The better part of the Delhi metropolis seems to be in the grip of a devastating drought. There’s word on the news of people foraging around for precious water to meet basic needs (no, by basic I do not mean laundry… think more along the lines of drinking and cooking). Given that the mighty State Government has very few options but to grin and bear it, there is little that the tiny Kingdom of Tsango can do to insulate itself from the sorry state of affairs.
Now, all of us down at Tsango are a fairly resilient lot quite accustomed to all nature of adversity (not to mention perfectly at ease with the prospect of a suspension in all bathing/washing-laundering/cleaning related activities). All would have been well had it not been for the tremendous stupidity of other Queens (96 of them at last count) of the wider AGSHW area. A pressing lack of sense… civic, common or any miscellaneous variety. For they live in an advanced stage of denial and or indifference. A world where come hell or high water (or lack thereof) clothes must be washed, floors must be swept and swabbed, hair must be shampooed (AND conditioned, lather…rinse…repeat…lather…rinse…repeat). While the rest of the world and all its mere mortals struggle to subsist, this insensitive lot can’t digest the thought of having to survive one day without washing their precious undies. And all the drones who do their bidding must go about their assigned tasks mechanically… the malees must water plants, the maids must polish the stairs. Life goes on as if noting at all happened. Its enough to drive anyone stark raving mad.
The Queen (she of Tsango, not the other thoughtless witches) of course being of the conscientious (God bless MS Word, else I’d never have been able to spell that blasted word) sort felt it her moral duty to educate the dumb masses. Alas, like most visionary thinkers she is misunderstood in her own times. She must be content with posthumous recognition.
So she swallowed her pride and budding activism whole and retreated into her quarters, which albeit overrun by sexually hyper-active lizards and pigeons with steadily precipitating intelligence quotients is still, after all, home.
*
There is much that needs attention. Some, like the unwashed plates and bucket full of dirty clothes shall have to wait till the liquidity crisis abates. But there are term papers to be written and exams to be crammed for. Conversations to be made, with Mona, Bob and of course with Thin Air. There are Georges (Clooney) to be ogled at and an old forgotten Kingfisher to be consumed. Naps to be taken (much oversleeping to be done) and movies to be watched on a doddering old laptop. An entire life to be lived in the confines of those four walls.
*
My apologies to the Duke (he of Puke) for paraphrasing much of the content of a series of vituperative messages into this post. I’m sorry you had to read this twice over.
*
A lizard climbed into the fan’s regulator about 45 minutes back. And it is yet to surface. I can posit a few explanations. 1) Overcome by exhaustion after a day of scurrying around, she decided to take a nap 2) Subsequent to her daring venture into the dark recesses of the electrical appliance, she has been electrocuted…her charred remains only to be discovered eons from now 3) The inside of the regulator is in fact the scene of THE MOST happening party for miles around. All of the famous reptilian P3Ps are there shaking their tails and booties and sampling scrumptious 6 legged hors d’ oeuvres…
Yes I have a lot of spare time on my hands, but if you’re reading this, well then so do you. So there.
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Saturday, 29 March 2008
The Whole 5 Yards
It takes 3 minutes to tie a sari almost perfectly. Subsequent attempts at ensuring complete perfection can take upto an additional 57. My solution to the problem, like my solution to most problems, is to dilly-dally till the absolute last moment. To finally get down to the complicated process of drapery when you have little or no time to be fussy about the outcome. Somehow, not having the luxury to redo things makes you do them well the first time over. Either that or you just have to grudgingly be satisfied with the effort.
But a sari is almost as trying to keep on that it is to put on. There is the painful question of what to do with the pallu. Sure at first you feel all grand and princess like when you flap it around, like those deliriously happy women in the sari commercials. I always feel a bit like a super hero myself, with my one shouldered cape. But the charm wears thin faster than you can say… oh well… just about anything that doesn’t take too long to say. From then on in it’s quite the nightmare. Conventional wisdom (i.e. passed down from generations of mothers) says the left arm (on which the palla rests) must never budge from the strict angle of 45 at the elbow. Not even if your arm muscles spasm or threaten to give way or just get bored of assuming the same position for hours on end. The said piece of cloth must be pinned firmly (but delicately so as not to rip the fabric) to the left shoulder and let loose, extending over the arm reaching the left wrist.
And then there is the prospect of having to navigate your way through a cruel world, which insists on installing obstacles in your way. Tip toeing through puddles which will magically materialise or manoeuvring around mounds of rubble. Stairs, by far the most worthy of adversaries must be scaled repeatedly. I don’t know what the rest do. I just bunch up the pleats and march on steadfastly giving the whole world a fairly generous peak at the frills at the bottom of the petticoat. All this must be done gracefully.
And all this must be done on high heels. Because flats are out of the question: its an unwritten rule. Even if it means that 20 minutes into having worn them, the entire weight of your body rests precariously on your toes. Even if the pain renders you dangerously close to passing out.
So lets recap… you have this impossibly tight string around your tummy cutting of the blood supply to everything south of the waist (or waste lands as Akka would endearingly refer to our bellies as). You have about a dozen overlapping pleats, which must be planted right in the middle of your gut. The gut of course has to be sucked in tight unless you want to look like you’re well into your second trimester. There’s the palla that must be tamed and the sandals that must be worn and borne. The brassiere strap that must be prevented from making an embarrassing appearance. The pebbles that creep in between your toes and move further on cruelly piercing your sole. And if you choose to leave your hair open you’re in for one hell of a picnic. For there is only so much nipping and tucking that the free and mobile right hand can do. Meals are impossible. I for one have never been able to master the art of one- handed eating, this despite years of attending weddings without adequate seating arrangements. No matter how scrumptious the meal, the sari clad me would just prefer to go hungry.
So breath held, arm aching, toes screaming for reprieve. Oh yes, and don’t forget to smile!
*
Ok the griping notwithstanding the end product of all this misery is actually quite beautiful. I’ve never known a woman to look anything less than her aesthetically pleasing best in a sari. There is something so incredibly feminine about the experience that almost makes the unpleasantness recede into the background.
*
There is something marvellous about living in a girls’ hostel. I could just stand in the courtyard and yell, “Help!!” and help would in fact appear. Sarees materialise from thin air, sandals will drop from the heavens, bangles and all nature of jewellery and accessories will be instantaneously matched, some generous souls would even offer the services of their ironing skills. The whole world turns out to take a peak and almost unfailingly tell you that you look more gorgeous than you ever have. And you believe it because somehow, they always mean it.
Everyone is captivated by your beauty and the whole process of your metamorphosis. There is no envy or malice. Just a feeling of awe at having been in some small way a part of the creation of unparalleled loveliness.
*
All the recent farewell-ing that I’ve been through is not without ugly side effects. There is the realisation that youth is steadily slipping through your fingers. That you can’t really post pone growing up any more.
