The New Neighbour
“hi, I’m from #318.”
“hi, I’m new in #319.”
She looked at me strangely. I smiled at her strangely-er. She shifted focus from my left hand (tooth brush, paste) to my right (dettol liquid soap). I (still smiling strangely by the way) scanned the floor, the sky, the green railing, my right hand (ibid), my left hand (ditto).
Awkward silence, much friendly nodding, smiles (getting stranger by the nanosecond)
We took in each others’ respective strange-nesses, reconciled ourselves to them and forgave each other for the same.
“acha theek hai, bye.”
“bye.”
I think we both made a good first impression.
*
Rina has offered to deliver all my unwashed clothes to the custody of a washing machine, have them coaxed with detergent and warm water, spin dried. She also promises to not only hang them out to dry but ensure that they do just that, i.e. dry. All in return for nothing but the smile on my face. I wonder why. I’ve been smiling quite a bit these days.
She then offered to return all my library books. I agreed. In fact, while she’s at it she might as well borrow them and read them too.
I knew I’d be pushing my luck but I just went ahead and asked her to do me another humungous favour: to take my meals and bathe on my behalf as I am feeling terribly disinclined toward both. Not as much as the laundry though.
*
“You’ve been acting slightly strange lately.”
“Strange? Who me?”
*
We’re all a lot less weird and unusual than we aspire to be. Not nearly as kooky or eccentric as we would like. I wonder why it is so difficult to resign oneself to being normal? Almost as if normalcy (I was toying with the word ordinarity till I realised it wasn’t really a word at all, ordinariness however is) were an awful curse.
*
Po-yum
Mona is a royal farce
Coyly eyeing Marley’s arse
Would it grievously maim or hurt you,
To protect your dubious virtue?
All the pigeons writhe with shame
Shudder to speak your sullied name
And naughty lizards skirt the issue
With arguments as frail as tissue
Red curtains occupied by thoughts
Tie themselves up in great big knots
Curious clothes from cupboards tumble
And all I can muster is a humble,
“Grumble mumble grumble mumble.”
The end.
*
“You’ve been acting slightly strange lately”
“Strange? Who’s acting?”
*
“Friends, Romans, Countrymen… lend me your ears…
I shall have them back to you by Saturday next…promise”
(I’m terribly sorry. For some strange reason I’ve always wanted to crack that one)
*
And funnily enough, we are on occasion far more peculiar than we are comfortable with. This propensity for "uniqueness" is often badly timed. You can never count on it when surrounded by eclectic people who would appreciate strangeness and such like nonsense. And never once will it manifest itself when you most need an alibi or a scapegoat.
*
I really hope that made at least some sense. I really tried for it to. If you could just crack open my head you’d see the idea in its original form. It was a good one.
Oh well.
Saturday, 29 December 2007
Friday, 28 December 2007
Jos
Jos, I'll be your loyal whore
You make me gasp, I beg for more
21 minutes... far too few
Tell me, was it good for you?
Practition-er of evil sorcery
Appreciate-er of my po-yut-ree
Give-er of most lethal smiles
Immune to my most potent wiles
Jos, I, your guileless twit
Shall undress before you bit by bit
Strip away the candyfloss and grime
Sell my soul to make this sentence rhyme
While you slumber in an uncertain bed
Of all the secrets in my head
I watch in horror, in admiration gape
And anecdotify a fairly pleasant rape
_____
If this doesn't rhyme, you're probably just saying it wrong..
So there.
You make me gasp, I beg for more
21 minutes... far too few
Tell me, was it good for you?
Practition-er of evil sorcery
Appreciate-er of my po-yut-ree
Give-er of most lethal smiles
Immune to my most potent wiles
Jos, I, your guileless twit
Shall undress before you bit by bit
Strip away the candyfloss and grime
Sell my soul to make this sentence rhyme
While you slumber in an uncertain bed
Of all the secrets in my head
I watch in horror, in admiration gape
And anecdotify a fairly pleasant rape
_____
If this doesn't rhyme, you're probably just saying it wrong..
So there.
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
Christmas correspondence: something for everyone
Dear Santa,
I have been a really good girl this year. No kidding.
I know I know… my vocabulary has gone down the tubes. Swearing comes much easier now than it ever did. But apart from the odd invective and cuss word laden sentence or two, I’ve led a model existence.
I’ve done nothing even remotely exciting for most of the last 6 months, I barely even drink anymore (the QBA weekend being a regrettable incident). And its not like I ever smoked (much) or smoked up (at all). I’m terribly sedate and boring (i.e. deserving of generosity).
Yes, I haven’t been as bookwormish as the course demands. But some things tend to take a back seat when you attempt to give direction to the meaningless lives of roughly 90 odd people.
All I want for Christmas…I want an i-pod (not particularly subtle am I?). In the event that the said device cannot be delivered to me, I’ll settle for world peace.
(I’m a shade more partial to the i-pod)
**
I received an e-mail from Raquelle yesterday. It was so beautiful I was tempted to reproduce it in its entirety right here. First, it was long and detailed to a fault. Its hard not to fall in love with someone who puts that much effort into a letter. Second, it was hilarious in a self deprecating sort of way, by far my favourite brand of humour. And last, it kicked off with a compliment for me, always a good idea.
**
Poogalicious PPP,
Yes, I know you wrote to me as well. No, I did not appreciate it any less than Raquelle’s epistle. Yes, I have taken your advice and gone public with one of my portfolio pictures (with excellent results: rave reviews on g-talk. Face book to follow suit). No, I have not killed myself yet and have no intention to either. Yes, you surmised correctly, I am just rationalising. No, my optimism is still alive and kicking (also being kicked once in a while). Yes, no, maybe so. Same difference.
All I know for certain is that you were wrong and I was right or the other way around… can’t say for sure. We can always settle this once you get back.
Arguing for the sake of arguing is fun, even when you aren’t here.
P.S. on Sunday, I slapped a man. And he slapped me right back. Don’t be alarmed, I have an amazing feminist take on it.
**
But I decided against my copy paste idea. I realised that part of why the letter made for a brilliant read was because I could imagine her sitting in front of me, narrating its contents in a way that is so characteristic of her… how she’d speak with breathless spurts, wiggling her little fingers, looking at me seductively/comically above the rim of her glasses and on becoming particularly contemplative, twirling a lock of extra curly mallu hair. All this garnished with the shrillest possible laugh, followed closely by several stages of embarrassment, mouth covering, apologizing and fortunately lots more laughing.
**
Bachan (Kuwindar),
You called yesterday and it made my day. It damn near made my week and month as well. How can I ever return the favour? Ah yes, Limca and Cadbury chocolate…
After some tedious calculations I have concluded that if I set aside a little money every month I should be able to save enough for a one-way ticket to Canada by somewhere around 2016. At which point of time penury will force me to finally accept the marriage proposal. What to say yaar… your twin green cards are way too tempting. That and the prospect of a lifetime of watching Hindi movies and subjecting them to extended critical analysis.
Fikar mat kar, I am fair, homely Punjabi girl (5’3”) of respectable family. Will provide sufficient dowry as well (No prizes for guessing… more Limca and Cadbury chocolate)
Do call again, on whichever of the two Monday’s that is convenient for you.
**
The rest of the world (or the few people who read this blog) would not see that. They’d see a bunch of words on a fairly bland black page (I really ought to do something about the layout, spice things up around here). The prose was exquisite, but its funny how the same set of words can speak so differently to different people.
**
KorahKorah,
Who knew a compliment-less existence could be so tedious. Is it the same for you? No one appreciates us. Well, at least not quite as efficiently as we appreciate each other.
We would have made a nice pair… admiring each others’ respective virtues till well into geriatry. Never a dull moment. And to think we had the chance and never capitalised on it.
Curses…
**
That made me wonder what those who read this blog would think. Do I sound smarter than I really am, calmer, more composed? Or sillier, peculiar and nebulous…
For those who know me or knew me once or know or knew one of the several mes (complicated sentence!), is mine the first face that would spring to mind when they read blimblop? And for those who don’t, what do they think of me, or rather, this version of me?
**
To the Earl of Pearls/ Duke of Puke
All in good time… all of this will add up to something. Something good. All the constant travelling around the badlands of a god forsaken “territory” peddling your wares. Hoping the numbers add up so as to please the powers that be.
There must be some meaning to the madnss.
*madness
If there weren’t, it wouldn’t be happening.
**
And what of those who love and adore me? the ones I love and adore if for no better reason than… well… their love and adoration. Those who’ve known me… at my highest of highs (alcohol induced and otherwise) and lowest of lows. Those who have put up with me? Who’ve seen the nice me, the not so nice me, sad, happy, indifferent, sleepy, nagging, farting, scratching. The pretty me, ugly me. Is the me of blimblop fame, reconcilable with all the others?
**
Pai,
What can I say that hasn’t already been said… that hasn’t already been written… that hasn’t already gotten a laugh out of you. Bolo… bolo bolo
Promise me you’ll always laugh at my jokes, right on cue.
And…
Ponnie,
You’d think life would stop being uncooperative and just figure itself the hell out. This is really turning out to be way too inconvenient.
Do write that graphic novel of yours, become a great big celebrity, so that we can all live off you shamelessly as you had so nobly aspired to live off us. For my part, I’ll try my best to take over the corporate world. Won’t guarantee much on that front. Have taken a sudden and vehement dislike for business suits.
Further…
Jos!!!!!
You have been in delhi all of 24 hours and still not established contact. Puhleeez… Shut Up!! Are you serious???? I will never ever ever ever under any conceivable circumstances speak with you again! Unless of course you do end up calling, in which case let’s meet at Big Chill and try to work out a compromise formula (ha ha.. eeeeiizzz)
I have so so very much to say… and it’s not even funny. While certain prospects have died a natural death there has been a resurgence of the IIM-A men. I have plenty of ammunition to make you writhe and squirm and squeel. Do lets meet.
**
and I wonder if the people with whom we spend so much time will forget what we’re like unless we keep meeting them and calling them or writing to them. What instance in your acquaintance defines the image of you that they will carry with them when a more reliable reminder is hard to find? A shared joke, a deep, dark confession, a fight, unpleasant words. A song, a giggle, a poem, a piece of advice. An idea, a comfortable silence?
**
Mathu,
Can we urge the government to re-engage your father with R.A.W., retirement notwithstanding? And move ya’ll back into the beautiful house on Tughlak Lane. So that we can decorate Christmas trees in perpetuity. Show up with our grubby selves and pretend to be of some use, while secretly eyeing the martinis and steaming hot appams. Then we’ll invite Jatty to do his stellar Rajnikant impression and laugh till our tummies ache…and then laugh some more.
Can we not grow up for just a little while longer? Have another one of those “I don’t quite know where life is going and what I’m going to do with it” conversations without actually having to worry where life is going and what we’re going to do with it.
I’m sure you can do something about it. You’ve got connections, haven't you?
**
Merry Christmas to all… and to all a good night.
Best,
Me.
I have been a really good girl this year. No kidding.
I know I know… my vocabulary has gone down the tubes. Swearing comes much easier now than it ever did. But apart from the odd invective and cuss word laden sentence or two, I’ve led a model existence.
I’ve done nothing even remotely exciting for most of the last 6 months, I barely even drink anymore (the QBA weekend being a regrettable incident). And its not like I ever smoked (much) or smoked up (at all). I’m terribly sedate and boring (i.e. deserving of generosity).
Yes, I haven’t been as bookwormish as the course demands. But some things tend to take a back seat when you attempt to give direction to the meaningless lives of roughly 90 odd people.
All I want for Christmas…I want an i-pod (not particularly subtle am I?). In the event that the said device cannot be delivered to me, I’ll settle for world peace.
(I’m a shade more partial to the i-pod)
**
I received an e-mail from Raquelle yesterday. It was so beautiful I was tempted to reproduce it in its entirety right here. First, it was long and detailed to a fault. Its hard not to fall in love with someone who puts that much effort into a letter. Second, it was hilarious in a self deprecating sort of way, by far my favourite brand of humour. And last, it kicked off with a compliment for me, always a good idea.
