Very soon I shall leave upon the dodgy wings of another more or less disorganized plan for tonight. Absolutely loving it!
Its going to be awesome, I know it. And I'm so sure about it for the simple reason that I have no clue how.
Yes. Thats how it'll work. Wait and see.
Monday, December 31, 2007
And The Reason Is....
But more than anything else, I say it was necessary. I say more than anything else because it is also quite fun. And its my blog, and thus has every right to be equally off its head. Not to mention brilliant, intelligent, sexy, smart, charming and many oh many more things I shall leave out for right now, the list of my well-deserved compliments being quite fascinating but I admit slightly unnecessary to the crux of our discussion. Pch pch. The second most important reason is that a post is a post if I call it say, and I needn't have anything to add, or to say, or to bedazzle with. There. You are now reduced to the ego of a little mouse.
May I now share the primary reason? Why did I do this? Why this strange, incredibly senseless hoopdidah? Why oh why, dear sir?
*drum roll. curtain shoved aside. confetti blasts all around, one taking out a slow to react old lady*
I have now reached 100 blog-posts for the year!! Yay! Yay yay!! Yay yay yay!!! Yes! *does the yes thing a la Brett Lee*
In my mind, I hear trumpets of glory. I hear marching bands playing tribute. I hear hordes of screaming fans. I hear Geoff Boycott jumping all over the commentary box, ecstatically singing praises at what has surely been a most remarkable innings by a quite remarkable young man, indeed. Oh the glory! Oh the fantastic-ness of it all. Move over Sashin, move over Gangooli, move over Doe-ny. C&B, take a bow!
*I take a bow*
Thank you for your wishes (in advance. obviously, dolt.) and thank you for all the love and the support and the envy and the jealous fits of rage. If you weren't my bitches, I wouldnt be here. Happy new year world!
Resolution: It will be an adventure this year round. Extraordinary and awesome. Fantastic and mind-boggling. Legendary.
May I now share the primary reason? Why did I do this? Why this strange, incredibly senseless hoopdidah? Why oh why, dear sir?
*drum roll. curtain shoved aside. confetti blasts all around, one taking out a slow to react old lady*
I have now reached 100 blog-posts for the year!! Yay! Yay yay!! Yay yay yay!!! Yes! *does the yes thing a la Brett Lee*
In my mind, I hear trumpets of glory. I hear marching bands playing tribute. I hear hordes of screaming fans. I hear Geoff Boycott jumping all over the commentary box, ecstatically singing praises at what has surely been a most remarkable innings by a quite remarkable young man, indeed. Oh the glory! Oh the fantastic-ness of it all. Move over Sashin, move over Gangooli, move over Doe-ny. C&B, take a bow!
*I take a bow*
Thank you for your wishes (in advance. obviously, dolt.) and thank you for all the love and the support and the envy and the jealous fits of rage. If you weren't my bitches, I wouldnt be here. Happy new year world!
Resolution: It will be an adventure this year round. Extraordinary and awesome. Fantastic and mind-boggling. Legendary.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Crushing You
Some people absolutely thrive under pressure. They love it. The rush, the adrenaline, the possibility of getting cornered in a dark alley with your back against the wall. That sort of stuff charges them up to perform better and better. Its how they, so to say, roll.
We are a different people though. Me and Team India. We don't do high pressure times very well. Put us in a terrible spot and ask of us feats of great daring, might and courage and all those things, and we start fantasizing about lunch. Not exactly the force you want to send in to rescue prisoners from guarded hilltops or save children from burning fires. Its not enthusiasm we lack, a burning building with children trapped inside being just as much excitement for me as the next fellow. We just dont look forward to turning in our own terrific acts of valour and displays of awesomeness in the middle of all the mess. As was elaborated conveniently by Sachin, choosing to get out just a few minutes before lunch time, because the Aussies were making faces at him. The greater the pressure, the tenser the situation, the larger the weight entrusted upon our shoulders, the greater is the urge to distract ourselves and let it all go. Not that we're incapable or anything. Or lacking in talent. Rest assured that I'm a perfectly super-awesome guy who regularly sweeps lines and lines of people off their respective feets. Such is my charisma and natural charm that...hmm...I'll skip it for now. Later, later.
My point is. You're putting me under a lot of pressure. Yes, you. With all your excited jumping around over the end of another year. With all this talk of parties and clubs and dances and new shoes. With the incessant questions about where I'm planning to go, burning midnight oil and living it up and letting my hair down and dancing in the sides and what not. With the pained expression of "But whats wrong?!?" when I say I haven't got a plan chalked out yet. With yor unnecessary and unwanted recommendations of all the hip and happening and check-out-you-must parties around town. I know you mean well. Most of you. But I don't enjoy the focus over my schedule of inactivity. And I don't do well under your pressure.
So here I am, still going online 25 times a day, in constant search of a kindred soul who suffers similarly every time a damn year ends, or its time for fat men to throw around gifts into outstretched greedy arms, or whatever else we are able to find and exploit as a reason to party hard. And I do not enjoy myself one bit. And I do not appreciate all the hooplah. Especially when you start telling me how I'm growing old surely, and should you fetch me my walking stick and that brown old-generation chowkidar style monkey-cap.
I party when I want to. More often that most of you do, living in metros and all. *fierce :P* I just don't see a reason pushing me to celebrate in your way the end of a year. It was a beautiful time, and I enjoyed myself most thoroughly this year. The last few moments I have with it are not going to be drowned in dancing in ridiculously crowded discs, with ridiculously dressed people, listening to ridiculously loud music. You. Are. Ridiculous. Go home now. Don't cry. I'm harsh sometimes, I know.
We are a different people though. Me and Team India. We don't do high pressure times very well. Put us in a terrible spot and ask of us feats of great daring, might and courage and all those things, and we start fantasizing about lunch. Not exactly the force you want to send in to rescue prisoners from guarded hilltops or save children from burning fires. Its not enthusiasm we lack, a burning building with children trapped inside being just as much excitement for me as the next fellow. We just dont look forward to turning in our own terrific acts of valour and displays of awesomeness in the middle of all the mess. As was elaborated conveniently by Sachin, choosing to get out just a few minutes before lunch time, because the Aussies were making faces at him. The greater the pressure, the tenser the situation, the larger the weight entrusted upon our shoulders, the greater is the urge to distract ourselves and let it all go. Not that we're incapable or anything. Or lacking in talent. Rest assured that I'm a perfectly super-awesome guy who regularly sweeps lines and lines of people off their respective feets. Such is my charisma and natural charm that...hmm...I'll skip it for now. Later, later.
My point is. You're putting me under a lot of pressure. Yes, you. With all your excited jumping around over the end of another year. With all this talk of parties and clubs and dances and new shoes. With the incessant questions about where I'm planning to go, burning midnight oil and living it up and letting my hair down and dancing in the sides and what not. With the pained expression of "But whats wrong?!?" when I say I haven't got a plan chalked out yet. With yor unnecessary and unwanted recommendations of all the hip and happening and check-out-you-must parties around town. I know you mean well. Most of you. But I don't enjoy the focus over my schedule of inactivity. And I don't do well under your pressure.
So here I am, still going online 25 times a day, in constant search of a kindred soul who suffers similarly every time a damn year ends, or its time for fat men to throw around gifts into outstretched greedy arms, or whatever else we are able to find and exploit as a reason to party hard. And I do not enjoy myself one bit. And I do not appreciate all the hooplah. Especially when you start telling me how I'm growing old surely, and should you fetch me my walking stick and that brown old-generation chowkidar style monkey-cap.
I party when I want to. More often that most of you do, living in metros and all. *fierce :P* I just don't see a reason pushing me to celebrate in your way the end of a year. It was a beautiful time, and I enjoyed myself most thoroughly this year. The last few moments I have with it are not going to be drowned in dancing in ridiculously crowded discs, with ridiculously dressed people, listening to ridiculously loud music. You. Are. Ridiculous. Go home now. Don't cry. I'm harsh sometimes, I know.
Friday, December 28, 2007
A New Dawn. From A Mushroom Cloud.
There isn't much time anymore. Its been a constantly changing world, from the early days of calm, laid-back, easy-going, cave-dwelling, stone-carving neanderthals. Now, we rush from one event to another, briskly changing partners, fashions, diets, noses, cell-phones, cars, furniture, religions, nationality, and even gender. Sometime, somewhere, some idiot started a rat race, and enrolled us all. And we've had to keep on running ever since. One revolution follows another. We find our surroundings in constant change, upheaval, and renovation to keep up with that what we do not yet know. It shall be finished by the time we understand it. So, we close our eyes to all sense. And we run as fast as we can.
The leaders of the race shall always be those who are practical, precise and to the point. Its true.
And I have one winning example/exhibit to prove my point.
This woman.
I'll be right here now. Let me know once you're done looking.
.
.
.
.
Right. So. How. Why. What. Huh. Hold on, I'm still memorizing it. I can anticipate your obvious reactions. But bear with me awhile longer.
Music, dear readers, is a marker of our times, our cultures, our creative spark, our mental hogwash.
It takes a great amount of nerve to be straight and open and honest with millions of brainwashed fans and several million more right-thinking, mentally-developed people around the world. It takes a huge amount of courage to stand up for what you believe. It takes extraordinary self-confidence to hold to your convictions.
They are the leaders of the world. The ones who usher us into new ages of thought, and show us the next step to our progress as an entire species.
How long have we been decaying, as a species, because of what we have defining by that loose term so easily bestowed, 'music'? How long have we been worshipping those same gods who spoke those same hymns and those same anthems and performed those same rituals in front of us since the dawn of the electric guitar age? Enough playing she says, canoodle it already! The fact is our cultural, spiritual and musical progress is at a standstill. We are not exploring. We are not examining. We are not re-evaluating. We, although we didnt realize it till now, have been suffering a deep, melancholic discontent with the state of our world.