I feel like such a geriatric… bleh…
Monday, 24 March 2008
Partying is Such Sweet Sorrow
i don't want to sing... and i don't want to rhyme... and i most certainly don't want to sing any of my rhymes...
i don't want to click/scan/mail any pictures... and i don't want to come up with any creative titles
i don't want daily updates and minute by minute schedules in my inbox
i don't want to listen to anyone's goodbye speeches... and i don't want to fill out any more testimonials... i don't care what people want to say about me to me... either that or i don't want to care... same difference
if i have to eat one more piece of sethi's chocolate trufle (how does one spell that word??) cake i'm going to puke
i wish IM and her army of annoying hyper-excited and compulsively-enthu trolls would just quit trying to 'involve' me and just leave me ALONE
... damn i needed that. i suppose after 5 straight years in the brown pastures of North Campus such things are bound to happen.
either that, or my sudden bouts of curmudgeon-liness are a sign of age. i prefer not to think about that
the end
i don't want to click/scan/mail any pictures... and i don't want to come up with any creative titles
i don't want daily updates and minute by minute schedules in my inbox
i don't want to listen to anyone's goodbye speeches... and i don't want to fill out any more testimonials... i don't care what people want to say about me to me... either that or i don't want to care... same difference
if i have to eat one more piece of sethi's chocolate trufle (how does one spell that word??) cake i'm going to puke
i wish IM and her army of annoying hyper-excited and compulsively-enthu trolls would just quit trying to 'involve' me and just leave me ALONE
... damn i needed that. i suppose after 5 straight years in the brown pastures of North Campus such things are bound to happen.
either that, or my sudden bouts of curmudgeon-liness are a sign of age. i prefer not to think about that
the end
Sunday, 23 March 2008
Itchy and Scratchy
The Khujli Wala Chuha
The Khujli Wala Chuha is a creature christened by the stupendously creative KB, the Maharani of Lucknow. The rodent is a manifestation of all the pent up frustration and anger inside the members of her court and kingdom (Court Jester NL, Head Concubine SY, Man at Arms APJ and her dog Xena to name a few). Of the urge to want to assuage all the burning questions inside their heads, to rid themselves of tedium and tension. An advanced state of unease in which all you can do… is scratch. Scratch your head, scratch your belly, scratch your behind. Scratch the insides of your brain in search of answers…scratch just to dull the itch.
The Khujli Wala Chuha (henceforth, KWC) Syndrome seems to have the nation in its grip. It has spread its tentacles all the way to Bengaluru, where a hapless DP Devi is struggling to come to grips with the fallout of a sequence of seemingly ‘rash’ (pun intended) decisions. When the malaise first surfaced, it compelled her to dump her boyfriend, quit her job, relocate to a new apartment. And now that all the dumping, quitting and relocating has finally been done, the rat has re-surfaced and opened up a veritable ‘Doubt Ki Dukaan’. Brave decisions are hard to go through with and harder still to live with.
It seems to have well near crippled the Duke of Puke, NS (alternatively, the Earl of Pearls) as he presides over his increasingly uncertain territory. ‘The powers that be’ have not been kind. First, they isolated him in the most desolate and inhospitable of places. Then they issued proclamations that proved well near impossible for the Tribal allies to swallow. All hell threatens to break lose and needless to say NS is scratching around furiously for solutions. Attempts to achieve a mental calm include pandering to the vulnerable bellies of friends, family and dog and recourse to hours worth of mindless reality TV. The things life makes you do.
And what of Shehzadi Samra PKH? Valiantly battling the temptations promised by the corporate world and struggling to suppress the desire to breakfast at the American Diner on a daily basis. In an attempt to eke out a literary masterpiece, one that doesn’t prove too costly for the kingdom’s treasury.
And of the 4 (of the famous 5), who are readying themselves for the onslaught of Evil Exams. How they fester and writhe as D-Day approacheth!
Yes, all is not well in the hearts and minds of the Queen’s allies. She can only hope that a deadly combination of ‘cheer up tom-foolery’ and ‘frequent change of subject’ therapy are some source of solace. Or at least that her amateurish attempts at psychiatry don’t cause irreparable damage.
*
As an aside, I wish to say that KB is a marvellous person. I’ve never ever known her to be upset or at least visibly so. In fact her cheerfulness grows exponentially in times of adversity. She has proved a worthy ally indeed.
The Khujli Wala Chuha is a creature christened by the stupendously creative KB, the Maharani of Lucknow. The rodent is a manifestation of all the pent up frustration and anger inside the members of her court and kingdom (Court Jester NL, Head Concubine SY, Man at Arms APJ and her dog Xena to name a few). Of the urge to want to assuage all the burning questions inside their heads, to rid themselves of tedium and tension. An advanced state of unease in which all you can do… is scratch. Scratch your head, scratch your belly, scratch your behind. Scratch the insides of your brain in search of answers…scratch just to dull the itch.
The Khujli Wala Chuha (henceforth, KWC) Syndrome seems to have the nation in its grip. It has spread its tentacles all the way to Bengaluru, where a hapless DP Devi is struggling to come to grips with the fallout of a sequence of seemingly ‘rash’ (pun intended) decisions. When the malaise first surfaced, it compelled her to dump her boyfriend, quit her job, relocate to a new apartment. And now that all the dumping, quitting and relocating has finally been done, the rat has re-surfaced and opened up a veritable ‘Doubt Ki Dukaan’. Brave decisions are hard to go through with and harder still to live with.
It seems to have well near crippled the Duke of Puke, NS (alternatively, the Earl of Pearls) as he presides over his increasingly uncertain territory. ‘The powers that be’ have not been kind. First, they isolated him in the most desolate and inhospitable of places. Then they issued proclamations that proved well near impossible for the Tribal allies to swallow. All hell threatens to break lose and needless to say NS is scratching around furiously for solutions. Attempts to achieve a mental calm include pandering to the vulnerable bellies of friends, family and dog and recourse to hours worth of mindless reality TV. The things life makes you do.
And what of Shehzadi Samra PKH? Valiantly battling the temptations promised by the corporate world and struggling to suppress the desire to breakfast at the American Diner on a daily basis. In an attempt to eke out a literary masterpiece, one that doesn’t prove too costly for the kingdom’s treasury.
And of the 4 (of the famous 5), who are readying themselves for the onslaught of Evil Exams. How they fester and writhe as D-Day approacheth!
Yes, all is not well in the hearts and minds of the Queen’s allies. She can only hope that a deadly combination of ‘cheer up tom-foolery’ and ‘frequent change of subject’ therapy are some source of solace. Or at least that her amateurish attempts at psychiatry don’t cause irreparable damage.
*
As an aside, I wish to say that KB is a marvellous person. I’ve never ever known her to be upset or at least visibly so. In fact her cheerfulness grows exponentially in times of adversity. She has proved a worthy ally indeed.
Saturday, 22 March 2008
Tomorrow, (or rather today) is holi. I’ve always disliked the festival, don’t quite know why. I only ever once truly enjoyed the festivities but not enough to want to give it another shot. I think I was just born a boring geriatric. I hope to sit this holi out as well.
But this year I have a valid explanation. My family is not celebrating festivals this year. I hate to have to call it an ‘excuse’ but if I were honest I’d have to admit that that’s exactly what it is. I haven’t denied myself any other opportunity for revelry. I haven’t activated the ‘excuse’ enough to warrant it being called a ‘reason’ rather than an ‘excuse’.
I’ve used it selfishly to avoid situations that I think are bound to be unpleasant.
*
I don’t know what I hate most about the fact that C died. Whether it was the place, the time, the circumstances or simply the fact that she died. I suppose it’s a bit of everything.
I hate that she had to die. Because I saw no reason why it absolutely had to happen. Very few deaths make sense, but this one was damn near incomprehensible. Could anyone find a reasonable reason as to why a 23 year old should die?
I hated it because I actually liked C. Not in the way one is obligated to like relatives but because I thought she was genuinely likeable. I mean if I had met her one fine day through a common friend or if we happened to be assigned adjacent seats in school without any prior knowledge of each other or some such random thing… I know we’d have gotten along. But then most people got along with her and liked her too. I’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t.
She used to laugh at almost all of my jokes. In fact she laughed at most everything I ever said. I could say, “the sun rises in the east” and I know she’d at least crack a smile. And the others laughed when she did, even the ones who didn’t really see the humour in the situation. I suppose it made them comfortable to join in once they were assured that underneath all the words I usually over-embellish conversation with, there was in fact the kernel of something funny.