**
Poogalicious PPP,
Yes, I know you wrote to me as well. No, I did not appreciate it any less than Raquelle’s epistle. Yes, I have taken your advice and gone public with one of my portfolio pictures (with excellent results: rave reviews on g-talk. Face book to follow suit). No, I have not killed myself yet and have no intention to either. Yes, you surmised correctly, I am just rationalising. No, my optimism is still alive and kicking (also being kicked once in a while). Yes, no, maybe so. Same difference.
All I know for certain is that you were wrong and I was right or the other way around… can’t say for sure. We can always settle this once you get back.
Arguing for the sake of arguing is fun, even when you aren’t here.
P.S. on Sunday, I slapped a man. And he slapped me right back. Don’t be alarmed, I have an amazing feminist take on it.
**
But I decided against my copy paste idea. I realised that part of why the letter made for a brilliant read was because I could imagine her sitting in front of me, narrating its contents in a way that is so characteristic of her… how she’d speak with breathless spurts, wiggling her little fingers, looking at me seductively/comically above the rim of her glasses and on becoming particularly contemplative, twirling a lock of extra curly mallu hair. All this garnished with the shrillest possible laugh, followed closely by several stages of embarrassment, mouth covering, apologizing and fortunately lots more laughing.
**
Bachan (Kuwindar),
You called yesterday and it made my day. It damn near made my week and month as well. How can I ever return the favour? Ah yes, Limca and Cadbury chocolate…
After some tedious calculations I have concluded that if I set aside a little money every month I should be able to save enough for a one-way ticket to Canada by somewhere around 2016. At which point of time penury will force me to finally accept the marriage proposal. What to say yaar… your twin green cards are way too tempting. That and the prospect of a lifetime of watching Hindi movies and subjecting them to extended critical analysis.
Fikar mat kar, I am fair, homely Punjabi girl (5’3”) of respectable family. Will provide sufficient dowry as well (No prizes for guessing… more Limca and Cadbury chocolate)
Do call again, on whichever of the two Monday’s that is convenient for you.
**
The rest of the world (or the few people who read this blog) would not see that. They’d see a bunch of words on a fairly bland black page (I really ought to do something about the layout, spice things up around here). The prose was exquisite, but its funny how the same set of words can speak so differently to different people.
**
KorahKorah,
Who knew a compliment-less existence could be so tedious. Is it the same for you? No one appreciates us. Well, at least not quite as efficiently as we appreciate each other.
We would have made a nice pair… admiring each others’ respective virtues till well into geriatry. Never a dull moment. And to think we had the chance and never capitalised on it.
Curses…
**
That made me wonder what those who read this blog would think. Do I sound smarter than I really am, calmer, more composed? Or sillier, peculiar and nebulous…
For those who know me or knew me once or know or knew one of the several mes (complicated sentence!), is mine the first face that would spring to mind when they read blimblop? And for those who don’t, what do they think of me, or rather, this version of me?
**
To the Earl of Pearls/ Duke of Puke
All in good time… all of this will add up to something. Something good. All the constant travelling around the badlands of a god forsaken “territory” peddling your wares. Hoping the numbers add up so as to please the powers that be.
There must be some meaning to the madnss.
*madness
If there weren’t, it wouldn’t be happening.
**
And what of those who love and adore me? the ones I love and adore if for no better reason than… well… their love and adoration. Those who’ve known me… at my highest of highs (alcohol induced and otherwise) and lowest of lows. Those who have put up with me? Who’ve seen the nice me, the not so nice me, sad, happy, indifferent, sleepy, nagging, farting, scratching. The pretty me, ugly me. Is the me of blimblop fame, reconcilable with all the others?
**
Pai,
What can I say that hasn’t already been said… that hasn’t already been written… that hasn’t already gotten a laugh out of you. Bolo… bolo bolo
Promise me you’ll always laugh at my jokes, right on cue.
And…
Ponnie,
You’d think life would stop being uncooperative and just figure itself the hell out. This is really turning out to be way too inconvenient.
Do write that graphic novel of yours, become a great big celebrity, so that we can all live off you shamelessly as you had so nobly aspired to live off us. For my part, I’ll try my best to take over the corporate world. Won’t guarantee much on that front. Have taken a sudden and vehement dislike for business suits.
Further…
Jos!!!!!
You have been in delhi all of 24 hours and still not established contact. Puhleeez… Shut Up!! Are you serious???? I will never ever ever ever under any conceivable circumstances speak with you again! Unless of course you do end up calling, in which case let’s meet at Big Chill and try to work out a compromise formula (ha ha.. eeeeiizzz)
I have so so very much to say… and it’s not even funny. While certain prospects have died a natural death there has been a resurgence of the IIM-A men. I have plenty of ammunition to make you writhe and squirm and squeel. Do lets meet.
**
and I wonder if the people with whom we spend so much time will forget what we’re like unless we keep meeting them and calling them or writing to them. What instance in your acquaintance defines the image of you that they will carry with them when a more reliable reminder is hard to find? A shared joke, a deep, dark confession, a fight, unpleasant words. A song, a giggle, a poem, a piece of advice. An idea, a comfortable silence?
**
Mathu,
Can we urge the government to re-engage your father with R.A.W., retirement notwithstanding? And move ya’ll back into the beautiful house on Tughlak Lane. So that we can decorate Christmas trees in perpetuity. Show up with our grubby selves and pretend to be of some use, while secretly eyeing the martinis and steaming hot appams. Then we’ll invite Jatty to do his stellar Rajnikant impression and laugh till our tummies ache…and then laugh some more.
Can we not grow up for just a little while longer? Have another one of those “I don’t quite know where life is going and what I’m going to do with it” conversations without actually having to worry where life is going and what we’re going to do with it.
I’m sure you can do something about it. You’ve got connections, haven't you?
**
Merry Christmas to all… and to all a good night.
Best,
Me.
Sunday, 23 December 2007
Winsome, Lose some: From One Ms. Understood to Another
Dear Rakhi,
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again (and once more if it pleases you) - the universe is unfair. I know defeat and disappointment have this annoying habit of bringing everything in their vicinity to a grinding, screeching halt. Till you feel like the very air you breathe is in suspended animation and it is a struggle to simply respire. And that the most valiant of attempts to swallow one's pride can lead to the most crippling cases of indigestion.
But we must be strong, you and I. We are resilient and beautiful women and we must not let the world so much as think otherwise. The key is to suck it all in… not give the slightest indication that anything is amiss. Because in good time all will be well. While the wounds take time to heal on the inside, all the world should be able to see is a smile.
And if “upsetness” becomes a shade harder to handle, my advice: start a blog…
But I digress. If at all by a bizarre twist of fate you do end up reading this (yes, I know the chances of Rakhi Sawant reading this lie somewhere in a miniscule radius around nil) know that I am your soul sister. I feel a strange kinship with you. Agreed, I’m not a sexy item girl (unless you count the video we made at the Christmas party, which bordered dangerously on pornography) and I’ve never had plastic surgery (unless you count the time I had my front two teeth rebuilt after breaking them on a roller coaster at Appu Ghar). I’m loud and ridiculous to only a select few while the whole world sees that side of your personality. But we have one incontrovertible thing in common. We are both fools.
Fellow fool, our brilliance is lost on an unappreciative audience. Your charms and my words are wasted on a world that thinks it knows better. That would settle for what is obvious, safe and convenient.
In your grief, know that I am right there, grieving with you, albeit silently. I tried my best to cry, but all I could muster up after much effort, much extended reflection on sad and morbid things and countless attempts at facial gymnastics (the last of which usually works like a charm) was a cough followed closely by a giggle. I figured my inability to summon tears could mean one of two things, a) That years of watching mindless TV shows and being exposed to horrible images in movies have turned my heart to stone, b) That I wasn’t altogether shattered by the situation in which I find myself. I’m inclined to the latter explanation but either way, you’ve shed tears copious enough for the two of us. So rest assured that universal equilibrium has not been disturbed.
Rest assured also that we will survive our respective catastrophes. If for no better reason than that we have precious little say in the matter and no other choice but to survive. “Hardship build character” and you know you can never get enough of that (character I mean, not hardship. I’m sure there is an upper cap on the woes that one person must shoulder in a lifetime). And of course “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. We’ll emerge like Samsons from this fight. The strong Samson, with his long locks intact, before that dastardly Delilah’s devious delinquency (I am a sucker for alliteration).
Today we shall mourn. We will take our poor injured little hearts, sow up the torn bits and glue the rest together. And come night time, it will be as if nothing at all happened.
And tomorrow, as my other friend Scarlett likes to say, “…is another day…”
Best,
Me
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again (and once more if it pleases you) - the universe is unfair. I know defeat and disappointment have this annoying habit of bringing everything in their vicinity to a grinding, screeching halt. Till you feel like the very air you breathe is in suspended animation and it is a struggle to simply respire. And that the most valiant of attempts to swallow one's pride can lead to the most crippling cases of indigestion.
But we must be strong, you and I. We are resilient and beautiful women and we must not let the world so much as think otherwise. The key is to suck it all in… not give the slightest indication that anything is amiss. Because in good time all will be well. While the wounds take time to heal on the inside, all the world should be able to see is a smile.
And if “upsetness” becomes a shade harder to handle, my advice: start a blog…
But I digress. If at all by a bizarre twist of fate you do end up reading this (yes, I know the chances of Rakhi Sawant reading this lie somewhere in a miniscule radius around nil) know that I am your soul sister. I feel a strange kinship with you. Agreed, I’m not a sexy item girl (unless you count the video we made at the Christmas party, which bordered dangerously on pornography) and I’ve never had plastic surgery (unless you count the time I had my front two teeth rebuilt after breaking them on a roller coaster at Appu Ghar). I’m loud and ridiculous to only a select few while the whole world sees that side of your personality. But we have one incontrovertible thing in common. We are both fools.
Fellow fool, our brilliance is lost on an unappreciative audience. Your charms and my words are wasted on a world that thinks it knows better. That would settle for what is obvious, safe and convenient.
In your grief, know that I am right there, grieving with you, albeit silently. I tried my best to cry, but all I could muster up after much effort, much extended reflection on sad and morbid things and countless attempts at facial gymnastics (the last of which usually works like a charm) was a cough followed closely by a giggle. I figured my inability to summon tears could mean one of two things, a) That years of watching mindless TV shows and being exposed to horrible images in movies have turned my heart to stone, b) That I wasn’t altogether shattered by the situation in which I find myself. I’m inclined to the latter explanation but either way, you’ve shed tears copious enough for the two of us. So rest assured that universal equilibrium has not been disturbed.
Rest assured also that we will survive our respective catastrophes. If for no better reason than that we have precious little say in the matter and no other choice but to survive. “Hardship build character” and you know you can never get enough of that (character I mean, not hardship. I’m sure there is an upper cap on the woes that one person must shoulder in a lifetime). And of course “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. We’ll emerge like Samsons from this fight. The strong Samson, with his long locks intact, before that dastardly Delilah’s devious delinquency (I am a sucker for alliteration).
Today we shall mourn. We will take our poor injured little hearts, sow up the torn bits and glue the rest together. And come night time, it will be as if nothing at all happened.
And tomorrow, as my other friend Scarlett likes to say, “…is another day…”
Best,
Me
Saturday, 22 December 2007
It had all the ingredients for a perfect day. That was of course before it actually began.
[Apologies to readership (yes, I mean all 4 of you). I had really meant to make this light and chirpy. But I’m exhausted and the sentiment that comes most naturally to this state is melancholy. As I see it, I might as well indulge my gloominess while I have the luxury of time to describe it at great lengths. In the coming month, I see myself as too busy to even complain.]
I had meticulously planned every precious second leading up to when I would finally relinquish some tedious tasks and slip away quietly into my own company. And then the world would be my oyster… I had a destination in mind, I had a plan. To immerse myself in a sea of strangers.
[There is something strangely comforting about being in close proximity to people you have never met and don’t know. They acknowledge your existence but never for long enough for it to matter. You’re an insignificant blob that serves little purpose other than warming the seat next to them in the metro, being an obstruction when they’re in a hurry to get past you on the footpath and a potential source of entertainment if your conversations (with others or yourself) can be eavesdropped upon.
And most importantly, they don’t ask questions. They ask for directions, they ask for the time, they ask for you to shove yourself out of their way… all of which can be satisfied with mechanical and fairly dispassionate responses]
I woke up on the right side of the bed, that too in time for an excellent early morning shower. I decided to debut a recently acquired kurta… a perfectly resplendent shade of pink. I wore the prettiest of smiles. I looked quite beautiful, if I do say so myself.
