I work at a little desk. It is a very little desk indeed.
So much so that if I sneeze, my neighbour's neighbour will know. In fact if my neighbour's neighbour's desk were a country (it would be a very little country indeed) then the sexy weather girl on TV would predict "a strong gust of wind, accompanied by mild showers".
So much so that that if I poke my finger into my ear to clear out wax/mosquitoes/bad vibes, my elbow is dangerously close to the ear of the fellows I sit next to, which are also presumably full of wax/mosquitoes/bad vibes.
So much so that if I burp (this is merely for illustrative purposes, I have never in fact burped) the person who sits in front of me will know the exact composition of my meal. Or meals for that matter… Depending on the potency of the food in question, the extent of indigestion and the magnitude of my shamelessness.
So much so that if I yawn… Everyone yawns.
But then we all yawn, all the time. By the time one yawn ends another begins so its hard to pin point which one in particular set the ball rolling. In the interim between one yawn and the next we complain about yawning, have a lengthy discourse on yawning and miraculously even manage to get some work done. It is a beautiful community experience.
So much so that it is impossible for the boys who sit next to me to check out porn. Of course the virtually impenetrable "web-washer" the fine folk down at IT have installed would never allow for such depraved activities to be carried out. But hypothetically, if viewing pornography were an option, my female-ly presence would rule it out completely.
We have our pockets of gossip, us small people. We buzz, giggle, frown, dissect, digress… Did you ever think one could do so much with tiny, seemingly insignificant stories?
We sit dangerously close to the corridors of power. At times we infiltrate them only to discover that they reek of indecision.
We sit all day at our desks, making dispassionate love to our computers. Occasionally we go for walks, sandwiches, chai, fruit chaat, conversation. And on these all too rare occasions we congratulate ourselves for having taken a break.
I feel I am the littlest of all the little people. Warm and snug in my swivel chair. Hiding behind my monitor. Brilliantly anonymous. At times I chide myself for what is a clear lack of ambition in life. A blot on the otherwise aspirational middle class landscape. On others I congratulate myself for getting paid generously to do something a not altogether dumb 16 year old can. I've pulled a fast one on the establishment. I rake in the dough and am not required to check my sarcasm at the door.
“What the banker sighs for, the meanest clown may have: leisure and a quiet mind.”- Henry David Thoreau
The floor hums. With sighs, yawns, burps, gossip.
Friday, 27 February 2009
Monday, 23 February 2009
Truant
Guess who Played Hookey Today?
Djiggy B has what is possibly the biggest most generous heart in the whole wide world. It is full to the brim, bursting at its seams, chock full.. of niceness.
In the world of bosses, he is an outlier..
You'd think life would be a bed of roses for his subordinates. But very few people realise how trying the lives of people endowed with pleasant bosses (we are a rare and dying breed) can be. How fraught with anxiety. Hours of guilty introspection. Sleepless nights of worry and woe.
Nice bosses pose a unique challenge for us drone folk. They are easier to like, infinitely harder to bitch about and almost impossible to lie to. And really what is life without the occasional vituperative chinwag concerning the powers that be?
I'm playing truant today, my absence blamed on a particularly acute case of the common cold+high temperature (my diagnosis: viral fever). In my defence, I did wake up feeling like my limbs were about to disintegrate into dust. And I have off late metamorphosed into a factory of phlegm and snot. But none of this is so debilitating as to necessitate bed-rest followed by a lengthy convalescence.
So I lied. And am probably going to go to hell or reside in close vicinity thereof. Because I lied to an absolute angel. Who reeks of goodness and stinks of mothers' love. Yuck.
*
Damn them Antibodies
I really despise my immune system sometimes. It is forever in overdrive. I almost never ever fall ill. And this robs me of cheap thrills such as - fainting, burning up, vomiting and the like. Not that ailment is pleasurable in of itself. But the sympathy that accompanies it is fun.
Really this being in the pink of health is highly overrated. There's never anyone rushing up with bowls full of warm soup. And no ice cold towels to douse a flaming forehead. No one stirring up tall glasses of electral. Life is cruelly robbed of a lot of drama.
Once you acquire a reputation for never falling ill things are even worse. Even a genuine onslaught of the odd case of loosies or sniffles (I am healthy, not invincible) is looked upon with scepticism. We are forced to nurse our maladies, trifling or otherwise, under the suspicious gaze of others who are not similarly gifted.
I think I'm going to start a support group.
*
Itinerary
Ok enough whining. The day is all mine and there is loads to do with it. I am after all in Mumbai. A place where it is virtually impossible to run out of things to do and/or things to stare at. I am armed with a newspaper, sports shoes, money and ALL the time in the WORLD.
I suddenly remembered the reason for my shameless fib. Here I go :)
Djiggy B has what is possibly the biggest most generous heart in the whole wide world. It is full to the brim, bursting at its seams, chock full.. of niceness.
In the world of bosses, he is an outlier..
You'd think life would be a bed of roses for his subordinates. But very few people realise how trying the lives of people endowed with pleasant bosses (we are a rare and dying breed) can be. How fraught with anxiety. Hours of guilty introspection. Sleepless nights of worry and woe.
Nice bosses pose a unique challenge for us drone folk. They are easier to like, infinitely harder to bitch about and almost impossible to lie to. And really what is life without the occasional vituperative chinwag concerning the powers that be?
I'm playing truant today, my absence blamed on a particularly acute case of the common cold+high temperature (my diagnosis: viral fever). In my defence, I did wake up feeling like my limbs were about to disintegrate into dust. And I have off late metamorphosed into a factory of phlegm and snot. But none of this is so debilitating as to necessitate bed-rest followed by a lengthy convalescence.