It takes, as I said, an extraordinary amount of courage, and self-belief to show the way forward. With her mighty pole, She sweeps off the dust and grime of the ages. Dropping off her top, She wipes off the slime that has stagnated the music industry. With repeated, endless thrusts of Her hips She knocks me to my senses, so that I may once again see, through Her radiant vision (in black and white and also slightly shaky), the beauty that is true music. Its a revolution, be you ready for it or not. It comes now. No more singing about stars, and emotions, and funny feelings in your hearts for 4 whole minutes. No more screaming at the top of your voice so that your love may take you to her heart, about your not wanting to miss a thing, about how she looks wonderful tonight, or even how she already knows you wanna radio-edit "love" her. None of that. End of story. Go home. We just don't have the time.
Like I said right at the start, the secret behind the revolution is:
Cut the crap. Get on with it already. We don't have time to waste. Or words to shower. Or non-sexual dances to entice you with. I'll lay it in front of you, in Her own simple words, so you can maybe finally understand what I'm trying to say.
Gimme.
'Tis a simple word. Gimme. It is a marriage of two even simpler, fairly common words which, put together, express the desires and hopes of hundreds and thousands of men and women around the planet, such being the universal appeal of this song nay anthem - Give me.
Don't ask me questions. Don't ask me why. I do not know. I am merely in the throes of an ecstacy, which comes of infinite joy and devoted worship. Just give me.
And its effect can only be called gigantic. Why only gigantic and not anything else? Because gigantic also begins with a g and contains another one inside. Also, I don't feel like pondering on adjectives too much right now. I am in the midst of a heartfelt tribute, if you didnt notice.
With the grave yet fun, serious yet light, straight but dicey lyrics of her new song, Britney Mata brings us into the new world. Why listen to Elvis cry to himself? Why listen to Clapton's musical rollercoasters of love, and pain and exquisite guitar strains? What are they after really? She's already there.
Bow your heads. And read from the intensely profound lyrics of the snatches I have managed to catch of The Song of The New Revolution. [Please do not be a stupid imbecile and bow your heads so that you cannot read. Just enough so they're bowed technically, but read you can still. Its quite obvious and quite simple. Don't be daft with your cheek. Do it.]
Repeat after me, please.
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*shake. shake. thrust. thrust*
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*swing around pole. smile innocently at camera. shake away*
Gimme gimme. Gimme gimme.
*swing again. play with clothes of other similarly beseeching females*
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*shake shake. thrust thrust straight into the camera*
Gimme. Gimme gimme.
*the top is dropped. a towel wrapped seductively to replace. shake shake*
Gimme more! Gimme more!
*shake. thrust. shake shake thrust shake thrust*
Gimme. Gimme. Gimme gimme.
Amen. A new day has come. I am going to kill myself.
The leaders of the race shall always be those who are practical, precise and to the point. Its true.
And I have one winning example/exhibit to prove my point.
This woman.
I'll be right here now. Let me know once you're done looking.
.
.
.
.
Right. So. How. Why. What. Huh. Hold on, I'm still memorizing it. I can anticipate your obvious reactions. But bear with me awhile longer.
Music, dear readers, is a marker of our times, our cultures, our creative spark, our mental hogwash.
It takes a great amount of nerve to be straight and open and honest with millions of brainwashed fans and several million more right-thinking, mentally-developed people around the world. It takes a huge amount of courage to stand up for what you believe. It takes extraordinary self-confidence to hold to your convictions.
They are the leaders of the world. The ones who usher us into new ages of thought, and show us the next step to our progress as an entire species.
How long have we been decaying, as a species, because of what we have defining by that loose term so easily bestowed, 'music'? How long have we been worshipping those same gods who spoke those same hymns and those same anthems and performed those same rituals in front of us since the dawn of the electric guitar age? Enough playing she says, canoodle it already! The fact is our cultural, spiritual and musical progress is at a standstill. We are not exploring. We are not examining. We are not re-evaluating. We, although we didnt realize it till now, have been suffering a deep, melancholic discontent with the state of our world.
It takes, as I said, an extraordinary amount of courage, and self-belief to show the way forward. With her mighty pole, She sweeps off the dust and grime of the ages. Dropping off her top, She wipes off the slime that has stagnated the music industry. With repeated, endless thrusts of Her hips She knocks me to my senses, so that I may once again see, through Her radiant vision (in black and white and also slightly shaky), the beauty that is true music. Its a revolution, be you ready for it or not. It comes now. No more singing about stars, and emotions, and funny feelings in your hearts for 4 whole minutes. No more screaming at the top of your voice so that your love may take you to her heart, about your not wanting to miss a thing, about how she looks wonderful tonight, or even how she already knows you wanna radio-edit "love" her. None of that. End of story. Go home. We just don't have the time.
Like I said right at the start, the secret behind the revolution is:
Cut the crap. Get on with it already. We don't have time to waste. Or words to shower. Or non-sexual dances to entice you with. I'll lay it in front of you, in Her own simple words, so you can maybe finally understand what I'm trying to say.
Gimme.
'Tis a simple word. Gimme. It is a marriage of two even simpler, fairly common words which, put together, express the desires and hopes of hundreds and thousands of men and women around the planet, such being the universal appeal of this song nay anthem - Give me.
Don't ask me questions. Don't ask me why. I do not know. I am merely in the throes of an ecstacy, which comes of infinite joy and devoted worship. Just give me.
And its effect can only be called gigantic. Why only gigantic and not anything else? Because gigantic also begins with a g and contains another one inside. Also, I don't feel like pondering on adjectives too much right now. I am in the midst of a heartfelt tribute, if you didnt notice.
With the grave yet fun, serious yet light, straight but dicey lyrics of her new song, Britney Mata brings us into the new world. Why listen to Elvis cry to himself? Why listen to Clapton's musical rollercoasters of love, and pain and exquisite guitar strains? What are they after really? She's already there.
Bow your heads. And read from the intensely profound lyrics of the snatches I have managed to catch of The Song of The New Revolution. [Please do not be a stupid imbecile and bow your heads so that you cannot read. Just enough so they're bowed technically, but read you can still. Its quite obvious and quite simple. Don't be daft with your cheek. Do it.]
Repeat after me, please.
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*shake. shake. thrust. thrust*
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*swing around pole. smile innocently at camera. shake away*
Gimme gimme. Gimme gimme.
*swing again. play with clothes of other similarly beseeching females*
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*shake shake. thrust thrust straight into the camera*
Gimme. Gimme gimme.
*the top is dropped. a towel wrapped seductively to replace. shake shake*
Gimme more! Gimme more!
*shake. thrust. shake shake thrust shake thrust*
Gimme. Gimme. Gimme gimme.
Amen. A new day has come. I am going to kill myself.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Random Smacks
I think of college as a form of hermitage. A hermitage surrounded by bars and pubs? Yes. A hermitage whose visible form of worship is ogling at heavenly bodies (of course you get the lame pun)? Yes. But a hermitage nonetheless. For it fulfils that primary criterion that all self-respecting hermits look for in standard hermitage real estate.
What is that hermits want? What is it that they look for in a prospective hermitage location, even a kaam-chalao one, considering they are unable to book prime spots atop a craggy mountain-peak in snowy Himalayas (my image of a perfect hermitage being affixed in my mind from Tintin In Tibet)? The foremost requisite for a hermitage is that it should allow you to indulge in whatever it is you choose, without outside interference.
Hence, proved. Aah! The science student's most satisfying comeback line at the end of any maths question. I sign mine with a flourish I can't help.
Anyway, I was saying, hence I conclude that college has assumed the form of a hermitage.
What has that got to do with anything, you ask? I mean, whats your friggin' point, you say? I shall tell you, oh impatient loud-mouthed reader. You see, I like it that way. I love the fact that my college is hermitagish (new word alert!).
Some would say its a bad thing, not being in touch with the world's affairs. Vital moments in our planet's history pass me by without causing a ripple in the calm, serene pond that I'm using here as a metaphor for life. Appreciate my refreshing use of profound imagery na? But the thing is, I realize I'm not missing out on much.
Because when I come back home, waiting to be dazzled by the wonders of Indian civilization, whose company I have been bereft of for the past few months, what I see is shocking. Is it a trick of mine eyes? Is it a hallucination of some extraordinarily strange kind? Can this be really real? Not just shocking, its positively revolting. In thesaurus mode, I shall go to the extent of calling it absolutely disgusting too. And bile-inducingly vomitous. Another new word I believe. Thank you.
Let me attempt to list what I've noticed dashed up about the world since I got back in touch:
1. Bollywood
India is a retarded society, with all the attention-span and creative appreciation of a 3 year old slightly special child who can be entertained even by your lacklustre-at-best-but-usually-painful-to-the-senses imitation of Santa Claus and Habu Baba and whatever else you think you're a hit with. Give us no sense. Give us no plan. Tell us we have no self-respect and you're just going to take our money and laugh at us and then come scrunch us beneath your titanic heels. Use us as pawns on a chessboard you haven't dusted in years because you dont even bloody care about the game. We do not mind. Just as long as one scene in fifty is vaguely comical, and Shahrukh Khan is in the rest.
So, Om Shanti Om becomes a super-duper mega blockbuster hit. Never mind that the hero has a body that could have been ousted by any rickshaw-puller on the streets of Kolkata. We shall call it a farce. Leave your thinking caps home! Dont be so highbrow, so condescending, so arty-shmarty! We're Indians! We suck!
You see, when it's farce and you already proclaim it so, anything goes. Even trash.
2. TV News
I dont even know how to really approach this issue. So I'll just say it and you can then justifiably recoil in horror. Sit back and breathe calmly. This could be a serious shock. I saw two news channels covering (as their Breaking News no less) the goings and comings on WWE. Yes. Let me break it to you in stages. News like this dealt in one blow can be fatal. So, it was WWE. The headline read something like the Great Khali being irritated and angered by diminutive Irishman Finlay. The video inset was of the giant monster guy taking apart a little Irish chap. And the news presenter spoke not in jest. She spoke with brevity, and calm, and stoic seriousness. She could have been talking about elections or more boys falling down more holes in the ground, you would think.
This is what Indian News has come to. I look forward to catching them discuss recent slaps (and what affect they could have on the maan-maryada of the parivaar) on Kyunki Saas Bhi blah blah blah... one of these days. Interestingly, I dont know so please tell me, is the Ba creature still alive?? My last rib-tickling memory is of when she went to attend fashion school along with her great-grandchildren.