[And what the hell… I’ll just go ahead and say it myself. There is only so long that one can wait for someone else to notice.]
Work was to wrap up early, which is just as well because I had lined up recreational pursuits for the evening. And the weather Gods were on my side too, today was the one pleasant day in December. It had all the ingredients of a perfect date with… myself, arguably one of my favourite people.
[I laugh at all my jokes, am very attentive to my needs and extremely patient with my bouts of indecision. I also always notice when I’ve lost weight, never forget my own birthday and if I had the money I’d buy myself flowers frequently. I’m the person I most like making conversation with (much to the embarrassment and bewilderment of people who catch me in the act). In short, I’m a good catch, for myself]
This is the part when I describe how my plans for the day went horribly and terribly awry. But I’d rather not do that. Let’s just say that it wasn’t an altogether perfect day. Most things went wrong; some slightly wrong and others immeasurably. Unpleasant things were said about me and to me; some slightly unpleasant and others… well the others just hurt…plain and simple. If it wasn’t for my stubborn pride I could have wept.
I settled for a long walk home and a stop at Nirula’s en-route for a cup of coffee.
[I usually just go there to use the conveniences. But the place looked really empty this evening. And given that all of DU has shut shop for the winter, their numbers are likely to take a sizable hit. I don’t know why but I felt bad. Like I had to make up for all the lost business. That and shamelessly using the loo on an all too regular basis. Even if it means consuming super sweet and milky Georgia coffee]
Close of work was unexpectedly delayed and my grand plans lay in tatters. But I can’t help but wonder if I deliberately sabotaged an opportunity to enjoy free time. I could just have put my foot down, said, “enough” and just marched off.
Maybe I’ve grown tired of myself and would rather be engaged with these odious tasks rather than spend time with me. Perhaps I fear solitude because all I do with it is dwell on the 6 million things that still need to done and the 6 billion things still left to be worked out.
I enjoy my own company less and less these days and it makes for a difficult proposition. Because it is easy to be alone, with no one around but myself. In fact, most times it comes naturally and voluntarily. But now, I don’t want to be with myself either.
And that can be quite lonely…
[Apologies to readership (yes, I mean all 4 of you). I had really meant to make this light and chirpy. But I’m exhausted and the sentiment that comes most naturally to this state is melancholy. As I see it, I might as well indulge my gloominess while I have the luxury of time to describe it at great lengths. In the coming month, I see myself as too busy to even complain.]
I had meticulously planned every precious second leading up to when I would finally relinquish some tedious tasks and slip away quietly into my own company. And then the world would be my oyster… I had a destination in mind, I had a plan. To immerse myself in a sea of strangers.
[There is something strangely comforting about being in close proximity to people you have never met and don’t know. They acknowledge your existence but never for long enough for it to matter. You’re an insignificant blob that serves little purpose other than warming the seat next to them in the metro, being an obstruction when they’re in a hurry to get past you on the footpath and a potential source of entertainment if your conversations (with others or yourself) can be eavesdropped upon.
And most importantly, they don’t ask questions. They ask for directions, they ask for the time, they ask for you to shove yourself out of their way… all of which can be satisfied with mechanical and fairly dispassionate responses]
I woke up on the right side of the bed, that too in time for an excellent early morning shower. I decided to debut a recently acquired kurta… a perfectly resplendent shade of pink. I wore the prettiest of smiles. I looked quite beautiful, if I do say so myself.
[And what the hell… I’ll just go ahead and say it myself. There is only so long that one can wait for someone else to notice.]
Work was to wrap up early, which is just as well because I had lined up recreational pursuits for the evening. And the weather Gods were on my side too, today was the one pleasant day in December. It had all the ingredients of a perfect date with… myself, arguably one of my favourite people.
[I laugh at all my jokes, am very attentive to my needs and extremely patient with my bouts of indecision. I also always notice when I’ve lost weight, never forget my own birthday and if I had the money I’d buy myself flowers frequently. I’m the person I most like making conversation with (much to the embarrassment and bewilderment of people who catch me in the act). In short, I’m a good catch, for myself]
This is the part when I describe how my plans for the day went horribly and terribly awry. But I’d rather not do that. Let’s just say that it wasn’t an altogether perfect day. Most things went wrong; some slightly wrong and others immeasurably. Unpleasant things were said about me and to me; some slightly unpleasant and others… well the others just hurt…plain and simple. If it wasn’t for my stubborn pride I could have wept.
I settled for a long walk home and a stop at Nirula’s en-route for a cup of coffee.
[I usually just go there to use the conveniences. But the place looked really empty this evening. And given that all of DU has shut shop for the winter, their numbers are likely to take a sizable hit. I don’t know why but I felt bad. Like I had to make up for all the lost business. That and shamelessly using the loo on an all too regular basis. Even if it means consuming super sweet and milky Georgia coffee]
Close of work was unexpectedly delayed and my grand plans lay in tatters. But I can’t help but wonder if I deliberately sabotaged an opportunity to enjoy free time. I could just have put my foot down, said, “enough” and just marched off.
Maybe I’ve grown tired of myself and would rather be engaged with these odious tasks rather than spend time with me. Perhaps I fear solitude because all I do with it is dwell on the 6 million things that still need to done and the 6 billion things still left to be worked out.
I enjoy my own company less and less these days and it makes for a difficult proposition. Because it is easy to be alone, with no one around but myself. In fact, most times it comes naturally and voluntarily. But now, I don’t want to be with myself either.
And that can be quite lonely…
Friday, 21 December 2007
Apocalypse Now, or somewhere around the corner
It amazes me, the stuff that passes for news these days. Yesterday I walked into the T.V. room to discover that news channel ‘X’ had declared that the world was coming to an end (I kid you not). In no less than 5 years mind you.
“…paanch saal mein pralay aane vaala hai!”
In the midst of helpless giggles, rolling on the floor and general merriment we all realised that we, at the ripe age of 22, must ready ourselves for certain death and destruction. Reconcile ourselves to not having done any of the stupendous things we were otherwise intended to do. That we’d have to pack what would have been a lifetime’s worth of life and living into 5 years…
We also realised that none of us had boyfriends…
It amazes me how many if not most conversations eventually wind themselves down to this very subject. Whether it’s a comparative analysis of the merits of facebook versus the now jaded appeal of orkut or a vituperative diatribe against the steadily deteriorating quality of the laddoos we get for dessert. Whether we discuss movies or clothes or music or the weather…stock exchange fluctuations or UFOs. It somehow always becomes about boys… or lack thereof.
The discourse that follows has several clearly defined stages:-
1. Whining: This stage is not content specific. It’s more of a voice modulation thing… nasally and sing song sounds are its defining characteristics. But it is easily the most versatile of all the stages spanning a wide spectrum of themes e.g. frustration, boredom, confusion, loneliness, horniness and advanced cases of frustration, boredom, confusion…etc. Serves to spell out the problem in it’s entirety.
2. Introspection and General Speculation (a.k.a the “what could the reason be/could it be me?” stage): This is the preliminary dissection stage. May see the proposal of several plausible hypotheses and an attempt to discern the true reasons for solitude. We’re all still fairly rational at this point (or seem to be).
3. Denial I: Talk of the nature of “all men we know are either blind, gay or taken… there couldn’t be a more logical explanation”. The point is to highlight as many possible and even remotely convincing arguments to illustrate that one’s single status is nothing more than the successful outcome of an evil conspiracy hatched and put into action by the collective efforts of all forces of nature and miscellaneous troublemaking elements.
4. Transient Hopefulness: This stage features a sudden inexplicable mood upturn. Side effects may include efforts to enumerate prospective targets at whom feminine wiles should be strategically aimed for desired result: instant boyfriendification. A listing of worthy candidates. The duration of this stage is a function of the supporting environment. If you’re in dschool it can be wrapped up in a matter of seconds. In dschool sufferer lexicon we refer to it as “temporary and short-lived insanity”.
5. Denial II: Best captured by statements of the form “I don’t really need a boyfriend, I mean who has the time anyway?” or “I really value my independence and a man would constitute a drag on my autonomy” and better still, “I’m still young, there’s plenty of time for all that stuff”. This stage is actually a bit of a conundrum. Some say it exists other deny it vehemently. Some say the reasons are true and others rubbish their genuineness. Further investigation required.
6. Realisation and Much Lamentation: The keen eye alone can distinguish this from stage 1. Tell-tale signs include loud exasperated complaining and griping about how all the men in the world are indeed, “blind or gay or taken” and how we are all destined to die lonely spinsters only to be mourned by our faithful legions of domesticated felines and fowl.
7. Exhaustion and Collapse: (Title self explanatory)
As our short and seemingly miserable lives draw to a much dreaded close I see us performing the above sequence with far greater frequency than is normally observed. Perhaps the need of the hour will help snap us out of inaction and one of us will actually do something about it. Take the bull by it’s horns and actually manage to ensnare some unsuspecting fool. Snap a good catch from the allegedly plentiful sea.
As for me, I think I’ve sweet-talked myself into an advanced stage of apparent indifference. When it comes to a choice between complaining about the void in my life as opposed to the scary prospect of actually doing something to remedy the situation, the former wins every time. Blame it all on a potent mix of laziness and insecurity that lead up to the most chronic case of inertia ever.
If the impending apocalypse makes for a pressing enough need and I don't have the luxury to wait for a knight in white shining armour on his noble steed, I suppose I’ll just settle for one of the 4 horsemen…
“…paanch saal mein pralay aane vaala hai!”
In the midst of helpless giggles, rolling on the floor and general merriment we all realised that we, at the ripe age of 22, must ready ourselves for certain death and destruction. Reconcile ourselves to not having done any of the stupendous things we were otherwise intended to do. That we’d have to pack what would have been a lifetime’s worth of life and living into 5 years…
We also realised that none of us had boyfriends…
It amazes me how many if not most conversations eventually wind themselves down to this very subject. Whether it’s a comparative analysis of the merits of facebook versus the now jaded appeal of orkut or a vituperative diatribe against the steadily deteriorating quality of the laddoos we get for dessert. Whether we discuss movies or clothes or music or the weather…stock exchange fluctuations or UFOs. It somehow always becomes about boys… or lack thereof.
The discourse that follows has several clearly defined stages:-
1. Whining: This stage is not content specific. It’s more of a voice modulation thing… nasally and sing song sounds are its defining characteristics. But it is easily the most versatile of all the stages spanning a wide spectrum of themes e.g. frustration, boredom, confusion, loneliness, horniness and advanced cases of frustration, boredom, confusion…etc. Serves to spell out the problem in it’s entirety.
2. Introspection and General Speculation (a.k.a the “what could the reason be/could it be me?” stage): This is the preliminary dissection stage. May see the proposal of several plausible hypotheses and an attempt to discern the true reasons for solitude. We’re all still fairly rational at this point (or seem to be).
3. Denial I: Talk of the nature of “all men we know are either blind, gay or taken… there couldn’t be a more logical explanation”. The point is to highlight as many possible and even remotely convincing arguments to illustrate that one’s single status is nothing more than the successful outcome of an evil conspiracy hatched and put into action by the collective efforts of all forces of nature and miscellaneous troublemaking elements.
4. Transient Hopefulness: This stage features a sudden inexplicable mood upturn. Side effects may include efforts to enumerate prospective targets at whom feminine wiles should be strategically aimed for desired result: instant boyfriendification. A listing of worthy candidates. The duration of this stage is a function of the supporting environment. If you’re in dschool it can be wrapped up in a matter of seconds. In dschool sufferer lexicon we refer to it as “temporary and short-lived insanity”.
5. Denial II: Best captured by statements of the form “I don’t really need a boyfriend, I mean who has the time anyway?” or “I really value my independence and a man would constitute a drag on my autonomy” and better still, “I’m still young, there’s plenty of time for all that stuff”. This stage is actually a bit of a conundrum. Some say it exists other deny it vehemently. Some say the reasons are true and others rubbish their genuineness. Further investigation required.
6. Realisation and Much Lamentation: The keen eye alone can distinguish this from stage 1. Tell-tale signs include loud exasperated complaining and griping about how all the men in the world are indeed, “blind or gay or taken” and how we are all destined to die lonely spinsters only to be mourned by our faithful legions of domesticated felines and fowl.