So I lied. And am probably going to go to hell or reside in close vicinity thereof. Because I lied to an absolute angel. Who reeks of goodness and stinks of mothers' love. Yuck.
*
Damn them Antibodies
I really despise my immune system sometimes. It is forever in overdrive. I almost never ever fall ill. And this robs me of cheap thrills such as - fainting, burning up, vomiting and the like. Not that ailment is pleasurable in of itself. But the sympathy that accompanies it is fun.
Really this being in the pink of health is highly overrated. There's never anyone rushing up with bowls full of warm soup. And no ice cold towels to douse a flaming forehead. No one stirring up tall glasses of electral. Life is cruelly robbed of a lot of drama.
Once you acquire a reputation for never falling ill things are even worse. Even a genuine onslaught of the odd case of loosies or sniffles (I am healthy, not invincible) is looked upon with scepticism. We are forced to nurse our maladies, trifling or otherwise, under the suspicious gaze of others who are not similarly gifted.
I think I'm going to start a support group.
*
Itinerary
Ok enough whining. The day is all mine and there is loads to do with it. I am after all in Mumbai. A place where it is virtually impossible to run out of things to do and/or things to stare at. I am armed with a newspaper, sports shoes, money and ALL the time in the WORLD.
I suddenly remembered the reason for my shameless fib. Here I go :)
Sunday, 15 February 2009
bad blog post
so there we were.. sitting quietly.. the cool sea wind blowing on our tired faces.. our lips numb with wine.. tummies full of koliwada prawn.. fatigued wallets..
the wind assaults us.. carrying into our ears a confused symphony.. traffic.. voices.. waves..
a gentle requiem for the day.. as it reaches out for its blanket and tucks itself in..
we make our to do lists.. must travel occasionaly.. must laugh frequently.. must fall in love, at least once.. or once more.. must dress up and go out for dinner.
the works in progress that we are.. there is so much to do..
and the coffee.. as it gently sips us.. swallows us whole.. we are content..
*
hee hee.. have always wanted to write a silly post like that. so thats one more thing off MY to do list. I dedicate this post to P, with whom i am deeply in love..
*
more later.. vagueness being the theme of this post.. what better way to wrap up?
*
:)
the wind assaults us.. carrying into our ears a confused symphony.. traffic.. voices.. waves..
a gentle requiem for the day.. as it reaches out for its blanket and tucks itself in..
we make our to do lists.. must travel occasionaly.. must laugh frequently.. must fall in love, at least once.. or once more.. must dress up and go out for dinner.
the works in progress that we are.. there is so much to do..
and the coffee.. as it gently sips us.. swallows us whole.. we are content..
*
hee hee.. have always wanted to write a silly post like that. so thats one more thing off MY to do list. I dedicate this post to P, with whom i am deeply in love..
*
more later.. vagueness being the theme of this post.. what better way to wrap up?
*
:)
Monday, 12 January 2009
Monday Hues
I am wearing a deep and sustaining shade of blue. I blame it on all the love stories I've been reading. From a collection called "My Mistress' Sparrow is Dead" (Jeffrey Eugenides Ed.). The stories are awful. Awful in that they are lovely, of course. Lovely in that they make you feel awful in so many ways. They are stories of love and then some. I think passion best describes the theme. The kind of passion you wouldn't think one could possibly articulate. The kind of misery you would never have thought could be so eloquent.
And the pain? It is the kind that you didn't think you were capable of feeling. It comes from a part of your body (some mysterious organ perhaps) whose existance you were hitherto unaware of.
(Not my pain.. Mine is bearable. Mildly annoying. Annoying because happy is the only way I've ever been. Happy is the only way I know how to be. You realise how inconvenient that is. To have to reconcile a feeling you've never allowed yourself to feel? The brain fails to process it. Doesn't know what to do. For updates on changes in my mental disposition, watch this space.)
The pain I talk of is that experienced by the characters (thankfully) in the stories. What sick pleasure writers must take in drowning their characters in such gloom. Secretly venting out their own frustration be it real. Or worse, invented for art's sake.
And as for the reader? The poor unsuspecting fool who was duped into purchasing the vile publication by an aesthetically pleasing cover page and an extremely charitable blurb. And of course the promise of experiencing love, albeit vicariously. Love, with all the smiles and hugs and caresses and holding of hands. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts. And love, with all the anger and tears. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts.
And the poor reader.. paralysed by woe. Woe is me that I will never find that sweet everlasting love. Woe is me that when I do find it, the initial sheen will invariably wear thin. That which was once such a source of simple pleasure will (one can only hope later rather than sooner) become complicated and tedious.
Woe is me, that I traded an early morning jog for an early morning blog.
*
I am suddenly feeling much better. The agenda for the day has been laid out. It will be a long one, much like the rest. But my enthusiasm inspires much confidence in my boss's sweet and forgiving heart. My inclination toward effort more than makes up for the stupid questions that stubbornly make their way through my mouth. The work, she will get done. It will take time. But it will get done. Phew...
*
I have seen more dead rats in my 7 months in Mumbai than I have in my entire life. I can roughly identify two key reasons. Either, Mumbai has more rats or Mumbai rats are less sturdy and just kick the bucket without much fuss and fight. Neither of the two prospects is particularly appetising.
The third explanation (mine favourite one) is that rats simply choose to die more public deaths. And not just because of lack of space. The whole "Mumbai has no space" thing is really done to death. And irrelevant in the context of tiny creepy crawlies and their larger, creepier and mammalian cousins. If there is space for anything in this city it is for rats to crawl into and die. No, the rats are unafraid, they are vocal, loud voluble (voluminous too).