3. The Big Huge Explosion
Ok, it might not have been big and huge, but it was an explosion all right. McDonald's, the only one in Kolkata, exploded due to some gas-cylinder disagreeing with it's working conditions. Something like that. Glass shattered, cars outside were damaged, the door flew apart, and one person died. Since then, shutters have remained drawn on the location plus one big brown ugly over its frontage, right in the middle of Park Street.
Nice how we're supposed to be developing and letting (those blood-sucking) capitalists finally into our communist city of harmony and brotherhood (nice riot by the way. ah! a mere brotherly fight! children will be children!). But also very strange how no renovation or demolition or any sort of work is done upon the site, to atleast clean up the ugly stain on wonderful Park Street by Christmas time. 'Tis a shame.
4. That man
I refer to Himesh. Since my college began, and I delved deeper and deeper into the roots of hard rock and metal mayhem, one man has been steadily hacking away at the roots of good Hindi music, and all the signs of music and singing ability from the face of Bollywood. Himesh Reshammiya.
It was you who fed him, when the snake was merely a snake-ling. Then he does a movie. And you go and watch it. And then you go and watch it too. And so on and so forth, until the creep has enough money to think he's actually above the karaoke now. And disaster falls. He's prepared a sequel. You fools! Look what you've done!
Are you excited that this time he's going to be without a cap? That you shall be allowed to gaze upon the tufts and tangles of beautiful long hair upon that big head I dearly want to introduce my hammer to? Are you, really?
Why? Why you did that?
To focus on things cleaner and safer, it's not entirely true that everything has only gone down and soiled itself since I stopped calling back and finding out how it was. There remain some positives, and we can be quite proud of them.
1. India is getting richer and richer. The Ambanis are skipping higher and higher on a trampoline that is getting stronger and stronger. Tata shall buy over Jaguar, despite the ridiculous, almost childlike outrage expressed by the foreign companies involved in this.
2. We haven't really forgotten how to play cricket. We actually won! We didnt look back to see if anyone was closing in, and won the damn race already. And we're winning since. Plus, something I honestly did not expect. The Dada is back. With superpowers this time. Yay! Time for a kangaroo steak now.
I feel, the world could yet be a happy place. Lets just bang some people on the head a few times first. And we'll see from there.
What is that hermits want? What is it that they look for in a prospective hermitage location, even a kaam-chalao one, considering they are unable to book prime spots atop a craggy mountain-peak in snowy Himalayas (my image of a perfect hermitage being affixed in my mind from Tintin In Tibet)? The foremost requisite for a hermitage is that it should allow you to indulge in whatever it is you choose, without outside interference.
Hence, proved. Aah! The science student's most satisfying comeback line at the end of any maths question. I sign mine with a flourish I can't help.
Anyway, I was saying, hence I conclude that college has assumed the form of a hermitage.
What has that got to do with anything, you ask? I mean, whats your friggin' point, you say? I shall tell you, oh impatient loud-mouthed reader. You see, I like it that way. I love the fact that my college is hermitagish (new word alert!).
Some would say its a bad thing, not being in touch with the world's affairs. Vital moments in our planet's history pass me by without causing a ripple in the calm, serene pond that I'm using here as a metaphor for life. Appreciate my refreshing use of profound imagery na? But the thing is, I realize I'm not missing out on much.
Because when I come back home, waiting to be dazzled by the wonders of Indian civilization, whose company I have been bereft of for the past few months, what I see is shocking. Is it a trick of mine eyes? Is it a hallucination of some extraordinarily strange kind? Can this be really real? Not just shocking, its positively revolting. In thesaurus mode, I shall go to the extent of calling it absolutely disgusting too. And bile-inducingly vomitous. Another new word I believe. Thank you.
Let me attempt to list what I've noticed dashed up about the world since I got back in touch:
1. Bollywood
India is a retarded society, with all the attention-span and creative appreciation of a 3 year old slightly special child who can be entertained even by your lacklustre-at-best-but-usually-painful-to-the-senses imitation of Santa Claus and Habu Baba and whatever else you think you're a hit with. Give us no sense. Give us no plan. Tell us we have no self-respect and you're just going to take our money and laugh at us and then come scrunch us beneath your titanic heels. Use us as pawns on a chessboard you haven't dusted in years because you dont even bloody care about the game. We do not mind. Just as long as one scene in fifty is vaguely comical, and Shahrukh Khan is in the rest.
So, Om Shanti Om becomes a super-duper mega blockbuster hit. Never mind that the hero has a body that could have been ousted by any rickshaw-puller on the streets of Kolkata. We shall call it a farce. Leave your thinking caps home! Dont be so highbrow, so condescending, so arty-shmarty! We're Indians! We suck!
You see, when it's farce and you already proclaim it so, anything goes. Even trash.
2. TV News
I dont even know how to really approach this issue. So I'll just say it and you can then justifiably recoil in horror. Sit back and breathe calmly. This could be a serious shock. I saw two news channels covering (as their Breaking News no less) the goings and comings on WWE. Yes. Let me break it to you in stages. News like this dealt in one blow can be fatal. So, it was WWE. The headline read something like the Great Khali being irritated and angered by diminutive Irishman Finlay. The video inset was of the giant monster guy taking apart a little Irish chap. And the news presenter spoke not in jest. She spoke with brevity, and calm, and stoic seriousness. She could have been talking about elections or more boys falling down more holes in the ground, you would think.
This is what Indian News has come to. I look forward to catching them discuss recent slaps (and what affect they could have on the maan-maryada of the parivaar) on Kyunki Saas Bhi blah blah blah... one of these days. Interestingly, I dont know so please tell me, is the Ba creature still alive?? My last rib-tickling memory is of when she went to attend fashion school along with her great-grandchildren.
3. The Big Huge Explosion
Ok, it might not have been big and huge, but it was an explosion all right. McDonald's, the only one in Kolkata, exploded due to some gas-cylinder disagreeing with it's working conditions. Something like that. Glass shattered, cars outside were damaged, the door flew apart, and one person died. Since then, shutters have remained drawn on the location plus one big brown ugly over its frontage, right in the middle of Park Street.
Nice how we're supposed to be developing and letting (those blood-sucking) capitalists finally into our communist city of harmony and brotherhood (nice riot by the way. ah! a mere brotherly fight! children will be children!). But also very strange how no renovation or demolition or any sort of work is done upon the site, to atleast clean up the ugly stain on wonderful Park Street by Christmas time. 'Tis a shame.
4. That man
I refer to Himesh. Since my college began, and I delved deeper and deeper into the roots of hard rock and metal mayhem, one man has been steadily hacking away at the roots of good Hindi music, and all the signs of music and singing ability from the face of Bollywood. Himesh Reshammiya.
It was you who fed him, when the snake was merely a snake-ling. Then he does a movie. And you go and watch it. And then you go and watch it too. And so on and so forth, until the creep has enough money to think he's actually above the karaoke now. And disaster falls. He's prepared a sequel. You fools! Look what you've done!
Are you excited that this time he's going to be without a cap? That you shall be allowed to gaze upon the tufts and tangles of beautiful long hair upon that big head I dearly want to introduce my hammer to? Are you, really?
Why? Why you did that?
To focus on things cleaner and safer, it's not entirely true that everything has only gone down and soiled itself since I stopped calling back and finding out how it was. There remain some positives, and we can be quite proud of them.
1. India is getting richer and richer. The Ambanis are skipping higher and higher on a trampoline that is getting stronger and stronger. Tata shall buy over Jaguar, despite the ridiculous, almost childlike outrage expressed by the foreign companies involved in this.
2. We haven't really forgotten how to play cricket. We actually won! We didnt look back to see if anyone was closing in, and won the damn race already. And we're winning since. Plus, something I honestly did not expect. The Dada is back. With superpowers this time. Yay! Time for a kangaroo steak now.
I feel, the world could yet be a happy place. Lets just bang some people on the head a few times first. And we'll see from there.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Joy To The World
Its not like I'm preaching Christianity or anything.
But you have to agree, the dude really knows how to throw a great party.
Merry Christmas, indeed!!
But you have to agree, the dude really knows how to throw a great party.
Merry Christmas, indeed!!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Its His Big Day, And Everyone's Invited!
The biggest birthday bash of ever is upon us.
And out we must go.
On an aside, remember how we were talking about X-Mas and everything that other time? Yes, yes, you and I. We were discussing it, and you just so insisted upon buying me an unnecessarily expensive gift and all, with a really sweet card and really sweet sweets and pastries? Yeah! So sweet of you. I don't usually give in to these material bondages and needless ties with the physical world, but I shan't break your heart. It being the Christmas spirit and all. Aww...So rejoice, make merry and shop! For me!
Send in your gifts, cards, and good wishes* as soon as possible! One** lucky winner*** could just win a grand prize****! Yay!
I'm so nice! Again yay!!
*only accepted if accompanied by gifts and cards
**give or take a few
***which could be you
****real or imaginary
And out we must go.
On an aside, remember how we were talking about X-Mas and everything that other time? Yes, yes, you and I. We were discussing it, and you just so insisted upon buying me an unnecessarily expensive gift and all, with a really sweet card and really sweet sweets and pastries? Yeah! So sweet of you. I don't usually give in to these material bondages and needless ties with the physical world, but I shan't break your heart. It being the Christmas spirit and all. Aww...So rejoice, make merry and shop! For me!
Send in your gifts, cards, and good wishes* as soon as possible! One** lucky winner*** could just win a grand prize****! Yay!
I'm so nice! Again yay!!
*only accepted if accompanied by gifts and cards
**give or take a few
***which could be you
****real or imaginary
Friday, December 21, 2007
Winter Evening
Close your eyes. Not tightly. Just let them close, as if that were their natural state.
Sit very, very still. Now feel your toes. Try to sense your feet. You can feel blood flow through veins, in and out, in and out.
Breathe slowly and effortlessly. The rise and fall of your chest, the feel of cloth to skin. Lift your face upwards to the ceiling. Try and feel a breeze against your face, and you will.
Try and sense your fingers, with your hands lying limp. From the inside of your skin, try and feel your fingers. The crevices and ridges we call finger-prints, our individual identities in a world of similarity and same-ness.