I hate that I wasn’t there when it happened. That I was so far away. In a sense insulated from all the heartbreaking goings on. But this was the most stifling form of seclusion ever… I couldn’t feel a thing. Only guilt, that too for being unable to feel anything else. Guilty for not crying enough, for actually packing in a few hours of sleep, for eating good food, wearing nice clothes, taking a long walk, watching tv, breathing. Guilty for not having been a part of the indescribable pain that death can cause. Other people were there and they weren’t even family. People who were confused and upset and hurt and angry. While I sat miles away… feeling guilty.
And I live in a constant state of guilt. For not having been there, for not having called, for not visiting. For eating good food and wearing nice clothes and taking long walks and watching tv…and breathing.
And the thought that with every passing day, my memory of C resembles the real her less and less.
*
I can’t help but think of that day without thinking of R. He is the nicest person in the world and I am utterly undeserving of him or his niceness. I think a part of me loves R just for those 45 minutes. For humouring my tears.
And thenceforth, for humouring just about everything I have dished out. The long winded theories, the moronic philosophising. The forgotten birthday and several unmade phone calls.
I wonder what purpose certain people serve in my life. Have you ever known anyone you’ve wanted to remain acquainted with simply because they were there? Not because of their intelligence, conversational ability, endearing traits, good looks. But because they happened to, at a crucial point in time, make you feel a shade less sad and lonely.
*
The summer just got crueller as it went along. But I remember this one day, after a sequence of several bad days, I managed to cheer myself up for a split second. I was in a cab on my way to a wholesale market called (if my memory serves me right) Masjid Bunder. MK was pleased as punch to host someone from the GO on his daily route. He spoke like an excited little child on the phone, giving me directions.
It all suddenly made sense: It is so incredibly easy to make people happy. And the world really is better off with more happy people than sad people. I know… I’m a lot happier being happy than I am being sad. Everyone is striving hard to move toward a state of happy. Not the ecstatic jumping around kind, just quiet contentment. And I can help.
I had the strongest urge to be a source of joy to the world. To swallow cynicism up whole and let my idealistic self spread happiness, even if it came at the risk of embarrassing myself, at the risk of working too hard or the risk of wasting too much time.
Some things are worth it.
(I really believe all this stuff so if you think I’m insane, go ahead)
*
I don’t know how long that urge persisted. Moreover, I wonder if the way I am allows me admit that it did, guiding everything I have done since then. I doubt I’ll ever really make peace with my good intentions for the world. That I’ll ever be entirely comfortable with them (enough to say it out loud). Even as I speak, I feel like such a self indulgent fool.
*
I remember having this conversation with E six million times over, till we knew it backwards and forwards.
How dare we let ourselves complain? Do we really deserve the right to complain about anything? We have homes and families. We have clothes to wear and food to eat. We may not have too much money, but it is more than enough to keep body and soul together. We have the use of all our limbs and assorted appendages. A fully functional brain. We have the lives that many people aspire to live.
Life is in fact perfect, barring minor inconveniences.
And the bouts of sadness? For them we must budget time. Time for being human. For hurting. And time for healing.
*
I’m really wondering whether or not to post this. Being honest is difficult. And being honest can be terribly disconcerting too. Especially when you realise that you had the capacity to do it with such ease… to be so recklessly forthright. That it caused you so little discomfort.
*
Dear C,
I miss you.
Love,
Me
But this year I have a valid explanation. My family is not celebrating festivals this year. I hate to have to call it an ‘excuse’ but if I were honest I’d have to admit that that’s exactly what it is. I haven’t denied myself any other opportunity for revelry. I haven’t activated the ‘excuse’ enough to warrant it being called a ‘reason’ rather than an ‘excuse’.
I’ve used it selfishly to avoid situations that I think are bound to be unpleasant.
*
I don’t know what I hate most about the fact that C died. Whether it was the place, the time, the circumstances or simply the fact that she died. I suppose it’s a bit of everything.
I hate that she had to die. Because I saw no reason why it absolutely had to happen. Very few deaths make sense, but this one was damn near incomprehensible. Could anyone find a reasonable reason as to why a 23 year old should die?
I hated it because I actually liked C. Not in the way one is obligated to like relatives but because I thought she was genuinely likeable. I mean if I had met her one fine day through a common friend or if we happened to be assigned adjacent seats in school without any prior knowledge of each other or some such random thing… I know we’d have gotten along. But then most people got along with her and liked her too. I’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t.
She used to laugh at almost all of my jokes. In fact she laughed at most everything I ever said. I could say, “the sun rises in the east” and I know she’d at least crack a smile. And the others laughed when she did, even the ones who didn’t really see the humour in the situation. I suppose it made them comfortable to join in once they were assured that underneath all the words I usually over-embellish conversation with, there was in fact the kernel of something funny.
I hate that I wasn’t there when it happened. That I was so far away. In a sense insulated from all the heartbreaking goings on. But this was the most stifling form of seclusion ever… I couldn’t feel a thing. Only guilt, that too for being unable to feel anything else. Guilty for not crying enough, for actually packing in a few hours of sleep, for eating good food, wearing nice clothes, taking a long walk, watching tv, breathing. Guilty for not having been a part of the indescribable pain that death can cause. Other people were there and they weren’t even family. People who were confused and upset and hurt and angry. While I sat miles away… feeling guilty.
And I live in a constant state of guilt. For not having been there, for not having called, for not visiting. For eating good food and wearing nice clothes and taking long walks and watching tv…and breathing.
And the thought that with every passing day, my memory of C resembles the real her less and less.
*
I can’t help but think of that day without thinking of R. He is the nicest person in the world and I am utterly undeserving of him or his niceness. I think a part of me loves R just for those 45 minutes. For humouring my tears.
And thenceforth, for humouring just about everything I have dished out. The long winded theories, the moronic philosophising. The forgotten birthday and several unmade phone calls.
I wonder what purpose certain people serve in my life. Have you ever known anyone you’ve wanted to remain acquainted with simply because they were there? Not because of their intelligence, conversational ability, endearing traits, good looks. But because they happened to, at a crucial point in time, make you feel a shade less sad and lonely.
*
The summer just got crueller as it went along. But I remember this one day, after a sequence of several bad days, I managed to cheer myself up for a split second. I was in a cab on my way to a wholesale market called (if my memory serves me right) Masjid Bunder. MK was pleased as punch to host someone from the GO on his daily route. He spoke like an excited little child on the phone, giving me directions.
It all suddenly made sense: It is so incredibly easy to make people happy. And the world really is better off with more happy people than sad people. I know… I’m a lot happier being happy than I am being sad. Everyone is striving hard to move toward a state of happy. Not the ecstatic jumping around kind, just quiet contentment. And I can help.
I had the strongest urge to be a source of joy to the world. To swallow cynicism up whole and let my idealistic self spread happiness, even if it came at the risk of embarrassing myself, at the risk of working too hard or the risk of wasting too much time.
Some things are worth it.
(I really believe all this stuff so if you think I’m insane, go ahead)
*
I don’t know how long that urge persisted. Moreover, I wonder if the way I am allows me admit that it did, guiding everything I have done since then. I doubt I’ll ever really make peace with my good intentions for the world. That I’ll ever be entirely comfortable with them (enough to say it out loud). Even as I speak, I feel like such a self indulgent fool.
*
I remember having this conversation with E six million times over, till we knew it backwards and forwards.
How dare we let ourselves complain? Do we really deserve the right to complain about anything? We have homes and families. We have clothes to wear and food to eat. We may not have too much money, but it is more than enough to keep body and soul together. We have the use of all our limbs and assorted appendages. A fully functional brain. We have the lives that many people aspire to live.
Life is in fact perfect, barring minor inconveniences.
And the bouts of sadness? For them we must budget time. Time for being human. For hurting. And time for healing.