I dedicate this post to the dead rat i saw on the way to work this morning. All set to be devoured by a nasty crow. Its death may have gone unlamented by the rodent community but it did not go unnoticed by the universe. I saw it. I was there. Just me and the odd crow.
*
I encountered an extremely bossy old lady on the bus. It amazes me how bossy the old and infirm can be. But she was more than just bossy. She was just at peace with herself. An advanced stage of realisation of self.
For one split second I wanted to be old and wrinkly. To zoom to an age when all the worries of love have been done and dealt with. An age when the stray dead rodent doesn't inspire extended musing.
*
Enough of that. The work day is well past begun. Now I am young. There is much toil on the menu. There is much love to be made. Much money as well. A full life waiting to be lived.
Us drones can be remarkably poetic at times. I blame it on the stories we read.
*
I wrote this earlier and am posting it now. Managed my time quite while in between. Yay!
And the pain? It is the kind that you didn't think you were capable of feeling. It comes from a part of your body (some mysterious organ perhaps) whose existance you were hitherto unaware of.
(Not my pain.. Mine is bearable. Mildly annoying. Annoying because happy is the only way I've ever been. Happy is the only way I know how to be. You realise how inconvenient that is. To have to reconcile a feeling you've never allowed yourself to feel? The brain fails to process it. Doesn't know what to do. For updates on changes in my mental disposition, watch this space.)
The pain I talk of is that experienced by the characters (thankfully) in the stories. What sick pleasure writers must take in drowning their characters in such gloom. Secretly venting out their own frustration be it real. Or worse, invented for art's sake.
And as for the reader? The poor unsuspecting fool who was duped into purchasing the vile publication by an aesthetically pleasing cover page and an extremely charitable blurb. And of course the promise of experiencing love, albeit vicariously. Love, with all the smiles and hugs and caresses and holding of hands. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts. And love, with all the anger and tears. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts.
And the poor reader.. paralysed by woe. Woe is me that I will never find that sweet everlasting love. Woe is me that when I do find it, the initial sheen will invariably wear thin. That which was once such a source of simple pleasure will (one can only hope later rather than sooner) become complicated and tedious.
Woe is me, that I traded an early morning jog for an early morning blog.
*
I am suddenly feeling much better. The agenda for the day has been laid out. It will be a long one, much like the rest. But my enthusiasm inspires much confidence in my boss's sweet and forgiving heart. My inclination toward effort more than makes up for the stupid questions that stubbornly make their way through my mouth. The work, she will get done. It will take time. But it will get done. Phew...
*
I have seen more dead rats in my 7 months in Mumbai than I have in my entire life. I can roughly identify two key reasons. Either, Mumbai has more rats or Mumbai rats are less sturdy and just kick the bucket without much fuss and fight. Neither of the two prospects is particularly appetising.
The third explanation (mine favourite one) is that rats simply choose to die more public deaths. And not just because of lack of space. The whole "Mumbai has no space" thing is really done to death. And irrelevant in the context of tiny creepy crawlies and their larger, creepier and mammalian cousins. If there is space for anything in this city it is for rats to crawl into and die. No, the rats are unafraid, they are vocal, loud voluble (voluminous too).
I dedicate this post to the dead rat i saw on the way to work this morning. All set to be devoured by a nasty crow. Its death may have gone unlamented by the rodent community but it did not go unnoticed by the universe. I saw it. I was there. Just me and the odd crow.
*
I encountered an extremely bossy old lady on the bus. It amazes me how bossy the old and infirm can be. But she was more than just bossy. She was just at peace with herself. An advanced stage of realisation of self.
For one split second I wanted to be old and wrinkly. To zoom to an age when all the worries of love have been done and dealt with. An age when the stray dead rodent doesn't inspire extended musing.
*
Enough of that. The work day is well past begun. Now I am young. There is much toil on the menu. There is much love to be made. Much money as well. A full life waiting to be lived.
Us drones can be remarkably poetic at times. I blame it on the stories we read.
*
I wrote this earlier and am posting it now. Managed my time quite while in between. Yay!
Saturday, 3 January 2009
Rhyme a Dozen
Ti tum, ti tum, tit tum, tit tum, tit tum
And 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5
*
I picked up this book a while back- The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, by Stephen Fry. Sort of an Idiots Guide to Poetry or Versification for Dummies. It is turning out to be brilliant.
People, when they write, end up doing roughly two things. Projecting a version of themselves that they like and that they think the world would like (or like to like). And unknowingly, betraying a bit of what they really are in person. At least thats what I think.
Now I can't tell if Stephen Fry is a nice person or a truly nasty one. If he pets dogs, donates to charities. Takes pleasure in running over squirrels while driving his car. Always forgets to flush the loo once he's done. Never ever forgets a birthday. All that, I can't really tell.
One guess I am willing to venture is that he would be great fun to have a conversation with.
Everyone should read this book. I think a lot of us suffer from a secret fear of things artistic or refined. We fear that we aren't sharp enough to grasp them, appreciate their true beauty. I know I'm always slightly wary when I come across people who read books by James Joyce or watch movies with subtitles or love theatre. I wonder how and when art became the domain of a few. How some if not most of us were somehow excluded.
Or if the exclusion isn't in fact self imposed. If by giggling maliciously at what we perceive as pretensious and "pseudo", we haven't voluntarily deprived ourselves of some of the world's most beautiful music and literature. Distancing ourselves from forms of expression which are very much within the realm of our understanding, but go ignored simply because we were too scared, or too impatient.
*
Ok I'm starting to bore myself. Bleh..