There is a connect with everything external. The feel of slippers to the soles of your feet. The fall of light on the walls, and shadows cast randomly around. The stillness is that of a picture.
And you don't want to move. You don't want to change the expression on your face, or lift your fingers finally. Nothing to disturb a perfect equilibrium.
Equilibrium. A balance with all surroundings.
You don't even move your eyes. The same gaze on the same wall on the same spot.
Every single breath is a ripple. An irking disturbance.
Sshhh.
Sit very, very still. Now feel your toes. Try to sense your feet. You can feel blood flow through veins, in and out, in and out.
Breathe slowly and effortlessly. The rise and fall of your chest, the feel of cloth to skin. Lift your face upwards to the ceiling. Try and feel a breeze against your face, and you will.
Try and sense your fingers, with your hands lying limp. From the inside of your skin, try and feel your fingers. The crevices and ridges we call finger-prints, our individual identities in a world of similarity and same-ness.
There is a connect with everything external. The feel of slippers to the soles of your feet. The fall of light on the walls, and shadows cast randomly around. The stillness is that of a picture.
And you don't want to move. You don't want to change the expression on your face, or lift your fingers finally. Nothing to disturb a perfect equilibrium.
Equilibrium. A balance with all surroundings.
You don't even move your eyes. The same gaze on the same wall on the same spot.
Every single breath is a ripple. An irking disturbance.
Sshhh.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Brutal, Barbaric Brutes
There are 3 types of people in the world. That despite all our grandiose delusions about mankind's million different shades and colors of personality, skin, thought, mindset and blah. Truth it be, there are 3 types of people.
There are some people whom you can mess around with. There are some people who you mess with and pay the price later, but that doesn't stop you (or you can't resist because the temptation is too great) from going for it again later.
Then there are some people who you just do not mess with.
Keeping aside perambulations through an amusement park's worth of my personal experiences about messing and being messed with, we shall instead glide headlong straight into the third variety of people. The type of people you do not mess with.
(I use italics to emphasize the degree of superlativity of the name, person, animal or thing in question. Its nice. And now you know. I also waste post space on inane and pointless points of personal patheticity (awarding them their separate paragraph I tell you!) and hunt fervently for an opportunity to use lots of brackets. (I even like to invent words. Note above: 'patheticity' and 'superlativity'. I've said them aloud in conversations a few times. Its wonderful and insightful how I've gotten away without anyone noticing. (I wonder if my using those personalized words actually impresses the people who don't point out their non-existence. Hmm...)))
So. You do not mess with big, bulky people with menacing expressions on their faces. You do not mess with the guitar shop person, despite the fact that you're going to now go to his place for the 4th time in 3 days to have the same problem fixed. You do not mess with teachers who will commit your name to memory and then sit to correct examination papers. You do not mess with your waiter in a restaurant, because there is a period of about 15-20 seconds when he is alone, and out of external sight, with your food. All this you know. Its general knowledge, assimilated in our formative years, in rich experiences and bitter blahbluhblahblah. I don't feel like expostulating. Expounding even.
(I have a fondness for words that start with 'ex'. Express. Expound. Expostulate. Examine. Exhaust. Exile. Exhume. Excel. Surf excel. Exorbitant. Exalt. Extra extra read all about it. Experience. Exacerbate. Exterminate with extreme prejudice!)
But there is another breed, a sub-species almost, of people you do not want to ever cross. I'm not sure, but they live in shallows and in miseries, in deep, dank corners of humanity, emerging periodically with cutting tools and piercing weapons that can with a single snip or shave cut off our ties with society.
They are beasts they are. And we cannot avoid them. We must visit, we must sit under their knives and their malicious sorceries. And we must pay tribute.
Barber beasts.
The word barber is directly descended from savagery itself. It comes from the Greek word barbaros which directly means "foreign". A reference to "the savage monster who plays with blades and scissors and our social status for anything from 2 to 10 weeks depending on type of haircut given". The word was used to refer, in slang, to the invading hordes of Huns and Mongols, who aside from raping countless women and pillaging cities, were also known to give extremely embarrassing haircuts to the local authority-figures and celebrities straying into their path of fire, destruction and loose, flailing hair-follicles. With time, barberous became barbarian and barbarous. The Mongols, the Huns and their ilk were supposedly wiped out. And we lived on in that belief, feeling the world was safe once again. So, thats done. Now only eeny-weenies like Hitler to deal with. Lets lie back and relax for a while, guys.
It shall go down in history as one of the greatest follies of mankind. We crushed them, but we did not wipe them out. Like that last dinosaur de-egging itself right at the end of Godzilla, the monsters survived. They bred silently, and now the tentacles have spread all over the world.
Barber-beasts.
Scissors flying in hand, and countless more hidden in the folds of their dark tunics. Razors sharpened malevolently, and applied to skin in just that way to extract just that innocent amount of pain before they casually proceed with unhairing the scalp portion in question. The innocent questions, loaded with barber-jargon in different languages, asked over and over in unnecessary repetition to bamboozle us into saying a 'yes' where we meant a 'no' and thus declare our own doom. Barbers are beasts.
And you can not mess with them. Those scissors hold an infinite power. They can head this way and then that, wielding the potential to reduce us to tears with one abrupt change in direction. Those razors, those electric clippers, weapons of potential torture. One wrong move, and they can destroy your life. They can forbid you from stepping out and waving your head in front of the general populace. They can bring shame and ridicule to the life of a beautiful celebrity. Britney Spears, I give you. With one evil sweep of that clipper, the barber can end your plans of adventure and partying, grounding you to your house (or even your room) in perfectly solitary confinement for any period of time. One squeak of protest out of you, and your holidays are over.
I got a haircut yesterday. Its supposed to be one of the most reputed, which means less shady, establishments of hair-snipping art in the city. It is on Park Street.
It was an ordeal. It lasted an hour. An hour! I mean, its not like I have flowing long hair to my waist. My hair is quite short. And I asked him to clip a bit. An easy task, worthy of 20 minutes' dedicated work and no more. Clipping and snipping only upto 4-5 specimen of hair at a time, he stretched time to 1 hour.
I was under the blade for an hour. While he went about examining every damn inch of my scalp, for the third time, I prayed silently. I smiled, squirmed only a bit, and restrained myself from yelling at him to just bloody get on with it.
How could I say anything? This man held my life in his hands. He couldn't kill me, but he could make me wish for it.
So I just sat there. And did not glare at him. I watched him though. I had my knife held in my hands. If I had to go down, I would take him down with me. But he chose to not violate my grace and honour. At the end of it, I smiled and handed over money for his gracious torture to my pure soul. He handed me a receipt for his services so happily doled upon me, and we parted ways. He to his dark lair, and me to glorious freedom outside where the sun shone, and the wind blew.
Something must be done. This threat must be vanquished. One day, we will all meet our individual dooms. (Interestingly, have you already? If so, tell me about it. We can start a support group.)
There are some people whom you can mess around with. There are some people who you mess with and pay the price later, but that doesn't stop you (or you can't resist because the temptation is too great) from going for it again later.
Then there are some people who you just do not mess with.
Keeping aside perambulations through an amusement park's worth of my personal experiences about messing and being messed with, we shall instead glide headlong straight into the third variety of people. The type of people you do not mess with.
(I use italics to emphasize the degree of superlativity of the name, person, animal or thing in question. Its nice. And now you know. I also waste post space on inane and pointless points of personal patheticity (awarding them their separate paragraph I tell you!) and hunt fervently for an opportunity to use lots of brackets. (I even like to invent words. Note above: 'patheticity' and 'superlativity'. I've said them aloud in conversations a few times. Its wonderful and insightful how I've gotten away without anyone noticing. (I wonder if my using those personalized words actually impresses the people who don't point out their non-existence. Hmm...)))
So. You do not mess with big, bulky people with menacing expressions on their faces. You do not mess with the guitar shop person, despite the fact that you're going to now go to his place for the 4th time in 3 days to have the same problem fixed. You do not mess with teachers who will commit your name to memory and then sit to correct examination papers. You do not mess with your waiter in a restaurant, because there is a period of about 15-20 seconds when he is alone, and out of external sight, with your food. All this you know. Its general knowledge, assimilated in our formative years, in rich experiences and bitter blahbluhblahblah. I don't feel like expostulating. Expounding even.
(I have a fondness for words that start with 'ex'. Express. Expound. Expostulate. Examine. Exhaust. Exile. Exhume. Excel. Surf excel. Exorbitant. Exalt. Extra extra read all about it. Experience. Exacerbate. Exterminate with extreme prejudice!)
But there is another breed, a sub-species almost, of people you do not want to ever cross. I'm not sure, but they live in shallows and in miseries, in deep, dank corners of humanity, emerging periodically with cutting tools and piercing weapons that can with a single snip or shave cut off our ties with society.
They are beasts they are. And we cannot avoid them. We must visit, we must sit under their knives and their malicious sorceries. And we must pay tribute.
Barber beasts.
The word barber is directly descended from savagery itself. It comes from the Greek word barbaros which directly means "foreign". A reference to "the savage monster who plays with blades and scissors and our social status for anything from 2 to 10 weeks depending on type of haircut given". The word was used to refer, in slang, to the invading hordes of Huns and Mongols, who aside from raping countless women and pillaging cities, were also known to give extremely embarrassing haircuts to the local authority-figures and celebrities straying into their path of fire, destruction and loose, flailing hair-follicles. With time, barberous became barbarian and barbarous. The Mongols, the Huns and their ilk were supposedly wiped out. And we lived on in that belief, feeling the world was safe once again. So, thats done. Now only eeny-weenies like Hitler to deal with. Lets lie back and relax for a while, guys.
It shall go down in history as one of the greatest follies of mankind. We crushed them, but we did not wipe them out. Like that last dinosaur de-egging itself right at the end of Godzilla, the monsters survived. They bred silently, and now the tentacles have spread all over the world.
Barber-beasts.
Scissors flying in hand, and countless more hidden in the folds of their dark tunics. Razors sharpened malevolently, and applied to skin in just that way to extract just that innocent amount of pain before they casually proceed with unhairing the scalp portion in question. The innocent questions, loaded with barber-jargon in different languages, asked over and over in unnecessary repetition to bamboozle us into saying a 'yes' where we meant a 'no' and thus declare our own doom. Barbers are beasts.