*
I’m really wondering whether or not to post this. Being honest is difficult. And being honest can be terribly disconcerting too. Especially when you realise that you had the capacity to do it with such ease… to be so recklessly forthright. That it caused you so little discomfort.
*
Dear C,
I miss you.
Love,
Me
Monday, 17 March 2008
Valuable Lessons: 5 years in the life of a DU victim
Fodder for thought
We don’t exert sufficient leverage. We are a bunch of hopeless pushovers. We let companies run rampant. We are willing victims of the machinations of manipulative HR personnel*. We are the epitome of pathetic subservience…
RL accuses the placement cell of being a docile cow
I believe his exact words were,
“… so what does that mean? Is the placement cell a cow?”
????
Moooo…
Moooo
*We are also equally manipulative, but that’s another story…
*
The Write Stuff: Words of Wisdom
How do I get myself into these messes? My enthusiasm (or was it joblessness?) will be the death of me. Somehow I managed to have myself appointed as a member of the Editorial Board of the hostel magazine (it may have something to do with the fact that I volunteered). A sad little publication, read by very few outside the circles of those who end up compiling it.
If you’ve ever flipped through one of these things (i.e. emotionally blackmailed into reading it by a friend or just unimaginably bored, those were the only two instances I could think of) you’ll notice the first few pages being hogged by flowery clichéd “messages” from “dignitaries”. Well, somehow the onus of collating that riveting section fell on my shoulders (it may have something to do with the fact that I volunteered... is it just me or does everyone see a pattern to this?). The magazine could simply not go to print without stirring words of encouragement from:
1. the Provost
2. the Resident Tutor
3. the Chairman of the Someortheothersham Committee (a.k.a. SCP)
4. the distinguished member of Wastefultothepointofredundancy Committee (a.k.a. PBN)
5. the Pro-Vice Chancellor (he does after all have a swanky office in the Vice Regal Lodge and all)
and lots more…
I’m really thankful to 3. for exercising his imagination and writing something sweet though not altogether profound. I’m equally thoughtful to 4. for not writing anything at all and giving us an extra page to play around with. 1. and 2. opted for recycling their last year’s messages word for word. 5. however proved to be a challenge, at least his peon did (I never actually did meet 5., in fact I’m beginning to wonder if 5. even exists). He asked me to imagine what I would like 5. to have said and just submit that for his signature since “voh bahut beezee rehte hain”. To channel my creative energies and compose something suitable.
I twiddled my thumbs for a bit and took a leaf out of 1. and 2.’s book, re-submitting the Pro VC's epistle from last year's edition. It was the most creative shortcut I have ever taken.
*
The Form is Dead, Long Live the Form
I recently filled out the last university examination form of my life. As usual I went about it in my trademark style, leaving it for the last possible day. It was however a marked improvement from the previous time around, when I actually had to cough up a fine for submitting it two days late. DU loves extracting money from its hapless victims and I have proven to be more than obliging on several occasions.
I don’t really know why I procrastinate with form filling and such like official procedures. I mean I procrastinate about most things, but to forms I’m well near allergic. Something about all those blanks to be filled, boxes to be ticked, signatures to signature, numbers to fill in… they just give me the heebie jeebies. I’m always paranoid about messing it up (destroying it to the extent that no amount of over-writing or that gooey white correction fluid can rescue the damn thing) and having to ask for another one.
I think I’m just terrified of being subjected to admonishment from disgruntled office staff. I hate to generalise, but I’ve never known office staff to be anything but disgruntled. At least Pande Ji goes about inflicting public humiliation it in a funny, genial way. Some folks down at Stephen’s (Vasantha, the evil banshee who presides over the transcript racket and who could forget the "Fat Lady", who spends her days yacking, yawning, scanning the DT, taking inordinately long lunch/tea breaks… she occasionally works too) could damn near reduce you to tears.
Usually, just the thought of having to submit office paperwork is enough to give me sweaty palms, sleepless nights etc. I’ve never applied for a re-evaluation or to take an improvement. And not just because my academic performance did not merit such action. But because of a deadly cocktail of fear and laziness.
Surprisingly, this last form was a breeze. I filled it up in less than ten minutes without having to double or triple check any of its contents. Pande Ji gave me two thumbs up for a superlative performance (“placement sahiba, dus mein se dus number se utteern ho gayin hai”). Which is sad in a way. No, not because I take some perverse pleasure out of my own discomfort. But because it took me 5 years to master the art of dealing with the bureaucratic rigmarole that is DU. And now its time to leave. Sigh...
*
I’m sure the coming years will bring me face to face with creative name-calling (with or without reference to my bovine-ness), annoying accusations and scary amounts of red tape. The silver lining, if any, is that life thus far seems to have equipped me with the ability to work with and around it.
That, and the ability to not take myself too seriously. Which is about my most prized possession. If the world is going to laugh at you, the best bet is to beat them to it.
We don’t exert sufficient leverage. We are a bunch of hopeless pushovers. We let companies run rampant. We are willing victims of the machinations of manipulative HR personnel*. We are the epitome of pathetic subservience…
RL accuses the placement cell of being a docile cow
I believe his exact words were,
“… so what does that mean? Is the placement cell a cow?”
????
Moooo…
Moooo
*We are also equally manipulative, but that’s another story…
*
The Write Stuff: Words of Wisdom
How do I get myself into these messes? My enthusiasm (or was it joblessness?) will be the death of me. Somehow I managed to have myself appointed as a member of the Editorial Board of the hostel magazine (it may have something to do with the fact that I volunteered). A sad little publication, read by very few outside the circles of those who end up compiling it.
If you’ve ever flipped through one of these things (i.e. emotionally blackmailed into reading it by a friend or just unimaginably bored, those were the only two instances I could think of) you’ll notice the first few pages being hogged by flowery clichéd “messages” from “dignitaries”. Well, somehow the onus of collating that riveting section fell on my shoulders (it may have something to do with the fact that I volunteered... is it just me or does everyone see a pattern to this?). The magazine could simply not go to print without stirring words of encouragement from:
1. the Provost
2. the Resident Tutor
3. the Chairman of the Someortheothersham Committee (a.k.a. SCP)
4. the distinguished member of Wastefultothepointofredundancy Committee (a.k.a. PBN)
5. the Pro-Vice Chancellor (he does after all have a swanky office in the Vice Regal Lodge and all)
and lots more…
I’m really thankful to 3. for exercising his imagination and writing something sweet though not altogether profound. I’m equally thoughtful to 4. for not writing anything at all and giving us an extra page to play around with. 1. and 2. opted for recycling their last year’s messages word for word. 5. however proved to be a challenge, at least his peon did (I never actually did meet 5., in fact I’m beginning to wonder if 5. even exists). He asked me to imagine what I would like 5. to have said and just submit that for his signature since “voh bahut beezee rehte hain”. To channel my creative energies and compose something suitable.
I twiddled my thumbs for a bit and took a leaf out of 1. and 2.’s book, re-submitting the Pro VC's epistle from last year's edition. It was the most creative shortcut I have ever taken.
*
The Form is Dead, Long Live the Form
I recently filled out the last university examination form of my life. As usual I went about it in my trademark style, leaving it for the last possible day. It was however a marked improvement from the previous time around, when I actually had to cough up a fine for submitting it two days late. DU loves extracting money from its hapless victims and I have proven to be more than obliging on several occasions.
I don’t really know why I procrastinate with form filling and such like official procedures. I mean I procrastinate about most things, but to forms I’m well near allergic. Something about all those blanks to be filled, boxes to be ticked, signatures to signature, numbers to fill in… they just give me the heebie jeebies. I’m always paranoid about messing it up (destroying it to the extent that no amount of over-writing or that gooey white correction fluid can rescue the damn thing) and having to ask for another one.