*
My mother and I are considering setting up camp outside the Fun Republic Multiplex (nee Dhillon). We have in the past two days seen three movies, a number which in some cultures may be considered obscene. We are both die hard fans of the movie watching experience as a whole. The popcorn, the trailers, the post move dissection on the way down to the parking lot.. not so much the wailing babies who are planted strategically at every corner of the movie hall or the 6 ft. tall sardars who are invariably granted seats right in front of us, obscuring a minimum of 40% of the screen.
As much as I hate visiting malls in Mumbai, a trip home seems incomplete without visiting one (i.e. Chandigarh's first and until recently only mall). It is here that I am given a crash course in the latest fashion trends of my hometown.
This season, girls are sporting, among other things, painfully straight hair, big boots made of strange velvety material, skinny jeans (the trend is tragically not restricted to just the skinny girls), microscopic bags that begin and end in the armpit and the ultimate accessory- chewing gum. The boys are in fact, if its possible, clad much more absurdly. Some of them look like they've landed direct from Englaand (deliberately misspelt) with their fancy shades, fancier jackets, fancierer facial hair. With strangely pointy shoes. And topped off, of course with hair so spikey it would make poor porcupines pout (alliteration). This plumage is held in place by what can only be imagined as giant gobs of hair gel. About enough to put massive oil slicks (the kind which can jeopardise the entire habitat of assorted sea creatures) to shame.
Oh and hold your breath.. Patent leather is back..
I am so mean. I should be shot.
Eh.. Needless to say I stick out like a sore gangrenous thumb. With diseased cuticles to boot. In a sea of tight denim, hair gel, patent leather. Skinny jeans and fat wallets. Lots of style with tragically little taste.
Maybe I'm just jealous? Then again, maybe not.
Maybe I'm just a big fat snob? Highly likely.
Most people I've met have told me I don't remotely resemble girls from Chandigarh. Or rather conform to their image of one. Note the difference, its an important one. It would surprise you how different the two really are. Most people mean it as a compliment. As a dear friend recently informed me, Chandigarh girls, as per his knowledge are usually clad in red salwar kameezes and he's awfully glad to have not spotted me in one so far. Others associate girls from the city with great beauty.
Which leaves me slightly confused as to how best to react. It sort of flips the "Who am I?" thing on its head.
Who would I rather not be?
*
Existential questions apart, what I would most like to be right now is a master of the Iambic Pentameter.
The exercises at the end of the first chapter urge the reader to pen down a few lines. The only restriction is the metre. The sentences need not rhyme. They can be single or in pairs. They can be simple, silly or serious (one of each is advised). They in fact needn't even make sense.
All they need do, is lend themselves to the following rhythm-
ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum
Here's what I could come up with:
1. My toe-nails need post haste to be cut short.
2. Her skin is peeling off in little bits.
3. My heart is grieving quietly for you
I miss your touch, your smell, but mostly you
4. Deforestation is an awful thing.
5. The grass is greener on the other side.
Thats just a flavour of the over 20 lines the book prescribes. I sincerely hope I make the grade.
Left my favourite one for last:
The poet rhymes compulsively today
Tomorrow he may just prefer to sleep
And 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5
*
I picked up this book a while back- The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, by Stephen Fry. Sort of an Idiots Guide to Poetry or Versification for Dummies. It is turning out to be brilliant.
People, when they write, end up doing roughly two things. Projecting a version of themselves that they like and that they think the world would like (or like to like). And unknowingly, betraying a bit of what they really are in person. At least thats what I think.
Now I can't tell if Stephen Fry is a nice person or a truly nasty one. If he pets dogs, donates to charities. Takes pleasure in running over squirrels while driving his car. Always forgets to flush the loo once he's done. Never ever forgets a birthday. All that, I can't really tell.
One guess I am willing to venture is that he would be great fun to have a conversation with.
Everyone should read this book. I think a lot of us suffer from a secret fear of things artistic or refined. We fear that we aren't sharp enough to grasp them, appreciate their true beauty. I know I'm always slightly wary when I come across people who read books by James Joyce or watch movies with subtitles or love theatre. I wonder how and when art became the domain of a few. How some if not most of us were somehow excluded.
Or if the exclusion isn't in fact self imposed. If by giggling maliciously at what we perceive as pretensious and "pseudo", we haven't voluntarily deprived ourselves of some of the world's most beautiful music and literature. Distancing ourselves from forms of expression which are very much within the realm of our understanding, but go ignored simply because we were too scared, or too impatient.
*
Ok I'm starting to bore myself. Bleh..
*
My mother and I are considering setting up camp outside the Fun Republic Multiplex (nee Dhillon). We have in the past two days seen three movies, a number which in some cultures may be considered obscene. We are both die hard fans of the movie watching experience as a whole. The popcorn, the trailers, the post move dissection on the way down to the parking lot.. not so much the wailing babies who are planted strategically at every corner of the movie hall or the 6 ft. tall sardars who are invariably granted seats right in front of us, obscuring a minimum of 40% of the screen.
As much as I hate visiting malls in Mumbai, a trip home seems incomplete without visiting one (i.e. Chandigarh's first and until recently only mall). It is here that I am given a crash course in the latest fashion trends of my hometown.
This season, girls are sporting, among other things, painfully straight hair, big boots made of strange velvety material, skinny jeans (the trend is tragically not restricted to just the skinny girls), microscopic bags that begin and end in the armpit and the ultimate accessory- chewing gum. The boys are in fact, if its possible, clad much more absurdly. Some of them look like they've landed direct from Englaand (deliberately misspelt) with their fancy shades, fancier jackets, fancierer facial hair. With strangely pointy shoes. And topped off, of course with hair so spikey it would make poor porcupines pout (alliteration). This plumage is held in place by what can only be imagined as giant gobs of hair gel. About enough to put massive oil slicks (the kind which can jeopardise the entire habitat of assorted sea creatures) to shame.
