about illustrious people from the north east I’m tempted to say that the key lies in extensive documentation of a community’s achievements. But that may have perverse outcomes like cultural stereo-typing. The intelligent Bengali, best for all academic pursuits. The loud and brave Punjabi, called upon for any nature of physical work. It’s a tough situation and I wish I could come up with an answer.
But I would like to issue a request to whoever reads this. Please refrain from referring to people from the north east as “chinkies”. It’s the worst possible thing we can do. They’re not Chinese, they’re as Indian as you or me. I’m saying this because I wasn’t aware that it was offensive till I got out of home and went to college.
For my part, henceforth, I’ll try to resist being bitchy about bongs. (at the risk of reducing my readership’s interest quotient by 50%)
****
A while back I was working on a submission and like most assignments, this one dragged on till the wee hours of the morning (my ability to go without sleep for extended periods of time is my biggest enemy, I just end up dragging my feet on everything). Somewhere around 3 in the morning I got terribly bored and went to watch some T.V. One of the girls was watching a south Indian movie (tamil I think) and even though it was entirely incomprehensible for me, she was so engrossed I didn’t have the heart to tell her to change channels. So I sat and started to watch it with her and within a matter of minutes I had discerned the entire plot. The son of the family had died and the young priest who was supposed to perform the last rights just couldn’t bring himself to go ahead with the task. Reason: he’d had a long and passionate affair with the deceased fellow’s wife and in fact her only son was a product of their illegitimate union. It amazed me that the images and melodrama were enough to communicate the plot. It may just have something to do with the fact the story was a tad hackneyed, but nonetheless it made me realise that we are a very visual and demonstrative people.
People accuse North Indians (i think my injured punjabi pride is re-surfacing) of being “showy”- living in loud, ostentatious houses, wearing loud, flashy clothes and being loud in general. But aren’t we all a little bit like that? A wedding isn’t a wedding unless it’s big, a death isn’t sad enough unless we’re all terribly inconsolable at a funeral… and maybe that’s ok. Maybe there is peace to be found in abandoning inhibitions and embracing how we really feel.
****
In retrospect this post sounds slightly muddled. But I still agree with everything I’ve written. Even if it ends up contradicting itself :)
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