7. Exhaustion and Collapse: (Title self explanatory)
As our short and seemingly miserable lives draw to a much dreaded close I see us performing the above sequence with far greater frequency than is normally observed. Perhaps the need of the hour will help snap us out of inaction and one of us will actually do something about it. Take the bull by it’s horns and actually manage to ensnare some unsuspecting fool. Snap a good catch from the allegedly plentiful sea.
As for me, I think I’ve sweet-talked myself into an advanced stage of apparent indifference. When it comes to a choice between complaining about the void in my life as opposed to the scary prospect of actually doing something to remedy the situation, the former wins every time. Blame it all on a potent mix of laziness and insecurity that lead up to the most chronic case of inertia ever.
If the impending apocalypse makes for a pressing enough need and I don't have the luxury to wait for a knight in white shining armour on his noble steed, I suppose I’ll just settle for one of the 4 horsemen…
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Winter, and not quite discontent
I’ve lived up north for most of my life, barring the first 8 odd years. Yet, my cold resistance barrier remains pitifully low and seems to dwindle with every passing winter.
Delhi isn’t the kindest of cities, weather wise. Though most people loathe the summers, I find them to be fairly survivable. It’s the winter that truly gets under my skin. The winter is when I start to complain (even if only to myself).
This horrid season does have some redeeming features though. And there are some choicest few things that are best if not better enjoyed during the winter. I thought I’d put together some kind words for winter. The past few days have allowed me to indulge in the few pleasures it affords.
Coffee
At first d-school was unsurvivable: I loved that I was there, just hated most if not all people who were there with me, I loved the course but hated the way it was taught. I seemed to have a whole lot more time on my hands than most of my classmates and just had nothing to do with it. It killed me. Because I hate being unhappy and the only thing I hate more is being unable to bring myself out of unhappiness. And I was drowning.
It was then that I hatched my famous “conspiracy against d-school”. That I would survive it with a smile even if I died in the process. And the effort damn near killed me too.
The first and most reliable weapon in this crusade was the coffee. I’d force myself into the canteen’s jam packed interior and then further into its deep dark recesses to where it’s source lay. I fell deeply in love with the man who served the coffee, always (and I mean always) with a kind word to say and a smile. It became my “thing”. I’d look forward to it from the moment I woke up and every minute of lectures that I plodded through took me one minute closer to it.
But it was the winter that made the experience truly blissful. Somewhere in December, arguably the best month in these parts. I’d sit on the ledge with my cup of coffee (and never ever without a spoon) stir and stare… stir and stare…stir some more and stare some more. Observe social formations in d-school, people arguing animatedly, flirting coquettishly, talking about great and significant things with great and significant gesticulations, boys engaged in bird-watching, other people having coffee.
Suddenly I began to belong. And for the few moments the coffee took to finish, everything even remotely unpleasant ceased to exist.
People who’ve observed me in this state often tell me that I looked so detached, almost as if I’d attained nirvana. They’ll never know how close to the truth they are.
*
(warning: the following text contains uncharacteristically corny content. I suppose it’s a question of taste, but given the choice I’d skip it. Either that or read it and criticise it mercilessly. Proceed at your own risk, or mine)
I finally found a use for my great big balcony this Saturday. I picked up a book, aimed my chair toward the sun and read.
I was warm and snug, in nothing but a t-shirt and thin pyjamas… no socks. Twiddling my fingers and toes and soaking in the glorious sun. To be fair I was so caught up in how perfect that moment was that the poor book was purely incidental to the situation. I couldn’t for the life of me concentrate on its contents.
I’d keep tuning in and out, preferring my reveries to the story as it unfolded. Not that I didn’t like the book. I thought it was lovely, beautifully written. The protagonist sounded like an interesting person, someone I’d like to meet and have a conversation with, but not quite like to know. Someone I could see myself falling in love with and never forgiving myself for.
But poor Merseult lost out in the end. My day dreams had people I know or would like to know, people I’ve met, seen. People with faces I’d recognise and voices I’d like to hear. People I love, few whom I momentarily I hate and some that I’m fairly indifferent about.
…despite being sidelined, the moment was still mostly about the book.
(ok I know that sounds contradictory and stupid, but its sort of hard to explain).
Somewhere in the middle of all this I couldn’t help but think: This is the life we all aspire to lead. Curl up in the sun and just read a book. Not because it will earn you an extra mark or get you a better job. Not because it contains valuable lessons to be learnt. Not even because you’ll remember it at a later point in time and reflect on how it altered your life. But simply because…
Except that it is impossible to sustain without engaging oneself in the trappings of real life. Studying, working, making money… Until these means to the end become ends in themselves.
And then I started to think of these real live things and grown up worries and concerns.
I didn’t quite enjoy that bit… and I hate that I can’t blame it on the winter either.
*
Hot showers: there is that split second when boiling hot water touches skin. I feel like I’m beginning to thaw. And soon everything around me is enveloped in a cloud of steam.
But I won’t go on about this one. First, because the steam never takes to too log to cling back on to the walls and trickle down to the wet cold floor making it wetter and colder. Second, because no matter how pleasurable the experience there is the altogether abhorrent prospect of having to return out into the cold.
Third, and most important, is that I’ve managed to bore myself and haven’t come an inch closer to disliking the winter any less than I had started out.
I can’t imagine why anyone would read this thing diligently. Usually, that thought doesn’t stop me, I can go on for ages with or without an audience. But this time even I can’t see the point of reading this and that’s never a good sign.
Must be the winter… froze my poor little brain and every last shred of creativity in it.
Bleh…
Delhi isn’t the kindest of cities, weather wise. Though most people loathe the summers, I find them to be fairly survivable. It’s the winter that truly gets under my skin. The winter is when I start to complain (even if only to myself).
This horrid season does have some redeeming features though. And there are some choicest few things that are best if not better enjoyed during the winter. I thought I’d put together some kind words for winter. The past few days have allowed me to indulge in the few pleasures it affords.
Coffee
At first d-school was unsurvivable: I loved that I was there, just hated most if not all people who were there with me, I loved the course but hated the way it was taught. I seemed to have a whole lot more time on my hands than most of my classmates and just had nothing to do with it. It killed me. Because I hate being unhappy and the only thing I hate more is being unable to bring myself out of unhappiness. And I was drowning.
It was then that I hatched my famous “conspiracy against d-school”. That I would survive it with a smile even if I died in the process. And the effort damn near killed me too.
The first and most reliable weapon in this crusade was the coffee. I’d force myself into the canteen’s jam packed interior and then further into its deep dark recesses to where it’s source lay. I fell deeply in love with the man who served the coffee, always (and I mean always) with a kind word to say and a smile. It became my “thing”. I’d look forward to it from the moment I woke up and every minute of lectures that I plodded through took me one minute closer to it.
But it was the winter that made the experience truly blissful. Somewhere in December, arguably the best month in these parts. I’d sit on the ledge with my cup of coffee (and never ever without a spoon) stir and stare… stir and stare…stir some more and stare some more. Observe social formations in d-school, people arguing animatedly, flirting coquettishly, talking about great and significant things with great and significant gesticulations, boys engaged in bird-watching, other people having coffee.
Suddenly I began to belong. And for the few moments the coffee took to finish, everything even remotely unpleasant ceased to exist.
People who’ve observed me in this state often tell me that I looked so detached, almost as if I’d attained nirvana. They’ll never know how close to the truth they are.
*
(warning: the following text contains uncharacteristically corny content. I suppose it’s a question of taste, but given the choice I’d skip it. Either that or read it and criticise it mercilessly. Proceed at your own risk, or mine)
I finally found a use for my great big balcony this Saturday. I picked up a book, aimed my chair toward the sun and read.
I was warm and snug, in nothing but a t-shirt and thin pyjamas… no socks. Twiddling my fingers and toes and soaking in the glorious sun. To be fair I was so caught up in how perfect that moment was that the poor book was purely incidental to the situation. I couldn’t for the life of me concentrate on its contents.
I’d keep tuning in and out, preferring my reveries to the story as it unfolded. Not that I didn’t like the book. I thought it was lovely, beautifully written. The protagonist sounded like an interesting person, someone I’d like to meet and have a conversation with, but not quite like to know. Someone I could see myself falling in love with and never forgiving myself for.
But poor Merseult lost out in the end. My day dreams had people I know or would like to know, people I’ve met, seen. People with faces I’d recognise and voices I’d like to hear. People I love, few whom I momentarily I hate and some that I’m fairly indifferent about.
…despite being sidelined, the moment was still mostly about the book.
(ok I know that sounds contradictory and stupid, but its sort of hard to explain).
Somewhere in the middle of all this I couldn’t help but think: This is the life we all aspire to lead. Curl up in the sun and just read a book. Not because it will earn you an extra mark or get you a better job. Not because it contains valuable lessons to be learnt. Not even because you’ll remember it at a later point in time and reflect on how it altered your life. But simply because…
Except that it is impossible to sustain without engaging oneself in the trappings of real life. Studying, working, making money… Until these means to the end become ends in themselves.
And then I started to think of these real live things and grown up worries and concerns.
I didn’t quite enjoy that bit… and I hate that I can’t blame it on the winter either.
*
Hot showers: there is that split second when boiling hot water touches skin. I feel like I’m beginning to thaw. And soon everything around me is enveloped in a cloud of steam.
But I won’t go on about this one. First, because the steam never takes to too log to cling back on to the walls and trickle down to the wet cold floor making it wetter and colder. Second, because no matter how pleasurable the experience there is the altogether abhorrent prospect of having to return out into the cold.
Third, and most important, is that I’ve managed to bore myself and haven’t come an inch closer to disliking the winter any less than I had started out.
I can’t imagine why anyone would read this thing diligently. Usually, that thought doesn’t stop me, I can go on for ages with or without an audience. But this time even I can’t see the point of reading this and that’s never a good sign.
Must be the winter… froze my poor little brain and every last shred of creativity in it.
Bleh…
Monday, 17 December 2007
21:55
i am the queen of dschool.
so much drama in the course of one night!
...the doors are thrown open at an ungodly hour at my one command (and some wimpering and pouting and general appearance of helplessness on my part, those poor chowkidars always think i'm up to no good). the generator leaps into action at the snap of my finger. i am here, all alone, in the dead of night... and it is all mine. i'm tempted to laugh one of those evil laughs.. the loud and throaty kinds.. straight from the belly. this would be the best possible time.. there's no one around to hear
________
7:14
i woke up today and made a bold and beautiful decision. swallowed procrastination whole and finally got around to thinking...
and i felt beautiful all day. what a crazy day it's been.
i must be really fortunate to be able to make potentially suicidal decisions. to bully myself into believing that its the right one.
i'm half asleep and barely coherent even to myself
________
23:54
we just got done dancing with our own shadows. pooch is drunk. drunk pooch just read me the paper. now drunk pooch is telling me how alcohol is the best thing ever invented. pooch is going back to bombay tomorrow and i hate that. i hate that everyone is going home soon...
i hate that i got caught up with work and missed christmas carolling...
now we've both lapsed into helpless delirium..
no i'm not drunk... just sleepy
i love drunk people.. they laugh at anything
i am the queen of dschool.
so much drama in the course of one night!
...the doors are thrown open at an ungodly hour at my one command (and some wimpering and pouting and general appearance of helplessness on my part, those poor chowkidars always think i'm up to no good). the generator leaps into action at the snap of my finger. i am here, all alone, in the dead of night... and it is all mine. i'm tempted to laugh one of those evil laughs.. the loud and throaty kinds.. straight from the belly. this would be the best possible time.. there's no one around to hear
________
7:14
i woke up today and made a bold and beautiful decision. swallowed procrastination whole and finally got around to thinking...
and i felt beautiful all day. what a crazy day it's been.
i must be really fortunate to be able to make potentially suicidal decisions. to bully myself into believing that its the right one.
i'm half asleep and barely coherent even to myself
________
23:54
we just got done dancing with our own shadows. pooch is drunk. drunk pooch just read me the paper. now drunk pooch is telling me how alcohol is the best thing ever invented. pooch is going back to bombay tomorrow and i hate that. i hate that everyone is going home soon...
i hate that i got caught up with work and missed christmas carolling...
now we've both lapsed into helpless delirium..
no i'm not drunk... just sleepy
i love drunk people.. they laugh at anything
-
Pooch said it would make for a good read. I was sceptical, but went ahead anyway. Albert Camus…
I have these silly little thumb rules when it comes to reading. I usually try my best to steer clear of very famous and renowned, nobel laureate type writers and/or authors whose names I can’t pronounce. I think I’m secretly (and well… now not so secretly) scared that I won’t understand what they’re saying.