Oh and hold your breath.. Patent leather is back..
I am so mean. I should be shot.
Eh.. Needless to say I stick out like a sore gangrenous thumb. With diseased cuticles to boot. In a sea of tight denim, hair gel, patent leather. Skinny jeans and fat wallets. Lots of style with tragically little taste.
Maybe I'm just jealous? Then again, maybe not.
Maybe I'm just a big fat snob? Highly likely.
Most people I've met have told me I don't remotely resemble girls from Chandigarh. Or rather conform to their image of one. Note the difference, its an important one. It would surprise you how different the two really are. Most people mean it as a compliment. As a dear friend recently informed me, Chandigarh girls, as per his knowledge are usually clad in red salwar kameezes and he's awfully glad to have not spotted me in one so far. Others associate girls from the city with great beauty.
Which leaves me slightly confused as to how best to react. It sort of flips the "Who am I?" thing on its head.
Who would I rather not be?
*
Existential questions apart, what I would most like to be right now is a master of the Iambic Pentameter.
The exercises at the end of the first chapter urge the reader to pen down a few lines. The only restriction is the metre. The sentences need not rhyme. They can be single or in pairs. They can be simple, silly or serious (one of each is advised). They in fact needn't even make sense.
All they need do, is lend themselves to the following rhythm-
ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum
Here's what I could come up with:
1. My toe-nails need post haste to be cut short.
2. Her skin is peeling off in little bits.
3. My heart is grieving quietly for you
I miss your touch, your smell, but mostly you
4. Deforestation is an awful thing.
5. The grass is greener on the other side.
Thats just a flavour of the over 20 lines the book prescribes. I sincerely hope I make the grade.
Left my favourite one for last:
The poet rhymes compulsively today
Tomorrow he may just prefer to sleep
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
The Bear that Wasn't
I dedicate this post to my Mum, who unbeknowest to herself has made the end of this year survivable. With her obsession for feeding me, disciplining my nani, bitching about the maid, her secret hatred for minority communities and the not so secret loathing of Amir Khan's newly acquired.. sickeningly perfect muscles.
And to my Father, for his obsession with ULIP, PPF, EPF and other acronyms that I should ideally be familiar or at least vaguely acquainted with but am tragically not.
And to the bear, that has been declared to not be a bear, but wants terribly to continue to be one.
To D,
The world is hateful, and you are the bravest woman I know.
Love,
Your chicken-shit sister
*
Brilliant books by brilliant authors scare me. They pose a great dilemma. Half of me wants to zoom through it at warp speed and assimilate all the loveliness in one gulp. The other half wants to be patient, re-read every sentence, twist and turn it around and memorize it.
Some sentences are so brilliant that unbeknowest to myself, I end up doing both. Rushing to the end just to feel its brilliance like a giant (but pleasant) kick in the bum. And then catching my breath, to stare long and hard and close at the line(s) of prose in question.
To dismantle it in my chubby hands and re-mantle it in my brain.
(Re-mantle is not a word to the best of my knowledge. Just humour me and I promise to do this again)
*
oye lucky lucky oye.. oh lucky lucky oye..
someone please get this song out of my head..
*
This post is also dedicated to Magga, who unbeknowest to herself, has for the past 5 months (and counting) been harbouring a criminal. A seemingly model tenant who has quite beknowest (see I told you I'd do it again) to herself, been smuggling all sorts of contraband into the establishment. Examples to illustrate- stale Bembos's burgers, staler mango smoothies. Foul words, fouler moods. And oh-so many bottles of wine.
The delinquent in question has successfuly managed to conceal a 2 foot camera tripod within the premises of her den. That and the most prolonged case of the blues. The tripod lasted 3 days, the pout lingered on for three months.
And the riff-raff.. The constant traffic of cronies she's given shelter to from time to time? Lets not even go there.. A South Indian bombshell, a delectable pooch, a sibling (a.k.a Ursa Major) and a monkey precisely 6'2" tall.
All this treachery while being fed on a healthy diet of interesting conversation and roast chicken. The ungrateful wretch.
*
This post is also dedicated to the bombshell, the pooch and the monkey.
*
The bear that wasn't.. Tooodle Ooh Too Too.. Wasn't a bear at all..
Yes thats much better..
*
I beg the reader to not accuse me of relentless pseudery, what with the allusions to all sorts of members of the animal kingdom (bears, monkeys, dogs.. I believe a chicken also finds mention). I'm mostly slipping in secret messages to myself in the fervent hope that I myself will remember what all the references refer to.
Pseudery is in fact a word. I read it in a book. An absolutely delightful book by Stephen Fry.
*
If I could ask any three famous people for a hug they would be-
1. Stephen Fry: For bringing poetry back in to my life for a brief and refreshing bit.
2. Shrek: Ok so he's not really real. But hypothetical hugs are so much more fun when the prospective hugger is big and cuddly. And green.
3.Daniel Craig: *blush*
*
I'm still working on which three famous people I'd like to have dinner with, which lucky one I'd like to be stuck on a deserted island with and which celebrity I will name my child/dog after.
I saw 15 minutes of a documentary on Britney Spears. So that's one name off the list(s).
*
This post is dedicated to the word "unbeknowest". That and plural(s).
*
We went to watch a movie today, my mum and I. There are so many things I love about watching movies in Chandigarh. Firstly and most importantly, I think the city houses the only multi-plex cinema that still screens advertisements of Vico-Vajradanti and Vico Ayurvedic Cream.