And you can not mess with them. Those scissors hold an infinite power. They can head this way and then that, wielding the potential to reduce us to tears with one abrupt change in direction. Those razors, those electric clippers, weapons of potential torture. One wrong move, and they can destroy your life. They can forbid you from stepping out and waving your head in front of the general populace. They can bring shame and ridicule to the life of a beautiful celebrity. Britney Spears, I give you. With one evil sweep of that clipper, the barber can end your plans of adventure and partying, grounding you to your house (or even your room) in perfectly solitary confinement for any period of time. One squeak of protest out of you, and your holidays are over.
I got a haircut yesterday. Its supposed to be one of the most reputed, which means less shady, establishments of hair-snipping art in the city. It is on Park Street.
It was an ordeal. It lasted an hour. An hour! I mean, its not like I have flowing long hair to my waist. My hair is quite short. And I asked him to clip a bit. An easy task, worthy of 20 minutes' dedicated work and no more. Clipping and snipping only upto 4-5 specimen of hair at a time, he stretched time to 1 hour.
I was under the blade for an hour. While he went about examining every damn inch of my scalp, for the third time, I prayed silently. I smiled, squirmed only a bit, and restrained myself from yelling at him to just bloody get on with it.
How could I say anything? This man held my life in his hands. He couldn't kill me, but he could make me wish for it.
So I just sat there. And did not glare at him. I watched him though. I had my knife held in my hands. If I had to go down, I would take him down with me. But he chose to not violate my grace and honour. At the end of it, I smiled and handed over money for his gracious torture to my pure soul. He handed me a receipt for his services so happily doled upon me, and we parted ways. He to his dark lair, and me to glorious freedom outside where the sun shone, and the wind blew.
Something must be done. This threat must be vanquished. One day, we will all meet our individual dooms. (Interestingly, have you already? If so, tell me about it. We can start a support group.)
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Despite Your Treacheries, I Am Home You Miserable Curs
Respected Weasels at SpiceJet Airlines,
I have a question. I submit it to you with the utmost incredulity, coupled with a genuine curiosity to know exactly what its surely justified answer is. I ask, why? Why do you do this? What insane joy does it bring you to play with the feelings of innocent, happy children who want nothing more than a well-flown flight back to their homeland?
There isn't much we demand from life. Or, since I musn't presume for my co-passengers (one of them grabbed three of those mottled toffees you enrich us with onflight, you vessels of sweet kindness you), at the very least I demand not much from life. I like to keep it simple. I study for one semester, keeping only some time aside for breaks of fun and frolic and peaceful walks in the park pondering over the fate of the universe lest I die an untimely, premature death or an asteroid snookers us straight into the sun. You know, cataclysmic events like that. But never mind. I study. When the time to stop studying finally nears, I do what any simple-minded, decent, humble, awesome individual would do. I book my tickets for home. Sweet home. And I arrange things nicely around that. As anyone would do. And I get bus tickets to the nearby city. And I get there. As anyone would do. And I drool a bit, thinking of the dinner at home that is surely being prepared now. As anyone would do.
But what do you do? You're not normal, simple people are you? You dont do things in a decent and organized way. There is one flight you have to take care of. It departs at 5:45 and it shall leave me home by 8:30. If you were simple and normal and decent and organized, you couldnt bungle it up. You would say to yourself, its my job to see that flight through, and I will do my job. I have a duty. I am a decent, organized, normal and simple person.
So what happens? Your being an evil, manipulative, hateful and incompetent douchebag gets in the way of all that. You text, saying that you're sorry but the flight has been postponed. It shall now depart at 7:30, you say in your most sincere electronic voice. I know you're bluffing the apology. You didnt even tell me if the inconvenience caused is regretted. I can imagine you laughing and gleefully rubbing your hands even as you spoke through that dead voice (which can't pronounce too well and says every number 3 seconds apart).
But my simple and normal soul (also organized, decent and awesome) did not seek to suspect at that moment. I tut-tutted and I forgave and I forgot.
Half an hour went by, before you felt in the need for another laugh. This time you move it up to 8:30. You hold your belly and you laugh till your sides hurt. My pain gave you joy and a reason to live. And I? I merely ran some minor abuses through my mind and carried on.
Again you struck. It was 10:30 this time. I looked up at the gods (not visible because Bangalore be a cloudy very place). I thought - This must be all. Surely in a world where everything that went around also came around, nothing more could happen. My flight's been delayed by over 4 hours and thats all.
You called again. You don't care. You just want to have your ridiculous fun. Its 11:30 now! Ha ha ha! Look at your face, you loser! Oh my pathetic life is enriched by the insignificant-in-the-larger-picture-of-life woe and misery that I've brought in yours! Woo! Hoo! He he he! *cackle cackle*
So I reach the airport. And my luggage is being weighed. And I cant even argue with the SpiceJet staff I see smiling all around, no doubt also in on the joke. For I have not the will to pursue your childish fancies and give you any further satisfaction.
You're a shameless dipshit. You make it 11:50. Right there, while I'm standing in line, you call again.
I cannot apologize for what followed. It was justified. You asked for it. The utter decimation of the SpiceJet kiosk at my hands. Bare hands. The ripping off limb from limb whatever screaming SpiceJet personnel that came within what I call my action radius. The raucous cheers from similarly frustrated but weak and chidden-crowd-types mass of passengers. The blood and flesh splattered across the glass walls of Bangalore Airport Domestic Departure. The bonfire of SpiceJet uniforms, reeking of blood and the smell of freshly squeezed human. The irreparable damage dealt to all but one SpiceJet airline at the airport by my mighty fist and mightier kick. My self-piloting the last plane all the way to Kolkata, after having dropped off the cabin crew a few miles into the Bay of Bengal.
No doubt you have heard of it by now. Assuming you've atleast still got a foot in reality, despite being incompetent and asinine and unreasonably dumbfuck-ish, you have heard.
Hear this too.
Commanding whatever power I possess, I exile you to the A&N Isles, dressed in nothing but one leaf out of your choice of tree, and rubbed with the flesh extracts of several poultry animals. I read once that the native cannibals track by smell too.
Yours sincerely, you insignificant worms,
C&B.
I have a question. I submit it to you with the utmost incredulity, coupled with a genuine curiosity to know exactly what its surely justified answer is. I ask, why? Why do you do this? What insane joy does it bring you to play with the feelings of innocent, happy children who want nothing more than a well-flown flight back to their homeland?
There isn't much we demand from life. Or, since I musn't presume for my co-passengers (one of them grabbed three of those mottled toffees you enrich us with onflight, you vessels of sweet kindness you), at the very least I demand not much from life. I like to keep it simple. I study for one semester, keeping only some time aside for breaks of fun and frolic and peaceful walks in the park pondering over the fate of the universe lest I die an untimely, premature death or an asteroid snookers us straight into the sun. You know, cataclysmic events like that. But never mind. I study. When the time to stop studying finally nears, I do what any simple-minded, decent, humble, awesome individual would do. I book my tickets for home. Sweet home. And I arrange things nicely around that. As anyone would do. And I get bus tickets to the nearby city. And I get there. As anyone would do. And I drool a bit, thinking of the dinner at home that is surely being prepared now. As anyone would do.
But what do you do? You're not normal, simple people are you? You dont do things in a decent and organized way. There is one flight you have to take care of. It departs at 5:45 and it shall leave me home by 8:30. If you were simple and normal and decent and organized, you couldnt bungle it up. You would say to yourself, its my job to see that flight through, and I will do my job. I have a duty. I am a decent, organized, normal and simple person.
So what happens? Your being an evil, manipulative, hateful and incompetent douchebag gets in the way of all that. You text, saying that you're sorry but the flight has been postponed. It shall now depart at 7:30, you say in your most sincere electronic voice. I know you're bluffing the apology. You didnt even tell me if the inconvenience caused is regretted. I can imagine you laughing and gleefully rubbing your hands even as you spoke through that dead voice (which can't pronounce too well and says every number 3 seconds apart).
But my simple and normal soul (also organized, decent and awesome) did not seek to suspect at that moment. I tut-tutted and I forgave and I forgot.
Half an hour went by, before you felt in the need for another laugh. This time you move it up to 8:30. You hold your belly and you laugh till your sides hurt. My pain gave you joy and a reason to live. And I? I merely ran some minor abuses through my mind and carried on.
Again you struck. It was 10:30 this time. I looked up at the gods (not visible because Bangalore be a cloudy very place). I thought - This must be all. Surely in a world where everything that went around also came around, nothing more could happen. My flight's been delayed by over 4 hours and thats all.
You called again. You don't care. You just want to have your ridiculous fun. Its 11:30 now! Ha ha ha! Look at your face, you loser! Oh my pathetic life is enriched by the insignificant-in-the-larger-picture-of-life woe and misery that I've brought in yours! Woo! Hoo! He he he! *cackle cackle*
So I reach the airport. And my luggage is being weighed. And I cant even argue with the SpiceJet staff I see smiling all around, no doubt also in on the joke. For I have not the will to pursue your childish fancies and give you any further satisfaction.
You're a shameless dipshit. You make it 11:50. Right there, while I'm standing in line, you call again.
I cannot apologize for what followed. It was justified. You asked for it. The utter decimation of the SpiceJet kiosk at my hands. Bare hands. The ripping off limb from limb whatever screaming SpiceJet personnel that came within what I call my action radius. The raucous cheers from similarly frustrated but weak and chidden-crowd-types mass of passengers. The blood and flesh splattered across the glass walls of Bangalore Airport Domestic Departure. The bonfire of SpiceJet uniforms, reeking of blood and the smell of freshly squeezed human. The irreparable damage dealt to all but one SpiceJet airline at the airport by my mighty fist and mightier kick. My self-piloting the last plane all the way to Kolkata, after having dropped off the cabin crew a few miles into the Bay of Bengal.
No doubt you have heard of it by now. Assuming you've atleast still got a foot in reality, despite being incompetent and asinine and unreasonably dumbfuck-ish, you have heard.
Hear this too.