And I know where the blame for this should lie in entirety. Mrs. Datta (yes I’ve associated bongs with unpleasantness for quite some time now), the librarian back at CJM. I once picked up a copy of “Needful Things” by Steven King, probably for no better reason than that the blurb sounded interesting and exciting (blurbs can be truly evil and misleading, I have since learnt to exercise greater caution). I read it from cover to cover and when I went back to return it a week later, she asked how it had been. I answered, “It’s ok I suppose, I didn’t like it too much”. What I actually wanted to say was that I had hated it. I thought it was perverse and boring.
Mrs. Datta of course took vehement offence even with the milder version of my critique. She retorted saying that I didn’t know any better, that it was a beautiful book and that I was not mature enough to appreciate it. I hated her more in that split second than all the people I had ever hated till that point in time (which in retrospect could not have been too much. I was 13 and far less vindictive and prone to hate back then). Not because we had a difference of opinion and not even because she had cruelly dismissed my right to even harbour an opinion of my own. But because for a split second (before the above mentioned hate-filled split second) I thought that maybe, just maybe… she was right.
I think such people should be shot. Twice… just to make sure.
*
Winter School:
Some people I know failed to understand what I thought I would gain out of attending the few lectures that I did. True, I can scarcely grasp more than ten minutes worth of every presentation. And to be honest, roughly twenty minutes later I can’t even pay attention. But I subjected myself to it nonetheless.
I know several people who would kill to be in dschool, many of them are my good friends (in fact I’d probably kill to have some of them here as well). And several others who would kill to have access to such a sea of information, even if they tune out after 20 minutes much like my silly, all too distractable self. Then why not even try? I figure I’ll learn something, gain something, even if it is a confirmation that economics isn’t exactly for me. It’s a remarkably simple logic and I hate that so few people get it.
Then there’s the other school of thought that believes that you can’t really gain much until you sign up for it, volunteer to help out and generally hang around. Dwip (who has a genuine volunteer badge and everything) told me it would be a great opportunity to meet with great people, Kaushik Basu per say. Now this is where I’m a shade perplexed. Say I did meet Kaushik Basu… whatever would I do. I wouldn’t for the life of me know what to say.
“Um… hi… we referred to your textbook for a course in development last semester. Made rather unimaginative use of it too. And though I’m not in a position to comment upon the exposition etc. I thought your use of prose was absolutely delightful…”
Or perhaps, “…there is this book you’ve written with the worst possible name called “Economic Graffiti: Economics for Everyone” (ok I may have got this wrong, I read it a long time back) which is general lay-man gyaan but for some bizarre reason is housed by the text book section of the library…”
Better still, “I read an editorial by you a while back (back when I used to read the paper) about airports and airlines and flight delays. I honestly thought it was really stupid. I think you should stick to what you know best”
It’s like this one time I met Birju Maharaj, in the flesh. He smiled benignly and I… well… just stood there. That’s what I don’t get about celebrity worship. You can love and admire a person for who they are and what they do (not that I particularly love either of the two people I’ve mentioned, admiration I suppose is there) but what do you say or do when you finally meet them?
You know that famous question: if you could invite any three famous people to dine with you… who would you call? I can’t ever bring myself to contemplate an answer without facing the terrifying prospect of drawing a complete blank when it comes to conversation. How can you be sure that uncomfortable silences are any less uncomfortable in the company of famous people?
After much deliberation I think I’d invite Camus and Steven King, if only to confirm whether or not my understanding of their work was accurate. And contingent on their response, I’d invite Mrs. Datta… if only to gloat.
I have these silly little thumb rules when it comes to reading. I usually try my best to steer clear of very famous and renowned, nobel laureate type writers and/or authors whose names I can’t pronounce. I think I’m secretly (and well… now not so secretly) scared that I won’t understand what they’re saying.
And I know where the blame for this should lie in entirety. Mrs. Datta (yes I’ve associated bongs with unpleasantness for quite some time now), the librarian back at CJM. I once picked up a copy of “Needful Things” by Steven King, probably for no better reason than that the blurb sounded interesting and exciting (blurbs can be truly evil and misleading, I have since learnt to exercise greater caution). I read it from cover to cover and when I went back to return it a week later, she asked how it had been. I answered, “It’s ok I suppose, I didn’t like it too much”. What I actually wanted to say was that I had hated it. I thought it was perverse and boring.
Mrs. Datta of course took vehement offence even with the milder version of my critique. She retorted saying that I didn’t know any better, that it was a beautiful book and that I was not mature enough to appreciate it. I hated her more in that split second than all the people I had ever hated till that point in time (which in retrospect could not have been too much. I was 13 and far less vindictive and prone to hate back then). Not because we had a difference of opinion and not even because she had cruelly dismissed my right to even harbour an opinion of my own. But because for a split second (before the above mentioned hate-filled split second) I thought that maybe, just maybe… she was right.
I think such people should be shot. Twice… just to make sure.
*
Winter School:
Some people I know failed to understand what I thought I would gain out of attending the few lectures that I did. True, I can scarcely grasp more than ten minutes worth of every presentation. And to be honest, roughly twenty minutes later I can’t even pay attention. But I subjected myself to it nonetheless.
I know several people who would kill to be in dschool, many of them are my good friends (in fact I’d probably kill to have some of them here as well). And several others who would kill to have access to such a sea of information, even if they tune out after 20 minutes much like my silly, all too distractable self. Then why not even try? I figure I’ll learn something, gain something, even if it is a confirmation that economics isn’t exactly for me. It’s a remarkably simple logic and I hate that so few people get it.
Then there’s the other school of thought that believes that you can’t really gain much until you sign up for it, volunteer to help out and generally hang around. Dwip (who has a genuine volunteer badge and everything) told me it would be a great opportunity to meet with great people, Kaushik Basu per say. Now this is where I’m a shade perplexed. Say I did meet Kaushik Basu… whatever would I do. I wouldn’t for the life of me know what to say.
“Um… hi… we referred to your textbook for a course in development last semester. Made rather unimaginative use of it too. And though I’m not in a position to comment upon the exposition etc. I thought your use of prose was absolutely delightful…”
Or perhaps, “…there is this book you’ve written with the worst possible name called “Economic Graffiti: Economics for Everyone” (ok I may have got this wrong, I read it a long time back) which is general lay-man gyaan but for some bizarre reason is housed by the text book section of the library…”
Better still, “I read an editorial by you a while back (back when I used to read the paper) about airports and airlines and flight delays. I honestly thought it was really stupid. I think you should stick to what you know best”
It’s like this one time I met Birju Maharaj, in the flesh. He smiled benignly and I… well… just stood there. That’s what I don’t get about celebrity worship. You can love and admire a person for who they are and what they do (not that I particularly love either of the two people I’ve mentioned, admiration I suppose is there) but what do you say or do when you finally meet them?
You know that famous question: if you could invite any three famous people to dine with you… who would you call? I can’t ever bring myself to contemplate an answer without facing the terrifying prospect of drawing a complete blank when it comes to conversation. How can you be sure that uncomfortable silences are any less uncomfortable in the company of famous people?
After much deliberation I think I’d invite Camus and Steven King, if only to confirm whether or not my understanding of their work was accurate. And contingent on their response, I’d invite Mrs. Datta… if only to gloat.
Sunday, 16 December 2007
i m blu
I have the strongest possible urge to weep. My computer is dead. My hard disk collapsed and is now beyond resuscitation. And gone with it is the music from my life and the few movies it housed. I am sad beyond consolation.
(No I’m not being dramatic, this really has upset me and I am enveloped in the most genuine and stifling blanket of melancholy)
Now my desktop held more importance in my life than any machine could. In fact given my severe allergy to all nature of gadgetry and technology in general, it is a wonder we (the comp and I) ever got along. Because it wasn’t just a computer, it was a time capsule of sorts. Three years of college memories: pictures, documents… scraps of this… bits of that. It even had the first few unpublished posts of a prospective blog, which were never brought to light for fear of public embarrassment.
But what I’ll miss the most is the music. Carefully collated by several (ok at least one)generations of seniors who were benevolent enough to pass it down to me (or rather pai, to whom the comp actually belongs). I miss having a constant soundtrack to life. I miss my meticulously prepared play-lists, one for every mood… and my favourite one of all titled “rainy day”.
I’ll miss how the comp invariably reminded me of the pleasant and not so pleasant aspects of my Hudson lines existence. Breakfast at Tiffany’s… ponnie’s treatise on the urban discontent of the 1950s, Casablanca… my missing the point completely, Dirty Dancing… “nobody puts baby in a corner”, Love Actually… everyone suffering giggle fits, while one amongst us cried the bitterest tears of heartbreak (not me, my turn came much later… but all in good time), Shrek 2… a head leaned against my elbow, I knew for certain I was in love and was loved…
How I could never ever catch the climax of any movie, I’d simply fall off to sleep.
And now it’s gone. I’m usually not the kind to obsess about the past enough to want to hang on to it with a vice like grip. I don’t ache to get back to it or do it all over again. The past is… well… in the past, where it belongs. I just feel sad that suddenly, in the blink of an eye I’ve been denied all access to it.
I think the repairman sensed my grief. When I walked into the shop he said he’d charge me 300 rupees irrespective of whether the process took 5 minutes or 5 hours. I somehow managed to get him down to 250. Half an hour into the visit when the preliminary diagnosis was made, he said that if I had to walk off empty handed he’d take just 200. When he finally discovered that all my data was irretrievable (only to watch my face fall in helpless disappointment) he said I owed him 150.
At this point all I could manage was a sad, apologetic little squeek… two words…
“students’ discount?”
I ended up giving him a 100.
*
I shall now proceed to bury myself deep in my bed. Wrap my quilt around me till I can scarcely breathe. Only to emerge when the world is a pleasanter place. A place where everyone appreciates my sense of humour and I don’t have to eject fake laughs at other peoples’ jokes. Where I can be absolutely invisible when I don’t want to have a conversation or be observed.
When the sun stops playing hard to get. When weight-loss doesn’t miraculously reverse itself over the course of one night. When everyone gets a job and stops irritating the shit out of me with the most moronic of questions. When I acquire a legion of faithful foot soldiers who leave a basket full of the most delicious fruit at my doorstep every morning and lay down a direct pipeline that provides me a guaranteed supply of coffee… 24X7. When all the term papers decide to prepare and submit themselves without any external motivation and all my clothes decide to launder, iron and arrange themselves neatly in my cupboard.
A place and time when hard disks give you a full weeks notice before crashing…
(No I’m not being dramatic, this really has upset me and I am enveloped in the most genuine and stifling blanket of melancholy)
Now my desktop held more importance in my life than any machine could. In fact given my severe allergy to all nature of gadgetry and technology in general, it is a wonder we (the comp and I) ever got along. Because it wasn’t just a computer, it was a time capsule of sorts. Three years of college memories: pictures, documents… scraps of this… bits of that. It even had the first few unpublished posts of a prospective blog, which were never brought to light for fear of public embarrassment.
But what I’ll miss the most is the music. Carefully collated by several (ok at least one)generations of seniors who were benevolent enough to pass it down to me (or rather pai, to whom the comp actually belongs). I miss having a constant soundtrack to life. I miss my meticulously prepared play-lists, one for every mood… and my favourite one of all titled “rainy day”.
I’ll miss how the comp invariably reminded me of the pleasant and not so pleasant aspects of my Hudson lines existence. Breakfast at Tiffany’s… ponnie’s treatise on the urban discontent of the 1950s, Casablanca… my missing the point completely, Dirty Dancing… “nobody puts baby in a corner”, Love Actually… everyone suffering giggle fits, while one amongst us cried the bitterest tears of heartbreak (not me, my turn came much later… but all in good time), Shrek 2… a head leaned against my elbow, I knew for certain I was in love and was loved…
How I could never ever catch the climax of any movie, I’d simply fall off to sleep.