Second, is the version of the national anthem that they screen before the movie. The anthem is picturised on soldiers at the Siachen Glacier. It is the kind of thing that makes you want to join the army or marry someone in the army or make your kids join the army or marry someone from the army etc. The kind of thing that reduces people like me to a blubbery bag of salty tears.
Jokes apart, it is a beautiful rendition of the national anthem and really stirs something inside me.
*
There has been an awful lot of blubbering off late. I blame the hormones. When in doubt blame hormones.
*
I spent the first half of the movie convincing myself that if I did not write a post soon, my brain would explode into millions of tiny little pieces/peices. That and the horrifying prospect of forgetting how to spell. All this fear therapy was briefly suspended for when the songs came on. I realised a while back that I only go to watch Hindi movies for the songs. The story line, dialogue etc. are purely incidental (which is sort of how some movies are made in the first place).
I am deeply indebted to Jos for helping me come to terms with this ugly truth. To embrace this handicap, accept it as a gift, storm resolutely out of the closet..
And sing along..
*
The second half of the movie was slightly more hectic.
I spent a fare amount of time trying to shield my eyes from being visually assaulted by the lead actor's bulging pecks. I swear they seemed to burgeon with every passing minute. I had the almost uncontrollable urge to reach into the screen and deflate them somehow. Maybe ascertain the location of secret valves through which air was being cruelly pumped into his tiny little frame, testing the durability of his skin and the seams that hold it together. I was banking on the songs to come to my rescue, but there too I was to be granted no respite. The bulge came back to haunt me all over again.
About the only thing that was more irritating was Jiah Khan, who I am convinced is the most annoying little twit to have ever graced the silver screen.
This post is dedicated to the person who reads it through and through.. every last bit. Its about time I dedicated it to myself.
*
This post is dedicated to Gargoyle. For refusing to cave to Dabba culture. For making the 10 hours spent at work survivable. In your never ending quest for funny pet names, may you find great success.
For your quiet amusement at my inexplicabel hatred for Shobhaa De. Wait till I give you the lowdown on Amir Khan's abs (clearly the theme of this blog post) and Jiah Khan.
And also to A, may your run of bad luck cease post haste. And to Bose, may your store of gossip never cease. Certainly not post haste.
*
Apropos of nothing this post is also dedicated to R. I don't think I will ever be 'Lamba'sted quite the way I was on that fateful day (I'm tempted to say day(s)). I know you are a nice person, I really do, but the mouse in me is really glad to have turned in her Placement Cell shoes.
*
Although a shade darker than its prequels, I quite like the third edition of Pirates of the Caribbean. Especially the bit when all the pirates are swept up by Keira Knightly's motivational speech (and not just because she is pretty) and decide to fight. Its the kind of thing that makes you want to be a pirate or marry one and so on..
Apologies for the drivel. It is much cold here and I cannot sleep. Am slowly losing the ability to construct meaningful sentences.
*
If I take all the emotions I have felt over the course of the past year and try to cram them into a bag, well lets just say it would be an awfully large bag. Its not just the variety but the extremes which surprise me. Extreme happiness, bliss even and also a fair amount of glumness. Deep, debilitating fear and surprising amounts of strength and courage. Contentment and impatience. Being loved and being lonely. Industrious and shamelessly lazy. The depression of having bungled some things up and the joy of success.
About the only thing I regret feeling is Boredom. I think it is an entirely despicable way to be, bored that is. So I shall attempt to make a rather ambitious New-Year's resolution. To not permit boredom to come and ruin a perfectly full and beautiful life. To never ever accept boredom as a sad but necessary side effect of being alive.
I really hope I succeed. My sanity, among other things, is riding on it.
*
At long last, this post is dedicated to a fool. A peddler of humble wares and big stories. Who is full of "Gup" and even fuller of gas. Who promises to look me up the next time he is in Mumbai and flirt with me away from the watchful eye of his girlfriend. Unbeknowest to himself, he made my day.
I will be there, in my sunday best, to keep boredom at bay and find fodder for more blog posts.
*
Happy New Year!!
And to my Father, for his obsession with ULIP, PPF, EPF and other acronyms that I should ideally be familiar or at least vaguely acquainted with but am tragically not.
And to the bear, that has been declared to not be a bear, but wants terribly to continue to be one.
To D,
The world is hateful, and you are the bravest woman I know.
Love,
Your chicken-shit sister
*
Brilliant books by brilliant authors scare me. They pose a great dilemma. Half of me wants to zoom through it at warp speed and assimilate all the loveliness in one gulp. The other half wants to be patient, re-read every sentence, twist and turn it around and memorize it.
Some sentences are so brilliant that unbeknowest to myself, I end up doing both. Rushing to the end just to feel its brilliance like a giant (but pleasant) kick in the bum. And then catching my breath, to stare long and hard and close at the line(s) of prose in question.
To dismantle it in my chubby hands and re-mantle it in my brain.
(Re-mantle is not a word to the best of my knowledge. Just humour me and I promise to do this again)
*
oye lucky lucky oye.. oh lucky lucky oye..
someone please get this song out of my head..
*
This post is also dedicated to Magga, who unbeknowest to herself, has for the past 5 months (and counting) been harbouring a criminal. A seemingly model tenant who has quite beknowest (see I told you I'd do it again) to herself, been smuggling all sorts of contraband into the establishment. Examples to illustrate- stale Bembos's burgers, staler mango smoothies. Foul words, fouler moods. And oh-so many bottles of wine.
The delinquent in question has successfuly managed to conceal a 2 foot camera tripod within the premises of her den. That and the most prolonged case of the blues. The tripod lasted 3 days, the pout lingered on for three months.