Commanding whatever power I possess, I exile you to the A&N Isles, dressed in nothing but one leaf out of your choice of tree, and rubbed with the flesh extracts of several poultry animals. I read once that the native cannibals track by smell too.
Yours sincerely, you insignificant worms,
C&B.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
One More Time
A reason to be alive again. Yes, now I know it. There is a God. And He does listen to us. And He answers our prayers, be they sincere and the heart true. And its a beautiful world, and all is fundamentally right with it. If only we believe. And trust in Him. And Zeppelin.
In the light, you will find the road.
Led Zeppelin - The Reunion Show @ London's O2 Arena.
The Hammer Of The Gods strikes again.
I shall pray, fervently, for a World Tour. Oh god.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Let It Be Finished Then
Enough's enough. You have crossed me once too often with your sharp words and your acid-tipped tongue wrought in the fires of Mordor. It is time to pay Kyra.
You. Me. Comment box. Now.
Afterword: Bloody, dusty and interrupted by old knitting ladies. Its over now.
You. Me. Comment box. Now.
Afterword: Bloody, dusty and interrupted by old knitting ladies. Its over now.
Kaun Sa Shampooooo??
Opinions differ. From person to person, from state to state, from religion to religion, from demographic to demographic, from geographic to geographic, from national geographic to national geographic...
It's how the world works. If everyone believed in only one sense of right, and only one sense of wrong, nothing would be left for us to do. Where would religion be left, with nothing to preach? Where would Osama go, without a trusting, devoted band of idiots? Where would Oprah go, with nobody to hug and nobody to jump on her couches?
Everyone his own Buddha.
So we cant have that. And we dont. Which is why opinions differ, you see. And thats a good thing. Because.
You might think a good start to the day was about waking up on the right side of the bed. Or you might think that a good morning was the one you could sleep through. But I, dear ignorant beings, now know what it really is. Allow me to illustrate.
"Illustrate" is a word which always makes me think like someone's going to draw something. A detailed sketch, or an oil painting of sheer fantastic beauty (dont think I can't do it), or a couple of shapes in three dimensions with color splotched around a bit (it being called 'cubism' and people get paid for it). So art we must have.
It be graph. Running along with the fact that nothing impresses a general populace more than a solemn statistic, I give you above scientific proof of the theory/story/anecdotal fun-fun thing/slash. Now to proceed with narrative right about after this sentence.
Regardez (beautifully-spoken-French alert!). Carefully note the points marked with numbers. We shall discuss them. They come under the head of "Things". On Y-axis, we have the respective degrees of awesomeness, which can give us a relative picture of what rocks and what doesnt.
Thing #1: You have a good start to the morning, simply based on the premise that you woke up on the right side of the bed. Some people might believe thats how it works. But seriously, come now. My bed, being fixed to the wall, has one side to it. And I dont have all good or bad days. So there. Off you go. Idiot.
Thing #2: You've had a great morning because, as far as concerns your conscious self, there was no morning. Sleeping right through is most often considered a measure of a great morning. It deserves due points for giving a joyous feeling of that satisfying, satiating, almost feline laziness. But running away, or sleeping away since that was just a metaphor and you don't have to pick on it, is not a solution to a situation really. I feel obliged to take some points away. And that, unfortunately, robs this beautiful exercise of the top spot.
Thing #3: You've had a great morning because you woke up to greet it, in shorts and sweatshirt, while it was still getting ready, and you ran about the streets and the fields for God knows what joy. There are some things in the world that are low and cheap. Not even waiting for the new day to properly come in and being already up and about, is one of them. You disgust me. Go. Leave now. And dont return until you're truly sorry. No. No ifs and no buts. Go stand in the corner!
Thing #4: Assuming that my general readership has an average IQ slightly more than a genetically enhanced lab-rat, I shall presume that you have discovered that #4 is the clear winner. And here it is. The top reason why you've had a great morning and a great start to the day is simply that no less than four people complimented your hair today! You want the juice?? Sure sure. It was 2 males, and 2 females. The entire barrage of complimenting and flattering and shameless flirting fell upon me within the space of two beautiful hours this beautiful, beautiful morning. Yes, I've grinned from ear to ear all day. Yes, I am that vain. Yes, I must be so pathetic to fall for all that nonsense. Just as you're seething with jealousy right now. Ha!
And a day can start no better. And you will agree. Correct?
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
What's That You Were Saying?
Hello? Hello? Hello? Is there anybody out there?
Just nod if you can hear me...
Is there anyone home?
But apparently nobody is. Every once in a while I come online, and I'm an optimistic soul. So I think positively, and look forward to hearing from friends from across boundaries. I go after link after link, jumping from one to the other, surfing the waves of the golden internet coastline (bad bad pun), looking for anecdotes, for jokes, for serious issues, for anything. Oh just for life.
And what have I here? Life in my corner of the blogosphere, I find over the course of my extensive perambulations, has been obstructed more or less permanently by a hideous, huge monster of a writer's block. Victims lie here, here and here and here, bravely fallen heroes who no doubt fought off the madness for as long as they could. Or just laid down their pots and pans and went scurrying down south like the Dravidians. The Aryans are coming! The Aryans are coming! Aaaaaaaahhh!
Which brings to the fore a most important question. Writer's block? Writer's block?! What in the world...? Perhaps we have been smoking up, for certainly we seem to be having an overly large-sized image of oneself, dont we? Its not something we should indulge like this. The overly large-sized image I mean. Better that be left to the professionals. Such as myself? Yes, yes. Thats better. I ask not too much of you. I ask not that you compose great lyrical ballads. I ask not that you regularly enrich the world of literature with poetry that could be simultaneously likened to oh the sweet savor of honey and the bitter tang of poorly made nimbu ka achar. I ask not that you give me great and inspiring tales of heroism, of how your friend's friend once battled a lion in a camping trip and how your aunt felled a tiger with a single stroke of her Hatori Hanzo. I dont want a tale of courage in the face of adversity, or cool wit in the face of teachers in class. I dont want your first chapter of your War & Peace.
You might say, or ask, who I am to ask. You are free as a bird, and you may do whatever you wish, or nothing at all, and be a bum. Point. I'm just the guy who constantly wanders from address to address every day, looking for something to relate to, and something deep to ponder over. Looking for a tale about a bus ride, a story about a poor beggar girl, the overheard snippets of conversational banter at an adjoining table over lunch, and anything else at all that once piqued you. My lure is not the incredible writing talent you put on display post after post. It's the chance to glimpse into another life, and know more than I ever could otherwise, with the benefit of saying a word or two about it every now and then, if only I offered a peek into mine as well. Its a fair offer.
So I ask of you that you think. Or rather, that you not think so much. Put fingers to keyboard, and that itself is quite a soothing experience for those of us who have laptops what with the soft, sunken keys and everything, and let the words pour. Tell me. Tell everyone. Tell us about your lunch today. Or how you tripped over three consecutive rocks in your haste to get to college and subsequently became so conscious that you collided with a beefy guy coming the other way. Tell us about a cat you saw on a window-sill. Or a peculiarly shaped cloud while walking back home. Tell us if you love kaju ki barfi. Tell us why you roam in malls all day, despite it being the silliest thing an even slightly self-respecting person could do. Tell us how you dont eat pork, because pigs are filthy animals and you dont eat filthy animals. Tell us about a sport you played once, for just a day, and you shone at it with the brilliance of a thousand suns.
As for me...
I once scored a mighty innings of 23 runs (not out) in the garage of a friend's house, my palm my bat Excalibur, and a red rubber ball stinging it with every masterful stroke I hit to the corners of my dark, dingy packed stadium for that day. I was a force they couldnt reckon with. Single-handedly (quite literally) I closed in on the opposing team's mammoth score (41), and reached the golden 20 run mark with an absolute marvel of a forward drive. You, who are not intimately acquainted with the ins and outs of hand-cricket, cannot really appreciate the problems faced in forward-driving. So just take my word for it when I say I was spectacular. I was good. Very. I was a master. I was, I might say, spectacular. You agree? Yes yes, I know its just about apt isnt it? After I hit the winning runs, the team lifted me on their shoulders and carried me back to the pavilion with rousing cheers and glad hurrahs. The losing team, dejected and embittered, enquired wailingly of God what sin they had committed that He pitched them against me in an obviously one-sided match. They still have my name on a wooden plaque, gravely engraved with my career stats beside it. (In a reign spanning 47 test-matches and 79 one hour internationals, I scored close to 3000 runs, at an average of 17.15. Top score 27*. ) It lies somewhere beneath the tools cabinet, among the amateur canvasses painted in enthusiastic pre-teen years, covered in dust and grime and spider-webs. It records only a few random numbers to the casual eye, frivolous and meaningless in a world comprised of meaningful and weighty terms such as Osama bin Laden, inflation, rising oil prices and global warming. But it holds infinite moments of individual glory (mine) and bitter examples of defeats (theirs). Its a record of achievement, a record of growing up and learning the valuable lessons of life, a record of how I so bloody rule. There amidst cans of lubricating oil and ragged clothes for cleaning and beside the old and rusted Fiat, by solemn hand-cricket law, it lies.
And that, so to speak, is that.
Just nod if you can hear me...
Is there anyone home?
But apparently nobody is. Every once in a while I come online, and I'm an optimistic soul. So I think positively, and look forward to hearing from friends from across boundaries. I go after link after link, jumping from one to the other, surfing the waves of the golden internet coastline (bad bad pun), looking for anecdotes, for jokes, for serious issues, for anything. Oh just for life.
And what have I here? Life in my corner of the blogosphere, I find over the course of my extensive perambulations, has been obstructed more or less permanently by a hideous, huge monster of a writer's block. Victims lie here, here and here and here, bravely fallen heroes who no doubt fought off the madness for as long as they could. Or just laid down their pots and pans and went scurrying down south like the Dravidians. The Aryans are coming! The Aryans are coming! Aaaaaaaahhh!