I think I’m just terrified of being subjected to admonishment from disgruntled office staff. I hate to generalise, but I’ve never known office staff to be anything but disgruntled. At least Pande Ji goes about inflicting public humiliation it in a funny, genial way. Some folks down at Stephen’s (Vasantha, the evil banshee who presides over the transcript racket and who could forget the "Fat Lady", who spends her days yacking, yawning, scanning the DT, taking inordinately long lunch/tea breaks… she occasionally works too) could damn near reduce you to tears.
Usually, just the thought of having to submit office paperwork is enough to give me sweaty palms, sleepless nights etc. I’ve never applied for a re-evaluation or to take an improvement. And not just because my academic performance did not merit such action. But because of a deadly cocktail of fear and laziness.
Surprisingly, this last form was a breeze. I filled it up in less than ten minutes without having to double or triple check any of its contents. Pande Ji gave me two thumbs up for a superlative performance (“placement sahiba, dus mein se dus number se utteern ho gayin hai”). Which is sad in a way. No, not because I take some perverse pleasure out of my own discomfort. But because it took me 5 years to master the art of dealing with the bureaucratic rigmarole that is DU. And now its time to leave. Sigh...
*
I’m sure the coming years will bring me face to face with creative name-calling (with or without reference to my bovine-ness), annoying accusations and scary amounts of red tape. The silver lining, if any, is that life thus far seems to have equipped me with the ability to work with and around it.
That, and the ability to not take myself too seriously. Which is about my most prized possession. If the world is going to laugh at you, the best bet is to beat them to it.
Friday, 14 March 2008
Good Carb, Bad Carb
Pooch has instigated a revolution. Her recent turn as a sexy siren (hostel night, slinky sari accompanied by a hot spaghetti-top blouse) has inspired us all to make concerted efforts toward (Angelina) Jolie-fying ourselves.
Alas, we have all come to the painful conclusion that hotness, being necessarily equated with thinness (or alternatively being associated with non-fatness) is a challenging attribute to acquire. Especially for people whose idea of fun is stealing extra bowls of suji halwa at dinner time and who are still reeling from culinary catastrophes such as the discontinuation of jalebi as the Thursday night dessert (ok fine, I admit that’s just me).
We’ve realised that in order to acquire baywatch babe figures, we’re going to have to exercise more than just our tongues. To boldly go where few hostellers have gone before: the final frontier-
The gym.
*
There are those of us who prefer the great outdoors. To be fair I was the first of all the copy-catters who decided to follow in Pooch’s footsteps and hit the jogging track. Now of course it has assumed pandemic like proportions. It’s hard to venture out into the lawn without bumping into another aspiring beauty queen.
I came upon Dohee the other day. For some strange reason we decided to run in opposite directions. She clockwise and I counter…
I recall being decidedly dizzy after the experience.
*
I remember the first day. I’d been procrastinating about remedying my general sloth like existence for the longest time. And then the day finally came. I recall trying to take a nap only to end up tossing and turning uncomfortably till the last thing that was on my mind was sleep. Jumped out of bed, laced up my sneakers… and ran.
I realised that I have enormous reserves of energy. Must be all the milk I’m drinking… or the sex I’m not having. Either way, despite my laughable track record on the fitness front, barring scary term paper submissions I’ve been at it quite regularly.
I also realised that I have stupendous reserves of spit. I can’t go 60 seconds without ejecting great big gobs of saliva.
And there I was thinking the only thing I had to spare were tyres.
(I have since invented an elaborate spitting game. The key is to wait till the spit gets to just the right consistency and volume and then pick a target. So far I’ve tried flowers and leaves and met with great success. I’m contemplating a move to more challenging prey.
I’m hoping that restricting this disgusting confession to a bracket will make it somewhat less disgusting for conservative audiences. Somewhat more palatable…
…sorry, I couldn’t resist that one)
*
V is cruelly perceptive.
“Its all a race against time to lose weight before the farewell isn’t it?”
And so what if it is? Is it such a crime to want to look nice and be ogled at?
I don’t know if you’ve ever worn a sari, but if you have, you’d know that you can’t drape one without feeling at least three months pregnant. Those blasted pleats stick a mile out like a bulging reminder of having gobbled too many mutton dosas.
The ogle-quotient tends to take a serious hit
*
I figured I couldn’t give up food. Eating is such a pleasurable experience. My friends in the hostel always marvel at how my every meal is taken so stylishly. Like a carefully choreographed ballet.
But strangely, for someone who puts so much energy into eating, I have surprisingly low standards when it comes to food. I relish the experience- the table, the plate, cutlery etc. And the sentiment too… of pampering yourself. I delineate clear boundaries for roti, dal and subzi (I really hate when things spill into each other). I cut garais in strict hemispheres and budget how much subzi to eat with each mouthful.
(clearly I am insane)
I wish every meal were an event.
*
The effects of this fitness drive have extended far beyond the confines of Ambedkar Ganguly Students’ House for Women (which is about the most long winded name for a hostel ever). V has taken to aerobics. Hmphh… not so high and mighty now are we?
I think it may be a last minute attempt to shed some pounds before we lapse into a vegetal state behind desks and in front of computer screens. Fuelled by frothy cappuccinos from obliging push button dispensers. Calories at your finger tips.
I don’t know a single person who has taken to work and increased financial liquidity without an accompanying expansion of girth.
*
Not that exercise is an easy remedy for pudginess, but at least you know a remedy exists. What scares me is that my mind will atrophy as well. And I wonder if there are any easy remedies for that. Maybe I’ll take to composing sonnets on the walls of the office loos or making fun of people’s accents in my head or hoarding stationery or eavesdropping on conversations followed by extended psychoanalyses…
Oh and blog… that too…
I have a feeling that I shall spend the better part of my work existence hatching an escape plan and stun the world by relinquishing access to all the luxuries that the corporate world has to offer…
If the plans are in fact ever put into action, I think the person who’d be most stunned would be me.
Alas, we have all come to the painful conclusion that hotness, being necessarily equated with thinness (or alternatively being associated with non-fatness) is a challenging attribute to acquire. Especially for people whose idea of fun is stealing extra bowls of suji halwa at dinner time and who are still reeling from culinary catastrophes such as the discontinuation of jalebi as the Thursday night dessert (ok fine, I admit that’s just me).
We’ve realised that in order to acquire baywatch babe figures, we’re going to have to exercise more than just our tongues. To boldly go where few hostellers have gone before: the final frontier-
The gym.
*
There are those of us who prefer the great outdoors. To be fair I was the first of all the copy-catters who decided to follow in Pooch’s footsteps and hit the jogging track. Now of course it has assumed pandemic like proportions. It’s hard to venture out into the lawn without bumping into another aspiring beauty queen.
I came upon Dohee the other day. For some strange reason we decided to run in opposite directions. She clockwise and I counter…
I recall being decidedly dizzy after the experience.
*
I remember the first day. I’d been procrastinating about remedying my general sloth like existence for the longest time. And then the day finally came. I recall trying to take a nap only to end up tossing and turning uncomfortably till the last thing that was on my mind was sleep. Jumped out of bed, laced up my sneakers… and ran.
I realised that I have enormous reserves of energy. Must be all the milk I’m drinking… or the sex I’m not having. Either way, despite my laughable track record on the fitness front, barring scary term paper submissions I’ve been at it quite regularly.
I also realised that I have stupendous reserves of spit. I can’t go 60 seconds without ejecting great big gobs of saliva.
And there I was thinking the only thing I had to spare were tyres.
(I have since invented an elaborate spitting game. The key is to wait till the spit gets to just the right consistency and volume and then pick a target. So far I’ve tried flowers and leaves and met with great success. I’m contemplating a move to more challenging prey.