And now it’s gone. I’m usually not the kind to obsess about the past enough to want to hang on to it with a vice like grip. I don’t ache to get back to it or do it all over again. The past is… well… in the past, where it belongs. I just feel sad that suddenly, in the blink of an eye I’ve been denied all access to it.
I think the repairman sensed my grief. When I walked into the shop he said he’d charge me 300 rupees irrespective of whether the process took 5 minutes or 5 hours. I somehow managed to get him down to 250. Half an hour into the visit when the preliminary diagnosis was made, he said that if I had to walk off empty handed he’d take just 200. When he finally discovered that all my data was irretrievable (only to watch my face fall in helpless disappointment) he said I owed him 150.
At this point all I could manage was a sad, apologetic little squeek… two words…
“students’ discount?”
I ended up giving him a 100.
*
I shall now proceed to bury myself deep in my bed. Wrap my quilt around me till I can scarcely breathe. Only to emerge when the world is a pleasanter place. A place where everyone appreciates my sense of humour and I don’t have to eject fake laughs at other peoples’ jokes. Where I can be absolutely invisible when I don’t want to have a conversation or be observed.
When the sun stops playing hard to get. When weight-loss doesn’t miraculously reverse itself over the course of one night. When everyone gets a job and stops irritating the shit out of me with the most moronic of questions. When I acquire a legion of faithful foot soldiers who leave a basket full of the most delicious fruit at my doorstep every morning and lay down a direct pipeline that provides me a guaranteed supply of coffee… 24X7. When all the term papers decide to prepare and submit themselves without any external motivation and all my clothes decide to launder, iron and arrange themselves neatly in my cupboard.
A place and time when hard disks give you a full weeks notice before crashing…
Friday, 14 December 2007
Bombay (2)
So this is how my post about bombay was originally supposed to be: long and incredibly detailed.
Everything about how I would once have never believed that I would come to hate mumbai and then finally did. Loathe it.. that too with a lethal vengeance. About being assaulted by irritating mumbai clichés at every corner- and finally being done in by the biggest cliché, the city itself. And after a day’s work, walking around aimlessly for hours and feeling stupendously silly for ever having had any good intentions. Feeling lost and lonely and so very small. About how I have come to harbour a deep dislike for anyone who has ever got a degree in human resource management.
About how mumbai has no room for anyone or anything. No elbow room either, unless your elbow is prepared to fork out 1500/- a night for the cockroach infested shoebox suite with the charming view of the dumpster.
And about the pleasanter things… because pleasant things do happen more than once in a while. We just never give happy occurrences their due.
About moronic matchmaking till 4:00 am in the morning. The pains taken to prepare the “top 5 d-school men for you” list, which in my case stalled at two and a half. Black tea at midnight brainstorming sessions and my obsession for “consolidating” the day’s events. About having to share a queen size bed with four other people, but being too exhausted to care or do anything for that matter, besides giggle uncontrollably.
About my last day in mumbai. A not entirely uneventful day. I slapped two men, got shat on by 4 birds, flirted shamelessly with an Italian furniture proprietor/salesman (the furniture was Italian, he was Sindhi) at the Prince of Wales museum and got a lovely conversation and cup of coffee out of it, before finally ending up at the Marriot with an old flame and the most satisfying piece of chocolate cake.
The 5 days I spent there seemed like a month. A lot happened, and a lot of it worthy of documentation. But by the end of it I got slightly sick of it and slightly sick of myself.
So I’ll stick to the things I can think of right now… and I’m sure the rest are bound to manifest themselves at some point of time or the other.
****
I met Jos and I realised how much I miss Jos. And I missed Jos most during the conversation I was having with Jos. I can’t remember the last time I had spoken at such length to another human being. I was so breathless and agitated. The words were hovering around my moth threatening to spew forth like vomit. And to think, once upon a time, these conversations happened all the time. How did we never run out of things to say to each other? It boggles my mind.
And the conversations were just as rushed and breathless then, almost as if we were in a race against time to put all the thoughts out onto the table. I miss having easy access to it.
****
I found myself strangely at ease with my travel companions. When did these d-school people become my friends? When despite myself did I feel it okay to let them in on silliest of my secrets?
My first crush at d-school, my irrational and vehement dislike for all but a few bongs and most people from hansraj, wanting to run away from the piles of photostats, the tests and the mundaneness of it all, desperately seeking distraction (“December will be my month, no jan, no wait it’ll be feb for sure”), my second crush at d-school… and then suddenly loving it… the classes, the teachers, the time and the coffee. Making my peace with being in the “other” college on the “other side of the road”. Falling in love with math and floundering in a sea of the most delicious notation.
I found myself deeply engaged in conversation, laughing at their jokes and what’s worse… making jokes that actually elicited their laughter, things that rarely if ever happen.
Maybe loneliness started to get to me… I caved and just became one of them. Or maybe I wasn’t all that different to begin with. But I know the kinship we formed was part magic and part the day’s nervous tension seeking release. A large portion of it got left behind in mumbai and I’m not sure if I should rejoice or mourn it’s loss…
Eh… bleh…
****
Somehow crossing state lines plays havoc with my system. My poor confused bowels aren’t quite adept at adapting to drastically altered climates, cuisines and sleep and activity patterns.
(I wish there were money to be made from sharing unnecessary and uncomfortable details. I’d be a millionaire)
Everything about how I would once have never believed that I would come to hate mumbai and then finally did. Loathe it.. that too with a lethal vengeance. About being assaulted by irritating mumbai clichés at every corner- and finally being done in by the biggest cliché, the city itself. And after a day’s work, walking around aimlessly for hours and feeling stupendously silly for ever having had any good intentions. Feeling lost and lonely and so very small. About how I have come to harbour a deep dislike for anyone who has ever got a degree in human resource management.
About how mumbai has no room for anyone or anything. No elbow room either, unless your elbow is prepared to fork out 1500/- a night for the cockroach infested shoebox suite with the charming view of the dumpster.
And about the pleasanter things… because pleasant things do happen more than once in a while. We just never give happy occurrences their due.
About moronic matchmaking till 4:00 am in the morning. The pains taken to prepare the “top 5 d-school men for you” list, which in my case stalled at two and a half. Black tea at midnight brainstorming sessions and my obsession for “consolidating” the day’s events. About having to share a queen size bed with four other people, but being too exhausted to care or do anything for that matter, besides giggle uncontrollably.
About my last day in mumbai. A not entirely uneventful day. I slapped two men, got shat on by 4 birds, flirted shamelessly with an Italian furniture proprietor/salesman (the furniture was Italian, he was Sindhi) at the Prince of Wales museum and got a lovely conversation and cup of coffee out of it, before finally ending up at the Marriot with an old flame and the most satisfying piece of chocolate cake.
The 5 days I spent there seemed like a month. A lot happened, and a lot of it worthy of documentation. But by the end of it I got slightly sick of it and slightly sick of myself.
So I’ll stick to the things I can think of right now… and I’m sure the rest are bound to manifest themselves at some point of time or the other.
****
I met Jos and I realised how much I miss Jos. And I missed Jos most during the conversation I was having with Jos. I can’t remember the last time I had spoken at such length to another human being. I was so breathless and agitated. The words were hovering around my moth threatening to spew forth like vomit. And to think, once upon a time, these conversations happened all the time. How did we never run out of things to say to each other? It boggles my mind.
And the conversations were just as rushed and breathless then, almost as if we were in a race against time to put all the thoughts out onto the table. I miss having easy access to it.
****
I found myself strangely at ease with my travel companions. When did these d-school people become my friends? When despite myself did I feel it okay to let them in on silliest of my secrets?
My first crush at d-school, my irrational and vehement dislike for all but a few bongs and most people from hansraj, wanting to run away from the piles of photostats, the tests and the mundaneness of it all, desperately seeking distraction (“December will be my month, no jan, no wait it’ll be feb for sure”), my second crush at d-school… and then suddenly loving it… the classes, the teachers, the time and the coffee. Making my peace with being in the “other” college on the “other side of the road”. Falling in love with math and floundering in a sea of the most delicious notation.
I found myself deeply engaged in conversation, laughing at their jokes and what’s worse… making jokes that actually elicited their laughter, things that rarely if ever happen.
Maybe loneliness started to get to me… I caved and just became one of them. Or maybe I wasn’t all that different to begin with. But I know the kinship we formed was part magic and part the day’s nervous tension seeking release. A large portion of it got left behind in mumbai and I’m not sure if I should rejoice or mourn it’s loss…
Eh… bleh…
****
Somehow crossing state lines plays havoc with my system. My poor confused bowels aren’t quite adept at adapting to drastically altered climates, cuisines and sleep and activity patterns.
(I wish there were money to be made from sharing unnecessary and uncomfortable details. I’d be a millionaire)
Thursday, 13 December 2007
also today
ok, the day wasn't as fantastically eventful as i'm making it out to be... but heck i had the time. after a really long time.
*
Joy… the old black pants fit again. Something in the last few months has reversed the dangerous fallouts of a summer of binging. Relief to my father’s wallet... a wardrobe full of un-wearable clothes would else have required replacement, an expensive proposition at the best of times. And whatever would I do if the marriage proposals (three at last count) started to dry up? Perish the thought…
*
Games people play:
Nothing like some good old-fashioned bitching to snap one back into reality. As it turns out “the other AB” is quite the nasty little prick. So what if he’s a genius… that cannot prevent me from holding an immature grudge against him for the rest of forever. I can’t believe I ever considered him “crush-worthy”.
*
In conversation:
An old friend and country cousin declared me to be “very Cadbury” and “limca-licious”. I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m informed it was one. I figure it’s the thought that counts.
I was pretty quick with the compliments myself. I offered to bottle KorahKorah and sell him for 1500 bucks a pop. We’ll corner the market on charming-soon-to-be-investment-banker-mallu men.
Then I met a real cousin. We promised to meet up soon. Prospects: dim.
There was also a fair bit of yell-ery and scream-ery and general hysteric-ery..
Somewhere in the middle of this I smiled a real live smile. It was “the most well thought out smile in the history of mankind”…
*
I love contextual shit. You can state the obvious and still sound really smart and abstract.
*
My ability to churn out fake smiles, make miles of inane polite conversation and put up a more than convincing façade of being terribly and breathlessly busy inspires a strange cocktail of disgust, fear and admiration in myself. I think I should take to HR management.
*
Coming attractions (I have a 4 day weekend ahead of me)
-Eavesdropping and such like recreational activity
-The subject of Sikkim and urinating men (the doscos from hell: mighty man, kunj b and singhi)
-Matchmaking and the all important question: charsi chalega?
-More on bombay
-Some more on bombay
*
The problem with long weekends: It's a bit like tasting blood really. I'm really looking forward to sleeping in and living in a stupendously vegetal state. But, how-ever will I get used to life when it lapses back into it's normal self...
bleh...
*
Joy… the old black pants fit again. Something in the last few months has reversed the dangerous fallouts of a summer of binging. Relief to my father’s wallet... a wardrobe full of un-wearable clothes would else have required replacement, an expensive proposition at the best of times. And whatever would I do if the marriage proposals (three at last count) started to dry up? Perish the thought…
*
Games people play:
Nothing like some good old-fashioned bitching to snap one back into reality. As it turns out “the other AB” is quite the nasty little prick. So what if he’s a genius… that cannot prevent me from holding an immature grudge against him for the rest of forever. I can’t believe I ever considered him “crush-worthy”.
*
In conversation:
An old friend and country cousin declared me to be “very Cadbury” and “limca-licious”. I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m informed it was one. I figure it’s the thought that counts.
I was pretty quick with the compliments myself. I offered to bottle KorahKorah and sell him for 1500 bucks a pop. We’ll corner the market on charming-soon-to-be-investment-banker-mallu men.
Then I met a real cousin. We promised to meet up soon. Prospects: dim.
There was also a fair bit of yell-ery and scream-ery and general hysteric-ery..
Somewhere in the middle of this I smiled a real live smile. It was “the most well thought out smile in the history of mankind”…
*
I love contextual shit. You can state the obvious and still sound really smart and abstract.