Which brings to the fore a most important question. Writer's block? Writer's block?! What in the world...? Perhaps we have been smoking up, for certainly we seem to be having an overly large-sized image of oneself, dont we? Its not something we should indulge like this. The overly large-sized image I mean. Better that be left to the professionals. Such as myself? Yes, yes. Thats better. I ask not too much of you. I ask not that you compose great lyrical ballads. I ask not that you regularly enrich the world of literature with poetry that could be simultaneously likened to oh the sweet savor of honey and the bitter tang of poorly made nimbu ka achar. I ask not that you give me great and inspiring tales of heroism, of how your friend's friend once battled a lion in a camping trip and how your aunt felled a tiger with a single stroke of her Hatori Hanzo. I dont want a tale of courage in the face of adversity, or cool wit in the face of teachers in class. I dont want your first chapter of your War & Peace.
You might say, or ask, who I am to ask. You are free as a bird, and you may do whatever you wish, or nothing at all, and be a bum. Point. I'm just the guy who constantly wanders from address to address every day, looking for something to relate to, and something deep to ponder over. Looking for a tale about a bus ride, a story about a poor beggar girl, the overheard snippets of conversational banter at an adjoining table over lunch, and anything else at all that once piqued you. My lure is not the incredible writing talent you put on display post after post. It's the chance to glimpse into another life, and know more than I ever could otherwise, with the benefit of saying a word or two about it every now and then, if only I offered a peek into mine as well. Its a fair offer.
So I ask of you that you think. Or rather, that you not think so much. Put fingers to keyboard, and that itself is quite a soothing experience for those of us who have laptops what with the soft, sunken keys and everything, and let the words pour. Tell me. Tell everyone. Tell us about your lunch today. Or how you tripped over three consecutive rocks in your haste to get to college and subsequently became so conscious that you collided with a beefy guy coming the other way. Tell us about a cat you saw on a window-sill. Or a peculiarly shaped cloud while walking back home. Tell us if you love kaju ki barfi. Tell us why you roam in malls all day, despite it being the silliest thing an even slightly self-respecting person could do. Tell us how you dont eat pork, because pigs are filthy animals and you dont eat filthy animals. Tell us about a sport you played once, for just a day, and you shone at it with the brilliance of a thousand suns.
As for me...
I once scored a mighty innings of 23 runs (not out) in the garage of a friend's house, my palm my bat Excalibur, and a red rubber ball stinging it with every masterful stroke I hit to the corners of my dark, dingy packed stadium for that day. I was a force they couldnt reckon with. Single-handedly (quite literally) I closed in on the opposing team's mammoth score (41), and reached the golden 20 run mark with an absolute marvel of a forward drive. You, who are not intimately acquainted with the ins and outs of hand-cricket, cannot really appreciate the problems faced in forward-driving. So just take my word for it when I say I was spectacular. I was good. Very. I was a master. I was, I might say, spectacular. You agree? Yes yes, I know its just about apt isnt it? After I hit the winning runs, the team lifted me on their shoulders and carried me back to the pavilion with rousing cheers and glad hurrahs. The losing team, dejected and embittered, enquired wailingly of God what sin they had committed that He pitched them against me in an obviously one-sided match. They still have my name on a wooden plaque, gravely engraved with my career stats beside it. (In a reign spanning 47 test-matches and 79 one hour internationals, I scored close to 3000 runs, at an average of 17.15. Top score 27*. ) It lies somewhere beneath the tools cabinet, among the amateur canvasses painted in enthusiastic pre-teen years, covered in dust and grime and spider-webs. It records only a few random numbers to the casual eye, frivolous and meaningless in a world comprised of meaningful and weighty terms such as Osama bin Laden, inflation, rising oil prices and global warming. But it holds infinite moments of individual glory (mine) and bitter examples of defeats (theirs). Its a record of achievement, a record of growing up and learning the valuable lessons of life, a record of how I so bloody rule. There amidst cans of lubricating oil and ragged clothes for cleaning and beside the old and rusted Fiat, by solemn hand-cricket law, it lies.
And that, so to speak, is that.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Juice
I can see you gasping and scratching your neck. I can see you thirsting. Thirsting for more, and more and more. And how more is never really enough. You want to know. Its like a fountain of joy and intoxication and addiction. You want to discover, uncover, realize, grasp, fathom, and you want to understand. For all of you, for those who couldnt and wouldnt believe there wasn't more.
I'd just finished shaving this morning and was busily ogling at myself in the mirror. Its something I do regularly, as a matter of habit and as a procedure of self-therapy. Its said (by learned rishis of yore) to have curiously excellent healing powers. The self-admiration boosts self-confidence. As I stare and stare, I stand up a little straighter. I grin a little. I smirk a bit. Aaj khush to bahut hoge tum, I ask myself. I act cocky. I begin to get inappropriately self-assured around my reflection. [If my reflection was another actual person, he'd have walked out by now. Not that I would have behaved in such a way around a 'he'. Let us be clear about that. I'm into girls. Actually, and dont you read this if you're one of those kind of people who are not into vulgar jokes and get easily offended by what would otherwise have passed for normal everyday humour around normal everyday open-minded people unlike yourselves, as much as I get to be before their moralities kick in. Score! *self high five*]. After a sufficient number of feigned takes and double-takes at the mirror, I stop, look, and casually flirt a bit. I'm good. It works. I usually get my phone number.
The compliments I so lavishly shower upon myself? They have their noble, practical function too, in case you've already begun snivelling about my self-obsession. I see it as a morning exercise. It gets me going. It gets me thinking. It gets my head working. If I see another soul for the rest of the day, morose, depressed and in need of compliments or lavish false-praising-about, I'm onto him/her in a flash. Within two minutes of said therapy, they emerge gracefully with erect back, a wide smile, and a deep shade of blush. Aww, I'm too nice! My work is about giving. I ask not for payment, no sir. It is the joie de vivre gleaming off their faces that's my prize. They insist on letting their gratitude be known, and I indulge them by letting them buy me a little something at the canteen. It helps them.
Anyway, like I was saying, I have taken to ogling at myself in the mirror. A most unavoidable habit, you will agree. Speaking about today's session, I was randomly chatting with my left-handed self in the mirror, when I said something silly and out of place. It defused the charm I'd been building up. An unfortunate ambience buster. So I stuck my tongue out at myself, to mock myself for embarrassing myself in front of me like this. I wouldnt have that obviously. Its the sort of behaviour I have come to disapprove. Even of myself. So I stuck my tongue out back at me, and I dared me to a fight with a Matrix en garde.
What? Dont understand? Try this. Stick your tongue out, at a mirror or a trusted friend who wont think it too weird of you. Now, in your best fight pose, carefully and slowly pull the tip of your tongue up. Up, down, up, down. Also simultaneously do it with the fingers of your hand. Now think of the fight scene in the first Matrix movie when Keanu Reeves haughtily dusts his clothing in the subway station and invites Agent Smith to have another go at him. Get it? Now measure it to your royal challenge to your mirrored self. Way cooler huh?? I know I know!
Also, in an aside from this rather intellectual, biting-in-the-head conversation, remember the days when Road Rash used to rule the lives of young pre-teens, teenagers and computer geeks everywhere and of all ages? I loved the game. I mention it because recently when I was reminiscing about the good ol' days of carefree childhood, my mind wandered and settled upon an old memory. It was of me lying on the sofa in the living room. Or, so to say, my material earthly form was lying on the sofa in the living room. My thoughts were lifted and airborne, free from the bounds of human existence and the black-holes of impure thought. I was thinking single-mindedly of the Diablo. I had a Perro, and it was good. But the Diablo had a style of its own. It was large and powerful. Nothing could beat it on the straight line tracks at the start and finish of the races. True, I'd have to be traffic-wary in the urban zone, but I could handle that. I mean, just look at the sheer speed of the thing! I'm not sure if I remember all too correctly, but I believe I did buy one at the end. And of course I won the whole game. I remember that. And I remember it being the first place I read the phrase mano a mano, and thinking it sounded so cool. I just recently found out what it means.
P.S: Do you find the first paragraph making really no sense with relation to the ensuing post? Lol. I beg to differ. No, wait. I differ. That will be all.
I'd just finished shaving this morning and was busily ogling at myself in the mirror. Its something I do regularly, as a matter of habit and as a procedure of self-therapy. Its said (by learned rishis of yore) to have curiously excellent healing powers. The self-admiration boosts self-confidence. As I stare and stare, I stand up a little straighter. I grin a little. I smirk a bit. Aaj khush to bahut hoge tum, I ask myself. I act cocky. I begin to get inappropriately self-assured around my reflection. [If my reflection was another actual person, he'd have walked out by now. Not that I would have behaved in such a way around a 'he'. Let us be clear about that. I'm into girls. Actually, and dont you read this if you're one of those kind of people who are not into vulgar jokes and get easily offended by what would otherwise have passed for normal everyday humour around normal everyday open-minded people unlike yourselves, as much as I get to be before their moralities kick in. Score! *self high five*]. After a sufficient number of feigned takes and double-takes at the mirror, I stop, look, and casually flirt a bit. I'm good. It works. I usually get my phone number.
The compliments I so lavishly shower upon myself? They have their noble, practical function too, in case you've already begun snivelling about my self-obsession. I see it as a morning exercise. It gets me going. It gets me thinking. It gets my head working. If I see another soul for the rest of the day, morose, depressed and in need of compliments or lavish false-praising-about, I'm onto him/her in a flash. Within two minutes of said therapy, they emerge gracefully with erect back, a wide smile, and a deep shade of blush. Aww, I'm too nice! My work is about giving. I ask not for payment, no sir. It is the joie de vivre gleaming off their faces that's my prize. They insist on letting their gratitude be known, and I indulge them by letting them buy me a little something at the canteen. It helps them.
Anyway, like I was saying, I have taken to ogling at myself in the mirror. A most unavoidable habit, you will agree. Speaking about today's session, I was randomly chatting with my left-handed self in the mirror, when I said something silly and out of place. It defused the charm I'd been building up. An unfortunate ambience buster. So I stuck my tongue out at myself, to mock myself for embarrassing myself in front of me like this. I wouldnt have that obviously. Its the sort of behaviour I have come to disapprove. Even of myself. So I stuck my tongue out back at me, and I dared me to a fight with a Matrix en garde.