And the riff-raff.. The constant traffic of cronies she's given shelter to from time to time? Lets not even go there.. A South Indian bombshell, a delectable pooch, a sibling (a.k.a Ursa Major) and a monkey precisely 6'2" tall.
All this treachery while being fed on a healthy diet of interesting conversation and roast chicken. The ungrateful wretch.
*
This post is also dedicated to the bombshell, the pooch and the monkey.
*
The bear that wasn't.. Tooodle Ooh Too Too.. Wasn't a bear at all..
Yes thats much better..
*
I beg the reader to not accuse me of relentless pseudery, what with the allusions to all sorts of members of the animal kingdom (bears, monkeys, dogs.. I believe a chicken also finds mention). I'm mostly slipping in secret messages to myself in the fervent hope that I myself will remember what all the references refer to.
Pseudery is in fact a word. I read it in a book. An absolutely delightful book by Stephen Fry.
*
If I could ask any three famous people for a hug they would be-
1. Stephen Fry: For bringing poetry back in to my life for a brief and refreshing bit.
2. Shrek: Ok so he's not really real. But hypothetical hugs are so much more fun when the prospective hugger is big and cuddly. And green.
3.Daniel Craig: *blush*
*
I'm still working on which three famous people I'd like to have dinner with, which lucky one I'd like to be stuck on a deserted island with and which celebrity I will name my child/dog after.
I saw 15 minutes of a documentary on Britney Spears. So that's one name off the list(s).
*
This post is dedicated to the word "unbeknowest". That and plural(s).
*
We went to watch a movie today, my mum and I. There are so many things I love about watching movies in Chandigarh. Firstly and most importantly, I think the city houses the only multi-plex cinema that still screens advertisements of Vico-Vajradanti and Vico Ayurvedic Cream.
Second, is the version of the national anthem that they screen before the movie. The anthem is picturised on soldiers at the Siachen Glacier. It is the kind of thing that makes you want to join the army or marry someone in the army or make your kids join the army or marry someone from the army etc. The kind of thing that reduces people like me to a blubbery bag of salty tears.
Jokes apart, it is a beautiful rendition of the national anthem and really stirs something inside me.
*
There has been an awful lot of blubbering off late. I blame the hormones. When in doubt blame hormones.
*
I spent the first half of the movie convincing myself that if I did not write a post soon, my brain would explode into millions of tiny little pieces/peices. That and the horrifying prospect of forgetting how to spell. All this fear therapy was briefly suspended for when the songs came on. I realised a while back that I only go to watch Hindi movies for the songs. The story line, dialogue etc. are purely incidental (which is sort of how some movies are made in the first place).
I am deeply indebted to Jos for helping me come to terms with this ugly truth. To embrace this handicap, accept it as a gift, storm resolutely out of the closet..
And sing along..
*
The second half of the movie was slightly more hectic.
I spent a fare amount of time trying to shield my eyes from being visually assaulted by the lead actor's bulging pecks. I swear they seemed to burgeon with every passing minute. I had the almost uncontrollable urge to reach into the screen and deflate them somehow. Maybe ascertain the location of secret valves through which air was being cruelly pumped into his tiny little frame, testing the durability of his skin and the seams that hold it together. I was banking on the songs to come to my rescue, but there too I was to be granted no respite. The bulge came back to haunt me all over again.
About the only thing that was more irritating was Jiah Khan, who I am convinced is the most annoying little twit to have ever graced the silver screen.
This post is dedicated to the person who reads it through and through.. every last bit. Its about time I dedicated it to myself.
*
This post is dedicated to Gargoyle. For refusing to cave to Dabba culture. For making the 10 hours spent at work survivable. In your never ending quest for funny pet names, may you find great success.
For your quiet amusement at my inexplicabel hatred for Shobhaa De. Wait till I give you the lowdown on Amir Khan's abs (clearly the theme of this blog post) and Jiah Khan.
And also to A, may your run of bad luck cease post haste. And to Bose, may your store of gossip never cease. Certainly not post haste.
*
Apropos of nothing this post is also dedicated to R. I don't think I will ever be 'Lamba'sted quite the way I was on that fateful day (I'm tempted to say day(s)). I know you are a nice person, I really do, but the mouse in me is really glad to have turned in her Placement Cell shoes.
*
Although a shade darker than its prequels, I quite like the third edition of Pirates of the Caribbean. Especially the bit when all the pirates are swept up by Keira Knightly's motivational speech (and not just because she is pretty) and decide to fight. Its the kind of thing that makes you want to be a pirate or marry one and so on..
Apologies for the drivel. It is much cold here and I cannot sleep. Am slowly losing the ability to construct meaningful sentences.
*
If I take all the emotions I have felt over the course of the past year and try to cram them into a bag, well lets just say it would be an awfully large bag. Its not just the variety but the extremes which surprise me. Extreme happiness, bliss even and also a fair amount of glumness. Deep, debilitating fear and surprising amounts of strength and courage. Contentment and impatience. Being loved and being lonely. Industrious and shamelessly lazy. The depression of having bungled some things up and the joy of success.
About the only thing I regret feeling is Boredom. I think it is an entirely despicable way to be, bored that is. So I shall attempt to make a rather ambitious New-Year's resolution. To not permit boredom to come and ruin a perfectly full and beautiful life. To never ever accept boredom as a sad but necessary side effect of being alive.
I really hope I succeed. My sanity, among other things, is riding on it.
*
At long last, this post is dedicated to a fool. A peddler of humble wares and big stories. Who is full of "Gup" and even fuller of gas. Who promises to look me up the next time he is in Mumbai and flirt with me away from the watchful eye of his girlfriend. Unbeknowest to himself, he made my day.