I’m hoping that restricting this disgusting confession to a bracket will make it somewhat less disgusting for conservative audiences. Somewhat more palatable…
…sorry, I couldn’t resist that one)
*
V is cruelly perceptive.
“Its all a race against time to lose weight before the farewell isn’t it?”
And so what if it is? Is it such a crime to want to look nice and be ogled at?
I don’t know if you’ve ever worn a sari, but if you have, you’d know that you can’t drape one without feeling at least three months pregnant. Those blasted pleats stick a mile out like a bulging reminder of having gobbled too many mutton dosas.
The ogle-quotient tends to take a serious hit
*
I figured I couldn’t give up food. Eating is such a pleasurable experience. My friends in the hostel always marvel at how my every meal is taken so stylishly. Like a carefully choreographed ballet.
But strangely, for someone who puts so much energy into eating, I have surprisingly low standards when it comes to food. I relish the experience- the table, the plate, cutlery etc. And the sentiment too… of pampering yourself. I delineate clear boundaries for roti, dal and subzi (I really hate when things spill into each other). I cut garais in strict hemispheres and budget how much subzi to eat with each mouthful.
(clearly I am insane)
I wish every meal were an event.
*
The effects of this fitness drive have extended far beyond the confines of Ambedkar Ganguly Students’ House for Women (which is about the most long winded name for a hostel ever). V has taken to aerobics. Hmphh… not so high and mighty now are we?
I think it may be a last minute attempt to shed some pounds before we lapse into a vegetal state behind desks and in front of computer screens. Fuelled by frothy cappuccinos from obliging push button dispensers. Calories at your finger tips.
I don’t know a single person who has taken to work and increased financial liquidity without an accompanying expansion of girth.
*
Not that exercise is an easy remedy for pudginess, but at least you know a remedy exists. What scares me is that my mind will atrophy as well. And I wonder if there are any easy remedies for that. Maybe I’ll take to composing sonnets on the walls of the office loos or making fun of people’s accents in my head or hoarding stationery or eavesdropping on conversations followed by extended psychoanalyses…
Oh and blog… that too…
I have a feeling that I shall spend the better part of my work existence hatching an escape plan and stun the world by relinquishing access to all the luxuries that the corporate world has to offer…
If the plans are in fact ever put into action, I think the person who’d be most stunned would be me.
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
Losing Touch
Its finally gone and done it... In its fifth year running, my not-quite trusty MTNL connection seems to have called it a day. So far it had restricted itself to being only mildly annoying... I'd have to send each message a couple of times to ensure delivery, indulge in all sorts of gymnastics to ensure that I get signal and routinely decipher warbled conversations. But now good ol' Trump (I bet The Donald would be mighty mad to hear his name being associated with such a hopelessly inefficient product) has gone from slightly unreliable to barely reliable.
Cutting me off from the universe as I know it.
Its strange that I feel so lost without it... I mean all I do is complain about meaningless telephonic conversation. The strange debates I have with myself every time the phone rings and I can't think of a blessed thing to say. The countless occasions I have just let it ring (or vibrate) plaintively, pretending to not be there.
And now its silence bothers me. Perhaps because the Gods of telecom have robbed me of the right to decide, the luxury of turning down conversation because I know I can always saunter over to another bored person just a few yards away. Being a recluse is a lot more fun when you do it by choice.
*
I don't know why facebook annoys me quite as much as it does. I just feel it gives human beings yet another reason to be lazy. Befriending people you couldn't possibly care less about, birthdays you're too inconsiderate to keep track of and all nature of stupidy (vampires, quizzes, gifts and way more poking than I am comfortable with). Casual helloes to long forgotten acquintances and perhaps worse- sudden embarrassing resurgence of people you know you wanted more than anything to have kept in touch with.
Life should not be so convenient.
*
Or should it? I woke up yesterday to find a tortured and heartfelt mail from V. As it turns out she'd broken up with V the night before (yes, the fact that both their names begin with V hadn't escaped me either... they were so irritatingly cute). The mail contained no details of how they had parted or how she was feeling. Not even any nasty words for the boy who had just broken her heart into tiny little pieces. Just that it had happened and that she did not want to talk about it. "So the next we meet", I was instructed, "please pretend like none of this ugliness happened... just act normal".
It struck me... the internet is such a marvelous invention. There have been so many times when I've wanted to share unpleasant information without it being brought up in future conversation. To shout it out into the universe... exorcise the spirit... to vomit, without having to worry about the mess.
"I just flunked a mid-term, so please lets not talk about it"
or maybe ,
"I'm feeling so terribly helpless and don't know what to do"
and perhaps,
"X is so indescribably mean to me"
and quite frequently,
"I just did something awful to Y and I'm having trouble living with myself"
of course there's always room for,
"I think we both just misunderstood each other... let's just start over"
What would I do? Well I'd probably put it in a mail. Hopefully have someone to mail it to as well.
*
Technology allows us to say things we'd otherwise probably never say. Take this blog for example- I think a lot of what I write is terribly flaky, I doubt I'd discuss it with too many people. But I have no qualms whatsoever writing it down. I don't have to see the readers' reaction... fret over whether or not they enjoyed it. I just blabber on. A lot of people have liked what they read or at least expressed that they did. And those who didn't, they for all effective purposes don't really exist do they?
And what of all the friends I did end up keeping in touch with? When there were things to say but no inclination to say them out loud (and very often no balance, or in my case, no bloody signal). Acquaintances with whom I got... well... re-acquainted. And all those conversations that Pooch and I've had, despite being separated by no more than a couple of rooms. There is a certain joy to be had from keeping in touch, even when its with someone who is no more than a stone's throw away.
*
But there is such a thing as too much distance. The kind beyond which hearts stop growing fonder. As it turns out V had spared me the littany of her woes in the mail, only to deliver it in person. How it was "about time" and "waiting to happen". How she thought he was "distant" in every sense of the word and that the possibility of a "someone else" could not be ruled out entirely.
I've only ever known one long distance relationship to last. The rest just seem to crumble. I myself shouldn't talk. The only relationship I was ever in seemed like a long distance one even though we were never more than 5 km out of each others' vicinity... haha...
Who would have thought that staying in love with someone would require this much effort? And a lot of good luck too. For those times, when no amount of mailing, messaging, writing or calling will do. But I suppose if one puts in that magnitude of effort, it must be worth something. I wouldn't know and I'll abstain from speculating.
*
For now, all i hope is that my phone mends its fickle ways. I have a sudden urge to be one with the universe. The universe with all its hours of pointless chatter and silences, comfortable or otherwise.
Cutting me off from the universe as I know it.
Its strange that I feel so lost without it... I mean all I do is complain about meaningless telephonic conversation. The strange debates I have with myself every time the phone rings and I can't think of a blessed thing to say. The countless occasions I have just let it ring (or vibrate) plaintively, pretending to not be there.
And now its silence bothers me. Perhaps because the Gods of telecom have robbed me of the right to decide, the luxury of turning down conversation because I know I can always saunter over to another bored person just a few yards away. Being a recluse is a lot more fun when you do it by choice.
*
I don't know why facebook annoys me quite as much as it does. I just feel it gives human beings yet another reason to be lazy. Befriending people you couldn't possibly care less about, birthdays you're too inconsiderate to keep track of and all nature of stupidy (vampires, quizzes, gifts and way more poking than I am comfortable with). Casual helloes to long forgotten acquintances and perhaps worse- sudden embarrassing resurgence of people you know you wanted more than anything to have kept in touch with.
Life should not be so convenient.
*
Or should it? I woke up yesterday to find a tortured and heartfelt mail from V. As it turns out she'd broken up with V the night before (yes, the fact that both their names begin with V hadn't escaped me either... they were so irritatingly cute). The mail contained no details of how they had parted or how she was feeling. Not even any nasty words for the boy who had just broken her heart into tiny little pieces. Just that it had happened and that she did not want to talk about it. "So the next we meet", I was instructed, "please pretend like none of this ugliness happened... just act normal".