*
My ability to churn out fake smiles, make miles of inane polite conversation and put up a more than convincing façade of being terribly and breathlessly busy inspires a strange cocktail of disgust, fear and admiration in myself. I think I should take to HR management.
*
Coming attractions (I have a 4 day weekend ahead of me)
-Eavesdropping and such like recreational activity
-The subject of Sikkim and urinating men (the doscos from hell: mighty man, kunj b and singhi)
-Matchmaking and the all important question: charsi chalega?
-More on bombay
-Some more on bombay
*
The problem with long weekends: It's a bit like tasting blood really. I'm really looking forward to sleeping in and living in a stupendously vegetal state. But, how-ever will I get used to life when it lapses back into it's normal self...
bleh...
today
I had the most brilliant and beautiful of insights last night. And I was all set to embellish them and put them on display… doll them up, spit shine, fluff, gloss. But they were heavy and hung themselves with invisible string to my lashes. My eyelids had no choice but to submit.
(I didn’t even brush…)
But they, much like my own true self, turned out to be far shyer than I had anticipated and disappeared without a trace. I searched and searched and searched…
I thought they’d be lost somewhere in the swirl that was my night’s sleep, buried within the whirlpool that I had made of Dorai’s bed (*). I sleep without a pillow now, so that’s one less nook for them to hide in but my reconnaissance went un-rewarded. Wherever could they be?
I let myself out of the house unobtrusively and started marching home, preferring the walk to various available modes of public transport. If they were hiding somewhere on my person they’d most certainly be blown off during the journey(**). No, walking is a safer bet.
Tip-toed up to my perch to ready myself for the day, I must get to the bottom of their disappearance. I undress with the greatest of care, lest they slip out from the folds of several layers of cover. Pause cautiously at each button, hook and string undone. Frisk my clothes and quite ruthlessly too (I am rude, I never even took their permission, the clothes’ I mean), but emerge empty handed.
I check between pink little toes, only to find flakes of my flannel socks. That and patches of pinker raw skin, who are aspiring to be blisters. I check behind my knees, just in case they’re hiding in the soft little cave there… nothing.
I scan my hands… an unlikely destination… the fingerprints are too fine to camouflage them… then check under my fingernails, only to find the dirty remnants of effort.
I scratch my unkempt and un-feminine (***) eyebrows in the hope that they’ll tumble out…nothing.
Then with my index finger, carefully trace the path from the crusty stuff that has accumulated during the night at one corner of my right eye, to the crusty stuff that has accumulated at the other corner. The path it takes is decidedly darker than is usual. Must be the lack of sleep and worry (lack of: sleep, worry: of which there is no dearth)… no luck.
Then the left… no luck. I am now convinced that most if not all is lost.
I fear sifting through my hair because I know what I’ll uncover there (rhyme unintended)- signs of age and dandruff (mostly dandruff). And even if they are hiding there, they’ll most likely swim to freedom when next I rinse my scalp (****). But I’m still hopeful that they’re somewhere in the midst of all the tangled and split ended madness. So I optimistically exercise surgical caution through the combing process and braid my hair just in case.
I don’t bother checking my ears, I’d have heard them whispering by now. They’re sneaky but not particularly discrete. One last-ditch effort to check behind the ears turns up in nought.
For the life of me I can’t remember a single one of them and this is indeed a travesty. They were gems I tell you… sparkly and crystal clear. And now, whoever will believe me when I say that they were real?
Curses…
___________________
* or the bed that Dorai was kind enough to let me claim as my own, for the night.
** i usually prefer walking anyway. having an excuse is good though.
*** as i am reliably informed by legions of beauty parlour personell .
**** i blame those evil anti dandruff shampoos, they take away everything but the dandruff.
(I didn’t even brush…)
But they, much like my own true self, turned out to be far shyer than I had anticipated and disappeared without a trace. I searched and searched and searched…
I thought they’d be lost somewhere in the swirl that was my night’s sleep, buried within the whirlpool that I had made of Dorai’s bed (*). I sleep without a pillow now, so that’s one less nook for them to hide in but my reconnaissance went un-rewarded. Wherever could they be?
I let myself out of the house unobtrusively and started marching home, preferring the walk to various available modes of public transport. If they were hiding somewhere on my person they’d most certainly be blown off during the journey(**). No, walking is a safer bet.
Tip-toed up to my perch to ready myself for the day, I must get to the bottom of their disappearance. I undress with the greatest of care, lest they slip out from the folds of several layers of cover. Pause cautiously at each button, hook and string undone. Frisk my clothes and quite ruthlessly too (I am rude, I never even took their permission, the clothes’ I mean), but emerge empty handed.
I check between pink little toes, only to find flakes of my flannel socks. That and patches of pinker raw skin, who are aspiring to be blisters. I check behind my knees, just in case they’re hiding in the soft little cave there… nothing.
I scan my hands… an unlikely destination… the fingerprints are too fine to camouflage them… then check under my fingernails, only to find the dirty remnants of effort.
I scratch my unkempt and un-feminine (***) eyebrows in the hope that they’ll tumble out…nothing.
Then with my index finger, carefully trace the path from the crusty stuff that has accumulated during the night at one corner of my right eye, to the crusty stuff that has accumulated at the other corner. The path it takes is decidedly darker than is usual. Must be the lack of sleep and worry (lack of: sleep, worry: of which there is no dearth)… no luck.
Then the left… no luck. I am now convinced that most if not all is lost.
I fear sifting through my hair because I know what I’ll uncover there (rhyme unintended)- signs of age and dandruff (mostly dandruff). And even if they are hiding there, they’ll most likely swim to freedom when next I rinse my scalp (****). But I’m still hopeful that they’re somewhere in the midst of all the tangled and split ended madness. So I optimistically exercise surgical caution through the combing process and braid my hair just in case.
I don’t bother checking my ears, I’d have heard them whispering by now. They’re sneaky but not particularly discrete. One last-ditch effort to check behind the ears turns up in nought.
For the life of me I can’t remember a single one of them and this is indeed a travesty. They were gems I tell you… sparkly and crystal clear. And now, whoever will believe me when I say that they were real?
Curses…
___________________
* or the bed that Dorai was kind enough to let me claim as my own, for the night.
** i usually prefer walking anyway. having an excuse is good though.
*** as i am reliably informed by legions of beauty parlour personell .
**** i blame those evil anti dandruff shampoos, they take away everything but the dandruff.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Bombay (1)
Today was an absolutely awful day. I have said and done some truly horrible things. I always knew this time of the year brings out the worst in people. I just never reckoned that I would be one of those people.
I hate myself too much to write anything, so I'll put up something I wrote a while back, about my trip to bombay. Yes, I know this constitutes cheating of sorts, but I really just want to change the subject. Think of other things. Not necessarily pleasanter.. just other.
*
Monday, November 26, 2007, New Delhi Railway Station, 16:00 hours
Yet again I have over-packed and here I am, struggling to come to terms with my own materialism. A tiny little sherpa collapsing under the weight of the white man’s tent.
All set for another train journey, all set to meet the man of my dreams. After several failed attempts at finding love in transit I’m still hopeful, it’s pitiful really. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain… I’m having a good hair day and a not altogether bad face day too. Of course my travel companion being one of those evil skinny-pretty women poses a challenge. She’s better with conversation and card games… must haves for train journeys. But I’ve got a feeling I’m in with a chance today. If only someone interesting would present himself. My optimism never fails to astound me.
And here is how the universe rewards me. What I got- serial belchers, loud, obnoxious people and large to boot. Sort of what gene roddenberry must have been thinking when he created ‘klingons’. Not that I have anything against big people, being related to a lot of them and hence destined to become one in due course of time. I was just hoping for more… a teeny tiny glimmer of hope, a fraction of a ray of light… a little… a tittle… is that too much to ask for?
And that just takes me back to the time I did meet a “someone interesting” while travelling and did absolutely nothing about it. What if everyone is destined to get one chance for finding love during the course of a journey and I have recklessly thrown mine away?
This diffidence will be the death of me… that is if the klingons don’t get to me first.
****
Elbow room: Transit Acommodation, Sher-e-Punjab
Even if the four of us stand on four different corners of the room we can’t make it look bigger than a shoe box. And no matter how valiant our attempts we can somehow never get it to look clean.
The floor looks spotless, but only when we pile everything onto the bed. And the bed looks quite charming, granted everything is tossed back onto the floor. This ridiculous game of musical chairs is altogether too tedious. There is just too much stuff and too many of us. We’re exasperated, cranky, lazy…we give up.
I hate that I take up the most space on the bed. Not that I have anything against skinny people… oh no wait… I do
****
What I hate most about mumbai is how stupendously fruity it makes me. Too many long train/bus/auto/taxi journeys with nothing better to do than stare off into space and contemplate. And suddenly I’m a poet… a dreadfully clichéd and corny one at that.
But then I suppose that’s what I love most about mumbai. That I see, hear and smell things that make me think the most beautiful and interesting of thoughts. Delhi is home, but it never inspires any particularly strong feelings or emotions.
Having re-read the last two paragraphs, I’m quite disgusted with myself. I’ve used the three words that I detest the most (i.e. feelings, thoughts and emotions). But I’ll leave them unedited. Consider it my homage to generations of unlicensed mumbai poets.
****
Sitting on marine drive, sipping a cup of “cutting”, staring at the sea, the lights and feeling traffic zip past me… the thing that is foremost in my mind…
This is so tremendously overrated…
Really, I grew sick of the sea a long time ago. And I’ve done just about every touristy routine there is… stared purposefully, thought thoughtfully, spoken philosophically, sung soulfully… strained my ears till all I could hear was the sound of waves… eaten vada pao and bhel puri (and pao bhaji and chana jor garam and chuski and paan…) smoked cigarette(s) and watched the sun set, collected sea shells, waded into the first few feet of sea. And sadly the novelty has died a slow painful death.
I was at my cruellest best in May. Roghan Josh and I were at marine drive, feet dangling over the parapet when the subject of life came up. I proceeded to say something suitably profound post which he just looked at me with the “where have you been my whole life” look in his eyes. And then the conversation became more “deep”, “thoughtful” and yes “profound”… yuck.
So we’re in the throes of this potentially life altering exchange and all my evil, emotionally stunted brain can think is-
“This is so stupid. I can’t believe this fellow is taking me seriously, I can’t believe he thinks I’m taking him seriously. Really all this nebulous talk is such bullshit, but he seems to be enjoying it, the twerp… let’s see how far I can carry this with a straight face”
And so I did… egged him on shamelessly. Mercilessly, just to see how absurdly contemplative and insightful the conversation could get. All the time making fun of it all in my head.
I am a vicious and horrible person. How do I get any sleep at night?
Come to think of it I don’t get much sleep… hmmm…
*
I am worried by the steadily deteriorating quality of my recent posts and their decidedly suicidal tone. But for once, I think I shall let myself complain, even if I do it in an inarticulate fashion.
The day has wound down, but all the coffees (I've lost count) I've consumed today still keep me remarkably wired up (or maybe it's all the tiny little worries I've accumulated over the day). I hate this shifty-fidgety Energizer Bunny mode of existance. I know the morning will be beautiful and everything will seem okay again. It's just the night that's the killer...
I hate myself too much to write anything, so I'll put up something I wrote a while back, about my trip to bombay. Yes, I know this constitutes cheating of sorts, but I really just want to change the subject. Think of other things. Not necessarily pleasanter.. just other.
*
Monday, November 26, 2007, New Delhi Railway Station, 16:00 hours
Yet again I have over-packed and here I am, struggling to come to terms with my own materialism. A tiny little sherpa collapsing under the weight of the white man’s tent.
All set for another train journey, all set to meet the man of my dreams. After several failed attempts at finding love in transit I’m still hopeful, it’s pitiful really. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain… I’m having a good hair day and a not altogether bad face day too. Of course my travel companion being one of those evil skinny-pretty women poses a challenge. She’s better with conversation and card games… must haves for train journeys. But I’ve got a feeling I’m in with a chance today. If only someone interesting would present himself. My optimism never fails to astound me.
And here is how the universe rewards me. What I got- serial belchers, loud, obnoxious people and large to boot. Sort of what gene roddenberry must have been thinking when he created ‘klingons’. Not that I have anything against big people, being related to a lot of them and hence destined to become one in due course of time. I was just hoping for more… a teeny tiny glimmer of hope, a fraction of a ray of light… a little… a tittle… is that too much to ask for?