I will be there, in my sunday best, to keep boredom at bay and find fodder for more blog posts.
*
Happy New Year!!
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Hind in Sight
cute bottom is looking at me from the corner of his eye. he is gifted with the most extraordinarily powerful peripheral vision. that and the most extraordinarily attractive butt. about his other endowments, i dare not venture any descriptions, seeing as all i can see is his back side. which is not a total loss.. his bum is yum.. so i'll just give the rest of him the benefit of the doubt and continue to steadily fall for him. or just his posterior.. same difference.
so i strain against every compulsively shy muscle of my body to make my presence felt. a way must be found to make this man fall hopelessly in love with me.. or at least be mildly interested in the tiny little sliver of me visible from that inconvenient angle.
increase the volume of conversation.. but only if you have something beautiful and insightful to say. i prattle away nonetheless, simultaneously scanning my brain for something even remotely interesting. politics? haven't so much as looked at the paper in ages.. entertainment? no, watching repetitive reports of Chandrayaan in orbit do not count.. religion? God no..
evil doubts creep in.. i am hopelessly boring.. beyond any hope of remedy. and he sees through my flimsy disguise. that is if he's looking at all? something deep inside softly says- boo hoo..
no no no fool.. you must focus. carpe diem.. i mean just look at your audience. they seem mildly interested don't they now. must be all the books you aren't reading, all the movies and plays you aren't watching, all that brilliant music you aren't listening to, all the exercise you aren't getting..
sheesh.. big help you are! i see i'm going to have to go this alone.
and i manage somehow, elicit a round of giggles with some inane joke or the other.. manage to make some heads nod in agreement at exceedingly astute observation.. to shoot down an argument with a flamboyantly worded counter. and suddenly i am an intriguing person. lovely in every respect. the careful gaze of CB's bum have transformed me.
oh CB.. ever since you came into my life (3 minutes and counting) and looked at me in that special way (?) i am a changed woman.. altered irrevocably, improved immeasurably.. don't ever leave me and go.. first i'll have to recover from your loss.. and then i'll have to tolerate my own company. not the Me that you make me.. the you-less Me.. sob..
cute bottom proceeds forward.. i follow..
no i am not stalking him, we are both in line for the same thing. i only fantasize endlessly about men with whom i am mildly acquainted. but follow them around? na.. that's what the real nutcases do.. just to reassure myself of my sanity i casually shift my tractor beam like focus to other more commonplace things.. the walls, my hands, other butts (a regrettable accident), the floor, my arms.. moving briskly back to the hind in question..
alas, the bum and its owner have disappeared. fool! you should have never looked away.. so you're a loony.. swallow your pride and accept it. this tragedy would never have occurred unless common sense intervened. the same thing inside once again reiterates its stand.. boo-hoo..
*
post-script: CB left, only to stage a comeback, this time with his face in full view.. which much to my ill-conceived joy was not half bad either. i considered smiling to myself.. i ended up smiling to the whole world instead..
*
post-post-script: common sense staged quite the dramatic comeback too. which is funny because it hadn't really gone anywhere.. fortunately he was joined by a great deal of dreamy eyed optimism..
so i strain against every compulsively shy muscle of my body to make my presence felt. a way must be found to make this man fall hopelessly in love with me.. or at least be mildly interested in the tiny little sliver of me visible from that inconvenient angle.
increase the volume of conversation.. but only if you have something beautiful and insightful to say. i prattle away nonetheless, simultaneously scanning my brain for something even remotely interesting. politics? haven't so much as looked at the paper in ages.. entertainment? no, watching repetitive reports of Chandrayaan in orbit do not count.. religion? God no..
evil doubts creep in.. i am hopelessly boring.. beyond any hope of remedy. and he sees through my flimsy disguise. that is if he's looking at all? something deep inside softly says- boo hoo..
no no no fool.. you must focus. carpe diem.. i mean just look at your audience. they seem mildly interested don't they now. must be all the books you aren't reading, all the movies and plays you aren't watching, all that brilliant music you aren't listening to, all the exercise you aren't getting..
sheesh.. big help you are! i see i'm going to have to go this alone.
and i manage somehow, elicit a round of giggles with some inane joke or the other.. manage to make some heads nod in agreement at exceedingly astute observation.. to shoot down an argument with a flamboyantly worded counter. and suddenly i am an intriguing person. lovely in every respect. the careful gaze of CB's bum have transformed me.
oh CB.. ever since you came into my life (3 minutes and counting) and looked at me in that special way (?) i am a changed woman.. altered irrevocably, improved immeasurably.. don't ever leave me and go.. first i'll have to recover from your loss.. and then i'll have to tolerate my own company. not the Me that you make me.. the you-less Me.. sob..
cute bottom proceeds forward.. i follow..
no i am not stalking him, we are both in line for the same thing. i only fantasize endlessly about men with whom i am mildly acquainted. but follow them around? na.. that's what the real nutcases do.. just to reassure myself of my sanity i casually shift my tractor beam like focus to other more commonplace things.. the walls, my hands, other butts (a regrettable accident), the floor, my arms.. moving briskly back to the hind in question..
alas, the bum and its owner have disappeared. fool! you should have never looked away.. so you're a loony.. swallow your pride and accept it. this tragedy would never have occurred unless common sense intervened. the same thing inside once again reiterates its stand.. boo-hoo..
*
post-script: CB left, only to stage a comeback, this time with his face in full view.. which much to my ill-conceived joy was not half bad either. i considered smiling to myself.. i ended up smiling to the whole world instead..
*
post-post-script: common sense staged quite the dramatic comeback too. which is funny because it hadn't really gone anywhere.. fortunately he was joined by a great deal of dreamy eyed optimism..
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