It struck me... the internet is such a marvelous invention. There have been so many times when I've wanted to share unpleasant information without it being brought up in future conversation. To shout it out into the universe... exorcise the spirit... to vomit, without having to worry about the mess.
"I just flunked a mid-term, so please lets not talk about it"
or maybe ,
"I'm feeling so terribly helpless and don't know what to do"
and perhaps,
"X is so indescribably mean to me"
and quite frequently,
"I just did something awful to Y and I'm having trouble living with myself"
of course there's always room for,
"I think we both just misunderstood each other... let's just start over"
What would I do? Well I'd probably put it in a mail. Hopefully have someone to mail it to as well.
*
Technology allows us to say things we'd otherwise probably never say. Take this blog for example- I think a lot of what I write is terribly flaky, I doubt I'd discuss it with too many people. But I have no qualms whatsoever writing it down. I don't have to see the readers' reaction... fret over whether or not they enjoyed it. I just blabber on. A lot of people have liked what they read or at least expressed that they did. And those who didn't, they for all effective purposes don't really exist do they?
And what of all the friends I did end up keeping in touch with? When there were things to say but no inclination to say them out loud (and very often no balance, or in my case, no bloody signal). Acquaintances with whom I got... well... re-acquainted. And all those conversations that Pooch and I've had, despite being separated by no more than a couple of rooms. There is a certain joy to be had from keeping in touch, even when its with someone who is no more than a stone's throw away.
*
But there is such a thing as too much distance. The kind beyond which hearts stop growing fonder. As it turns out V had spared me the littany of her woes in the mail, only to deliver it in person. How it was "about time" and "waiting to happen". How she thought he was "distant" in every sense of the word and that the possibility of a "someone else" could not be ruled out entirely.
I've only ever known one long distance relationship to last. The rest just seem to crumble. I myself shouldn't talk. The only relationship I was ever in seemed like a long distance one even though we were never more than 5 km out of each others' vicinity... haha...
Who would have thought that staying in love with someone would require this much effort? And a lot of good luck too. For those times, when no amount of mailing, messaging, writing or calling will do. But I suppose if one puts in that magnitude of effort, it must be worth something. I wouldn't know and I'll abstain from speculating.
*
For now, all i hope is that my phone mends its fickle ways. I have a sudden urge to be one with the universe. The universe with all its hours of pointless chatter and silences, comfortable or otherwise.
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
I hate RS... I hate him so much I want to gouge his eyes out with my bare hands. Or better still, lock him up in a room with a recording of his own irritatingly high pitched voice delivering a sequence of annoyingly long lectures... Subject him to such like unspeakable horrors...
Torture in falsetto...
I hate him because he thinks I'm a moron. And lazy. A lazy moron. But more so because his assessment of my capability and dedication is based on fairly arbitrary and wholely questionable criteria.
1. The fact that I wasted an hour and a half listening to AJP and SY crib about SS and such like Snobby Stephanians. SY's enlightened take on Ronald Coase, accusations against me for alleged advances made to UN (having booked him as my salsa partner in Mumbai)... AJP's diatribe against dschool and having wasted two years loving and loathing it.
I made a mutton dosa last for the entire length of that conversation... does he have any idea the kind of restraint that takes?
2. So what if I spent 45 minutes chatting with AS over a free cup of coffee? The amount I learned over the course of that discussion is perhaps immeasurable- about masochism, slavery, an alternative approach to topology, the inner contours of the National Housing Bored (yes I've misspelt that on purpose). I concede that none of this admissable in either my term paper nor the final exam... but really, should i be penalised for trying to have a life?
3. Placement Cell: My association with the said entity has forever sullied my reputation in teacher circles in these parts. I shudder to think how any future decisions on further studies will be entertained.
I hate RS because he a living breathing reminder of my propensity to procrastinate. Of the damaging effects of my new found love for gup-shup... I hate him because its hard to avoid feeling like a fool when someone else is so convinced that you are one and is not in the least hesitant in saying it.
I don't know whether I hate him more for being in the right or for being in the wrong... All i know is that I hate him.
If you scrape the bottom of my heart you'd be likely to come across a thick crust of dislike... bleh
*
God, on the other hand I'm loving right now.
I don't think I was quite as much of a believer before I came to dschool. In fact it began a full month before the entrance exam... I remember going about it so singlemindedly, aided only by my feeble cranium and feebler self esteem. While the rest of the world rapped on Naresh's doors, I obstinately did my own thing, hoping and praying that one of two things would happen:-
1. I would clear the exam and get through
or
2. I would sprout wings like that beautiful fellow from X-Men #3 (The Last Stand) and fly far, far away
Fortunately or unfortunately God picked 1. for me. That, despite three years worth of nothing but procrastination with brief intervals of odd conversation. If only I could make RS see that God is well and truly on my side. After all isn't the cancellation of today's lecture purely attributable to my fitful praying?
*
Now all I need is for the hours to multiply into two before the deadline for the #904 term paper runs out. No amount of not sleeping can rescue me from this one.. sigh sigh sigh
back to work I say... back to work
Friday, 7 March 2008
Comfortably Dumb
As it turns out Sudhir Shah and I do agree on one thing… our mutual contempt for pigeons.
(Digression: actually, I’m sure there is a whole lot more that Shah and I would have agreed on. If only most if not all of what he said was not entirely incomprehensible for me. If only he weren’t quite as formidably laconic and I wasn’t quite as much of a mouse. Eh… c’est la vie)
Pigeons are by far the most moronic beings in the panoply of God’s creatures. And they insist on displaying their idiocy with irritating regularity. Even their facial expressions convey “dumb”. They are so stupid, it scares me…
I suppose I should be more charitable, given that they are some of the few sentient beings that ever dare venture into or in the close vicinity of my room. But even in these misguided attempts at being sociable they reinstate my belief in their dim-wittedness.
They prove particularly painful during summer. I sleep with the balcony door slightly ajar (I’m a slave for the fumes from the Haryana Roadways depot my balcony faces, just can’t get enough of the stuff). This is interpreted as a desperate plea on my part to be one with nature, for in they come… flapping wildly... and park ass above the curtain, on my book-shelf, the bed, the tube light, Mona… Of course its only once they set wing into the dirty recesses of my abode that they realise that all is not well…
They come beak to beak with their arch nemesis- MY FAN. It spins menacingly, monopolising their flight space and messing up the aerodynamics. Faced by this intractable hurdle pigeons seek refuge in the most useless weapon in their arsenal: contemplation. While I peer nervously, out from under my sheet pondering a gruesome massacre, the vanes slicing and dicing them as they attempt escape, half wanting to do the dirty deed myself, putting the birds out of their misery and mine (though mostly mine). Most nights I go to sleep dreading the prospect of waking up bathed in pigeon’s blood and feathers. Sort of like that scene from the godfather, if you substitute poor Khartoum’s horsy head by that of a bird. A blissfully ignorant face and guileless beady eyes… ughh those eyes.
I’m more than certain that my balcony is listed as one of the top 5 destinations to visit in the “Lonely Pigeon Guide” (don’t leave the nest without it). My clothes line is like a ramp in some glamorous avian fashion show, they prance up and down strutting their stuff all day long. And they insist on setting up home and hearth on the premises. Last year, upon finding a nest in my waste paper basket I embraced the Gerald Durrel side of my personality and let them stay till the eggs hatched and the kids grew up and flowed the coop. Never again… the mess they made of the balcony dealt a lethal blow to my benevolence. Why, my efforts to painlessly evict the latest squatters met with disastrous consequences. I believe the exact sound the eggs made during the attempted eviction was “splatch”. Two of them hurtled toward the floor as I tried to relocate the nest, leaving only disgusting yellowy yolk. The guilt damn near killed me. And to this day I am still trying to erase signs of the egg-icide, very Lady M style (Out damn spot!)