And that just takes me back to the time I did meet a “someone interesting” while travelling and did absolutely nothing about it. What if everyone is destined to get one chance for finding love during the course of a journey and I have recklessly thrown mine away?
This diffidence will be the death of me… that is if the klingons don’t get to me first.
****
Elbow room: Transit Acommodation, Sher-e-Punjab
Even if the four of us stand on four different corners of the room we can’t make it look bigger than a shoe box. And no matter how valiant our attempts we can somehow never get it to look clean.
The floor looks spotless, but only when we pile everything onto the bed. And the bed looks quite charming, granted everything is tossed back onto the floor. This ridiculous game of musical chairs is altogether too tedious. There is just too much stuff and too many of us. We’re exasperated, cranky, lazy…we give up.
I hate that I take up the most space on the bed. Not that I have anything against skinny people… oh no wait… I do
****
What I hate most about mumbai is how stupendously fruity it makes me. Too many long train/bus/auto/taxi journeys with nothing better to do than stare off into space and contemplate. And suddenly I’m a poet… a dreadfully clichéd and corny one at that.
But then I suppose that’s what I love most about mumbai. That I see, hear and smell things that make me think the most beautiful and interesting of thoughts. Delhi is home, but it never inspires any particularly strong feelings or emotions.
Having re-read the last two paragraphs, I’m quite disgusted with myself. I’ve used the three words that I detest the most (i.e. feelings, thoughts and emotions). But I’ll leave them unedited. Consider it my homage to generations of unlicensed mumbai poets.
****
Sitting on marine drive, sipping a cup of “cutting”, staring at the sea, the lights and feeling traffic zip past me… the thing that is foremost in my mind…
This is so tremendously overrated…
Really, I grew sick of the sea a long time ago. And I’ve done just about every touristy routine there is… stared purposefully, thought thoughtfully, spoken philosophically, sung soulfully… strained my ears till all I could hear was the sound of waves… eaten vada pao and bhel puri (and pao bhaji and chana jor garam and chuski and paan…) smoked cigarette(s) and watched the sun set, collected sea shells, waded into the first few feet of sea. And sadly the novelty has died a slow painful death.
I was at my cruellest best in May. Roghan Josh and I were at marine drive, feet dangling over the parapet when the subject of life came up. I proceeded to say something suitably profound post which he just looked at me with the “where have you been my whole life” look in his eyes. And then the conversation became more “deep”, “thoughtful” and yes “profound”… yuck.
So we’re in the throes of this potentially life altering exchange and all my evil, emotionally stunted brain can think is-
“This is so stupid. I can’t believe this fellow is taking me seriously, I can’t believe he thinks I’m taking him seriously. Really all this nebulous talk is such bullshit, but he seems to be enjoying it, the twerp… let’s see how far I can carry this with a straight face”
And so I did… egged him on shamelessly. Mercilessly, just to see how absurdly contemplative and insightful the conversation could get. All the time making fun of it all in my head.
I am a vicious and horrible person. How do I get any sleep at night?
Come to think of it I don’t get much sleep… hmmm…
*
I am worried by the steadily deteriorating quality of my recent posts and their decidedly suicidal tone. But for once, I think I shall let myself complain, even if I do it in an inarticulate fashion.
The day has wound down, but all the coffees (I've lost count) I've consumed today still keep me remarkably wired up (or maybe it's all the tiny little worries I've accumulated over the day). I hate this shifty-fidgety Energizer Bunny mode of existance. I know the morning will be beautiful and everything will seem okay again. It's just the night that's the killer...
Monday, 10 December 2007
Stress becomes her
I have aged so tremendously over the course of the past two weeks. I discovered two white hairs in my head (rather, was informed of their presence by observers). I think I shall christen them- “mumbai” and “bangalore”.
The weather in delhi has taken a turn for the horrible. This evening was cold and bitterly so. And the worst is yet to come. I feel an evil wind making it’s way, steadfast, toward me. I am all set to be beset with the most tedious of worries for the next month and a half at least. And (audience be warned) I am also all set to be incurably whiny, relentlessly complain-y, incorrigibly bitchy and generally all variants of unpleasant.
“I” ask “Myself”: whatever did “I” do to deserve this?
“Me” (forever the irritatingly astute observer) responds: you colossal nincompoop, you raised your hand… remember?
“Myself” chimes in with an indecisive:
Woe is “Us”… whatever will we do?
No no, everything will work out for the best… there is so much to be learnt
But the madness hasn’t even begun and “We” are already exhausted… sigh sigh sigh
Ah… what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, hardship builds character, this is a truly enriching and rewarding experience.
The five of us (for the confused or those who lost count: We, Us, I, Me and Myself) are still trying to reach a consensus.
As a hapless victim of the most acute case of “volunteer-eritus” I really should have seen this coming. I’m pretty sure I haven’t bitten off too much. But who knew all this chewing could be so boring?
What is most lamentable about my current state of affairs is the sheer absence of any nature of distraction. Maybe I should acquire a hobby, learn to play a musical instrument or take to smoking or something. Surviving the first year was easy, made easier still by the tubs of coffee I consumed and the general optimism that characterizes youth (yes, to reiterate- I feel I have aged immeasurably). But this year, especially the last bit is proving just a smidge more challenging.
Academic pursuits are the most likely to prove casualty to the hectic pace that life has recently acquired which leaves me feeling more than a little disappointed with myself. And given the sad state of affairs a boyfriend seems clearly out of the question. D school hasn’t even left me with anything to lech at- the general hopelessness of the in house population being further compounded by the steadily deteriorating quality of “passers by”, “hangers on” and miscellaneous elements. Even the travelling troubadours and resident cat stranglers never fail to disappoint. And the Jats are trying so very hard to get louder and uglier, which seems virtually impossible… but never say never, I say.
The OQ (ogle quotient) here has declined to unprecedented lows… life sure is unfair.
But as always, I have managed to brainwash myself into believing that a resilient silver lining is in the offing. When this madness winds up in January, it will all be worth it. Maybe I’ll take a vacation for a couple of days, to some nice warm place. It needn’t be a grand or glamorous trip, just one that allows me the luxury of sleeping in late, taking the occasional long walk or two, reading a book and staring off into space for hours together.
I’m not too fussy about location either. Presently, there’s only one place I’m sure I want to go. Away.
The weather in delhi has taken a turn for the horrible. This evening was cold and bitterly so. And the worst is yet to come. I feel an evil wind making it’s way, steadfast, toward me. I am all set to be beset with the most tedious of worries for the next month and a half at least. And (audience be warned) I am also all set to be incurably whiny, relentlessly complain-y, incorrigibly bitchy and generally all variants of unpleasant.
“I” ask “Myself”: whatever did “I” do to deserve this?
“Me” (forever the irritatingly astute observer) responds: you colossal nincompoop, you raised your hand… remember?
“Myself” chimes in with an indecisive:
Woe is “Us”… whatever will we do?
No no, everything will work out for the best… there is so much to be learnt
But the madness hasn’t even begun and “We” are already exhausted… sigh sigh sigh
Ah… what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, hardship builds character, this is a truly enriching and rewarding experience.
The five of us (for the confused or those who lost count: We, Us, I, Me and Myself) are still trying to reach a consensus.
As a hapless victim of the most acute case of “volunteer-eritus” I really should have seen this coming. I’m pretty sure I haven’t bitten off too much. But who knew all this chewing could be so boring?
What is most lamentable about my current state of affairs is the sheer absence of any nature of distraction. Maybe I should acquire a hobby, learn to play a musical instrument or take to smoking or something. Surviving the first year was easy, made easier still by the tubs of coffee I consumed and the general optimism that characterizes youth (yes, to reiterate- I feel I have aged immeasurably). But this year, especially the last bit is proving just a smidge more challenging.
Academic pursuits are the most likely to prove casualty to the hectic pace that life has recently acquired which leaves me feeling more than a little disappointed with myself. And given the sad state of affairs a boyfriend seems clearly out of the question. D school hasn’t even left me with anything to lech at- the general hopelessness of the in house population being further compounded by the steadily deteriorating quality of “passers by”, “hangers on” and miscellaneous elements. Even the travelling troubadours and resident cat stranglers never fail to disappoint. And the Jats are trying so very hard to get louder and uglier, which seems virtually impossible… but never say never, I say.
The OQ (ogle quotient) here has declined to unprecedented lows… life sure is unfair.
But as always, I have managed to brainwash myself into believing that a resilient silver lining is in the offing. When this madness winds up in January, it will all be worth it. Maybe I’ll take a vacation for a couple of days, to some nice warm place. It needn’t be a grand or glamorous trip, just one that allows me the luxury of sleeping in late, taking the occasional long walk or two, reading a book and staring off into space for hours together.
I’m not too fussy about location either. Presently, there’s only one place I’m sure I want to go. Away.
Saturday, 8 December 2007
post script
General Somanathanus declared to one and all that my mid term submission was an exquisite piece of work. I’m really glad I wasn’t around to hear that. I can somehow never handle such situations without turning all colours of the rainbow and getting the sudden urge to hide behind my curtain of hair or bend down and re-tie my shoelaces before being swallowed up by the ground beneath my feet. But I was also slightly sad that I couldn’t bask in the glory of one of my rare academic achievements.
Dwip was the first one to inform me of this triumph. He really is quite sweet that way, enough to make me not hold his “bong-ness” against him. It was Lal who finally handed me the graded copy of my essay (after we performed a carefully choreographed sequence of bitchery about rohini’s flip-flop over the internal assessment scheme and how we were all doomed to receive the most abysmal of marks in the semester exam and that life is unfair and that we are the victims of an asinine system that rewards rote as opposed to intelligence and the world is a cruel cruel place blah blah etc etc… usual stuff). I re-read it and carefully recollected the race against time to submit it. How I took the four page printout from the placement cell printer and tortured myself for the next few days for dishonest use of it’s resources.
And all the background reading I’d done on Bangladesh, Matlab, birthspacing, child mortality, gender biases, breastfeeding. All the dust I’d inhaled in the RTL while looking up information on survey design, hazard functions, survival analysis, logit regressions, simulation exercises and all the hours I spent racking my brain over the seemingly countless and virtually incomprehensible dummy variables and zillions of model specifications till I knew the paper backwards and forwards and could recite it in my sleep. Such bliss...
At the time I was struggling to type the bloody essay out, it had all seemed like time wasted. I didn’t even reference half the papers I’d read (I don’t know why… I guess I just didn’t want to seem like I was sucking up or something). But I did enjoy it. The hunt for information, piecing the story together… my own little project, my baby.
These are perhaps 8 ½ of the most precious marks I will ever receive. In retrospect, the labour pains proved to be deliciously rewarding.
Dwip was the first one to inform me of this triumph. He really is quite sweet that way, enough to make me not hold his “bong-ness” against him. It was Lal who finally handed me the graded copy of my essay (after we performed a carefully choreographed sequence of bitchery about rohini’s flip-flop over the internal assessment scheme and how we were all doomed to receive the most abysmal of marks in the semester exam and that life is unfair and that we are the victims of an asinine system that rewards rote as opposed to intelligence and the world is a cruel cruel place blah blah etc etc… usual stuff). I re-read it and carefully recollected the race against time to submit it. How I took the four page printout from the placement cell printer and tortured myself for the next few days for dishonest use of it’s resources.
And all the background reading I’d done on Bangladesh, Matlab, birthspacing, child mortality, gender biases, breastfeeding. All the dust I’d inhaled in the RTL while looking up information on survey design, hazard functions, survival analysis, logit regressions, simulation exercises and all the hours I spent racking my brain over the seemingly countless and virtually incomprehensible dummy variables and zillions of model specifications till I knew the paper backwards and forwards and could recite it in my sleep. Such bliss...
At the time I was struggling to type the bloody essay out, it had all seemed like time wasted. I didn’t even reference half the papers I’d read (I don’t know why… I guess I just didn’t want to seem like I was sucking up or something). But I did enjoy it. The hunt for information, piecing the story together… my own little project, my baby.
These are perhaps 8 ½ of the most precious marks I will ever receive. In retrospect, the labour pains proved to be deliciously rewarding.
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