And the shit… god bless me. It’s the shit that really pushes me over the edge. Now we all know that birds poop indiscriminately having been at the receiving end of their blessings at least once. But no, in this one regard I am indeed special. All of pigeon-dom seems to have singled my balcony out as prime location for public conveniences. I’m tempted to believe that it is some evil conspiracy hatched (look Ma, I made a pun!) by the pigeon underground. To send only the most constipated of their brethren over to my balcony to relieve themselves of days, nay, weeks worth of excrement. And always (and I mean always) aim for my freshly laundered towels.
But I’d never give the imbeciles credit for pulling off torture as systematic as the kind I have been subjected to. They’re just way too dumb.
(Digression: or are they? Hmm… I think I’ve just been really suspicious of all birds since I saw the Hitchcock movie. I’m sort of ashamed to admit it but that movie really scared me. It may have something to do with the fact that it was 3 am and I was all alone in the common room. Never a good time or place to watch a movie about flocks of murderous marauding birds.)
And at this juncture I think it is fair to ask… what do pigeons do anyway? Do they serve any purpose at all in the universe? Do they? Do they? At least Dr. No could use the “guano” (bird poop) produced by his exotic birds to fund the building of his evil empire and almost bring James Bond to his knees. These birds are of no good to me at all.
(Digression: Dr. No was part of my Ian Fleming phase. I humbly request the audience not to lose all respect for me… it was the first few months of Dschool and I was really and truly bored and incredibly jobless. Fortunately, the phase was shortlived, but of all the books I read, Dr. No would have to be the best. I mean the heroine’s name was Honey Rider…that’s really hard to beat. Unless of course you consider Kissy Suzuki from You Only Live Twice)
So there you have it. This diatribe has been a long time coming. I deliver an abridged version at dinner every night to those unfortunate enough to be called my friends. Of course I embellish the rendering with much wild gesticulating, animated forehead slapping, absurd arm flapping, clever voice modulation…anything for an audience. I’m sure most if not all of ya’ll skipped a few paragraphs and I won’t hold it against anyone. You can scarcely understand my woes, unless you’ve suffered similarly at the claws of these ignoramuses. Had to live with the drone of their cooing as a constant soundtrack to your existence.
Had to make them the object of guiltless complaints. Complaints that would be better aimed, though not quite as guiltless, at the rest of the world mired in unpleasantness and mistrust. Had to love to hate them… and hate to love them just the same.
(Digression: actually, I’m sure there is a whole lot more that Shah and I would have agreed on. If only most if not all of what he said was not entirely incomprehensible for me. If only he weren’t quite as formidably laconic and I wasn’t quite as much of a mouse. Eh… c’est la vie)
Pigeons are by far the most moronic beings in the panoply of God’s creatures. And they insist on displaying their idiocy with irritating regularity. Even their facial expressions convey “dumb”. They are so stupid, it scares me…
I suppose I should be more charitable, given that they are some of the few sentient beings that ever dare venture into or in the close vicinity of my room. But even in these misguided attempts at being sociable they reinstate my belief in their dim-wittedness.
They prove particularly painful during summer. I sleep with the balcony door slightly ajar (I’m a slave for the fumes from the Haryana Roadways depot my balcony faces, just can’t get enough of the stuff). This is interpreted as a desperate plea on my part to be one with nature, for in they come… flapping wildly... and park ass above the curtain, on my book-shelf, the bed, the tube light, Mona… Of course its only once they set wing into the dirty recesses of my abode that they realise that all is not well…
They come beak to beak with their arch nemesis- MY FAN. It spins menacingly, monopolising their flight space and messing up the aerodynamics. Faced by this intractable hurdle pigeons seek refuge in the most useless weapon in their arsenal: contemplation. While I peer nervously, out from under my sheet pondering a gruesome massacre, the vanes slicing and dicing them as they attempt escape, half wanting to do the dirty deed myself, putting the birds out of their misery and mine (though mostly mine). Most nights I go to sleep dreading the prospect of waking up bathed in pigeon’s blood and feathers. Sort of like that scene from the godfather, if you substitute poor Khartoum’s horsy head by that of a bird. A blissfully ignorant face and guileless beady eyes… ughh those eyes.
I’m more than certain that my balcony is listed as one of the top 5 destinations to visit in the “Lonely Pigeon Guide” (don’t leave the nest without it). My clothes line is like a ramp in some glamorous avian fashion show, they prance up and down strutting their stuff all day long. And they insist on setting up home and hearth on the premises. Last year, upon finding a nest in my waste paper basket I embraced the Gerald Durrel side of my personality and let them stay till the eggs hatched and the kids grew up and flowed the coop. Never again… the mess they made of the balcony dealt a lethal blow to my benevolence. Why, my efforts to painlessly evict the latest squatters met with disastrous consequences. I believe the exact sound the eggs made during the attempted eviction was “splatch”. Two of them hurtled toward the floor as I tried to relocate the nest, leaving only disgusting yellowy yolk. The guilt damn near killed me. And to this day I am still trying to erase signs of the egg-icide, very Lady M style (Out damn spot!)
And the shit… god bless me. It’s the shit that really pushes me over the edge. Now we all know that birds poop indiscriminately having been at the receiving end of their blessings at least once. But no, in this one regard I am indeed special. All of pigeon-dom seems to have singled my balcony out as prime location for public conveniences. I’m tempted to believe that it is some evil conspiracy hatched (look Ma, I made a pun!) by the pigeon underground. To send only the most constipated of their brethren over to my balcony to relieve themselves of days, nay, weeks worth of excrement. And always (and I mean always) aim for my freshly laundered towels.
But I’d never give the imbeciles credit for pulling off torture as systematic as the kind I have been subjected to. They’re just way too dumb.
(Digression: or are they? Hmm… I think I’ve just been really suspicious of all birds since I saw the Hitchcock movie. I’m sort of ashamed to admit it but that movie really scared me. It may have something to do with the fact that it was 3 am and I was all alone in the common room. Never a good time or place to watch a movie about flocks of murderous marauding birds.)
And at this juncture I think it is fair to ask… what do pigeons do anyway? Do they serve any purpose at all in the universe? Do they? Do they? At least Dr. No could use the “guano” (bird poop) produced by his exotic birds to fund the building of his evil empire and almost bring James Bond to his knees. These birds are of no good to me at all.
(Digression: Dr. No was part of my Ian Fleming phase. I humbly request the audience not to lose all respect for me… it was the first few months of Dschool and I was really and truly bored and incredibly jobless. Fortunately, the phase was shortlived, but of all the books I read, Dr. No would have to be the best. I mean the heroine’s name was Honey Rider…that’s really hard to beat. Unless of course you consider Kissy Suzuki from You Only Live Twice)
So there you have it. This diatribe has been a long time coming. I deliver an abridged version at dinner every night to those unfortunate enough to be called my friends. Of course I embellish the rendering with much wild gesticulating, animated forehead slapping, absurd arm flapping, clever voice modulation…anything for an audience. I’m sure most if not all of ya’ll skipped a few paragraphs and I won’t hold it against anyone. You can scarcely understand my woes, unless you’ve suffered similarly at the claws of these ignoramuses. Had to live with the drone of their cooing as a constant soundtrack to your existence.
Had to make them the object of guiltless complaints. Complaints that would be better aimed, though not quite as guiltless, at the rest of the world mired in unpleasantness and mistrust. Had to love to hate them… and hate to love them just the same.
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