What? Dont understand? Try this. Stick your tongue out, at a mirror or a trusted friend who wont think it too weird of you. Now, in your best fight pose, carefully and slowly pull the tip of your tongue up. Up, down, up, down. Also simultaneously do it with the fingers of your hand. Now think of the fight scene in the first Matrix movie when Keanu Reeves haughtily dusts his clothing in the subway station and invites Agent Smith to have another go at him. Get it? Now measure it to your royal challenge to your mirrored self. Way cooler huh?? I know I know!
Also, in an aside from this rather intellectual, biting-in-the-head conversation, remember the days when Road Rash used to rule the lives of young pre-teens, teenagers and computer geeks everywhere and of all ages? I loved the game. I mention it because recently when I was reminiscing about the good ol' days of carefree childhood, my mind wandered and settled upon an old memory. It was of me lying on the sofa in the living room. Or, so to say, my material earthly form was lying on the sofa in the living room. My thoughts were lifted and airborne, free from the bounds of human existence and the black-holes of impure thought. I was thinking single-mindedly of the Diablo. I had a Perro, and it was good. But the Diablo had a style of its own. It was large and powerful. Nothing could beat it on the straight line tracks at the start and finish of the races. True, I'd have to be traffic-wary in the urban zone, but I could handle that. I mean, just look at the sheer speed of the thing! I'm not sure if I remember all too correctly, but I believe I did buy one at the end. And of course I won the whole game. I remember that. And I remember it being the first place I read the phrase mano a mano, and thinking it sounded so cool. I just recently found out what it means.
P.S: Do you find the first paragraph making really no sense with relation to the ensuing post? Lol. I beg to differ. No, wait. I differ. That will be all.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Six Point Arbit
Its a very curious thing. Its you who's unable to write. And its you again who's going around getting me to write more. Hmm. Kyra moves in mysterious ways, her wonders to perform.
Anyway, on with the Random Tag.
Random Humor
A priest, a rabbi and a muslim cleric walk into a bar. The bartender looks at them.
He asks, "What is this? Some kind of joke?"
(You needn't laugh out of politeness, thank you. This joke, incidentally, has never worked in any way, save to perpetuate, among the weaker populace, the ridiculous notion that I have a dumb sense of humor.)
Random Book
The William Series by Richmal Crompton - I've never owned one. The first and last I bought, at a long ago Calcutta Book Fair, I ended up leaving behind in the taxi on the way back. Still haven't entirely gotten over that incident.
The Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan - I'm a huge fan of fantasy fiction, and nothing beats this for scope, size and wonder.
Random Boredom
I like to sit with a blank piece of paper and a pen. I dont keep my next few actions planned. I could write about something random, in which case more paper will soon be required. Or I could draw another one of my exactly similar 5000+ renditions of hills and lake and cottage and tree and setting sun. I have the artistic genius of a Class II student drawing his favourite holiday, in art class.
Random Worries
Of my shoelaces coming untied.
Of stepping outside the border of a tile, with my foot unevenly crossing out.
Of confusing what day it really is today.
Of where I'm supposed to be and what I'm supposed to say.
Of maybe never actually meeting Carmen Electra.
Of saying something absolutely stupid, at the worst possible time.
Random Memories
Coming back in the rain with someone who was so special then, and I didnt know it.
Playing Ludo with my grandmother.
Reading a gigantically large picture book of Peter Pan. It must have been 2 feet in height.
Climbing a neighbour's tree for guavas.
Reaching out to hold someone's hand, and receiving a warm, reassuring squeeze.
The adrenaline upon finishing The Fountainhead.
Random Realizations
That the past is past. Some things must be shut out. By force, if necessary.
That life won't ever be Calvin and Hobbes. Or Cartoon Network. Even Speed Racer.
That I'm very cryptic sometimes, and perhaps its only my assumption that people actually understand any of this.
That I really need to be studying tomorrow. So I should sleep now.
Goodnight.
I tag the following lazybums - Rimi; Indrani and you. Yes, you. *points finger through computer screen*
Anyway, on with the Random Tag.
Random Humor
A priest, a rabbi and a muslim cleric walk into a bar. The bartender looks at them.
He asks, "What is this? Some kind of joke?"
(You needn't laugh out of politeness, thank you. This joke, incidentally, has never worked in any way, save to perpetuate, among the weaker populace, the ridiculous notion that I have a dumb sense of humor.)
Random Book
The William Series by Richmal Crompton - I've never owned one. The first and last I bought, at a long ago Calcutta Book Fair, I ended up leaving behind in the taxi on the way back. Still haven't entirely gotten over that incident.
The Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan - I'm a huge fan of fantasy fiction, and nothing beats this for scope, size and wonder.
Random Boredom
I like to sit with a blank piece of paper and a pen. I dont keep my next few actions planned. I could write about something random, in which case more paper will soon be required. Or I could draw another one of my exactly similar 5000+ renditions of hills and lake and cottage and tree and setting sun. I have the artistic genius of a Class II student drawing his favourite holiday, in art class.
Random Worries
Of my shoelaces coming untied.
Of stepping outside the border of a tile, with my foot unevenly crossing out.
Of confusing what day it really is today.
Of where I'm supposed to be and what I'm supposed to say.
Of maybe never actually meeting Carmen Electra.
Of saying something absolutely stupid, at the worst possible time.
Random Memories
Coming back in the rain with someone who was so special then, and I didnt know it.
Playing Ludo with my grandmother.
Reading a gigantically large picture book of Peter Pan. It must have been 2 feet in height.
Climbing a neighbour's tree for guavas.
Reaching out to hold someone's hand, and receiving a warm, reassuring squeeze.
The adrenaline upon finishing The Fountainhead.
Random Realizations
That the past is past. Some things must be shut out. By force, if necessary.
That life won't ever be Calvin and Hobbes. Or Cartoon Network. Even Speed Racer.
That I'm very cryptic sometimes, and perhaps its only my assumption that people actually understand any of this.
That I really need to be studying tomorrow. So I should sleep now.
Goodnight.
I tag the following lazybums - Rimi; Indrani and you. Yes, you. *points finger through computer screen*
Friday, November 16, 2007
Call Me UFO
J'aime tu beaucoup, mon belle fille.
Simple words. Yet they carry a declaration so excellently mighty. That, ladies and gentlemen, is yet another testament in the skyscraping pile of proofs which each individually and, might I add, vociferously proclaim the sheer awesomeness of this humble vessel of fantastic things and brilliantness. Yours truly.
The words, each pronounced in that slurred, deep-throated fuck-weirdness. Each syllable getting dragged out to its full Cyrano-esque romantic glory. The glorious sentences flow like honey flowing in golden viscous magic out of a Dabur bottle. That 20 rupees one. There is something especially beautiful in the honey held inside the littleness of that bottle. Especially when its nearly finished, and you wait for a minute and a half with your tongue stuck out, your head held high and your eyes straining to watch the progress of the last few drops making their way along the glass sides and mercifully finally landing, silently, straight onto your outstretched tastebuds. Thats the one I'm talking about. Thats how the words flow.
They, the common chidden masses at my French class, they gasp in awe as I effortlessly take full command (in no time, let me mention) of the awful complexities of the beautiful French language. Like the avaricious shrew being tamed by a shrewd Antonio (it was Antonio wasnt it, in The Taming of The Shrew?), I tame this speech of romance and love and emburghers, and claim it for my own.
A piece of my brilliance:
Bon soir, bete. De main je vais chez le dentist car j'ai mal aux dents.
And another:
Q (me to French girls): Est-ce que nous sommes en France?
A: Oui! Oui! *whispering amongst themselves* Cet homme est beau!! *giggle giggle*
Uff! Uff! I'm just too much!
For those who couldnt yet guess, UFO - Utterly Fantastic One.
Simple words. Yet they carry a declaration so excellently mighty. That, ladies and gentlemen, is yet another testament in the skyscraping pile of proofs which each individually and, might I add, vociferously proclaim the sheer awesomeness of this humble vessel of fantastic things and brilliantness. Yours truly.
The words, each pronounced in that slurred, deep-throated fuck-weirdness. Each syllable getting dragged out to its full Cyrano-esque romantic glory. The glorious sentences flow like honey flowing in golden viscous magic out of a Dabur bottle. That 20 rupees one. There is something especially beautiful in the honey held inside the littleness of that bottle. Especially when its nearly finished, and you wait for a minute and a half with your tongue stuck out, your head held high and your eyes straining to watch the progress of the last few drops making their way along the glass sides and mercifully finally landing, silently, straight onto your outstretched tastebuds. Thats the one I'm talking about. Thats how the words flow.
They, the common chidden masses at my French class, they gasp in awe as I effortlessly take full command (in no time, let me mention) of the awful complexities of the beautiful French language. Like the avaricious shrew being tamed by a shrewd Antonio (it was Antonio wasnt it, in The Taming of The Shrew?), I tame this speech of romance and love and emburghers, and claim it for my own.
A piece of my brilliance:
Bon soir, bete. De main je vais chez le dentist car j'ai mal aux dents.
And another:
Q (me to French girls): Est-ce que nous sommes en France?
A: Oui! Oui! *whispering amongst themselves* Cet homme est beau!! *giggle giggle*
Uff! Uff! I'm just too much!
For those who couldnt yet guess, UFO - Utterly Fantastic One.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
I Even Have OCD
There is something about fruits that puts me on my guard. Bananas, oranges, mangoes, apples - the entire lot. They bear a medicinal face, making me reluctant to purchase.
I'm slightly nervous around dogs too. I dont trust them much. I'm sure I'd be at complete ease, displaying inspirational bravado and courage in the face of adversity, in the company of a man-eating tiger. But not so much dogs. The best I can summon is a superficial cool and an unfettered nonchalance, spoiled slightly by cautious, nervous steps to always maintain a safe distance (lest it suddenly decide to jump).
I dont even have a favourite toothpaste or deodorant brand. I'm always switching from one to the other. Oh, remind me to buy a new toothbrush later, will you? Its been a while.
I dont walk across the border of the tiles on marble floors. In case they're too small for me to step inside, I step exactly half inside each.
I'm paranoid about handwriting. Every line must be perfectly horizontal. The 't' should be perfectly crossed. And the 'i' should be dotted just right. Not too bold. And not too lightly either. The 'a' should not resemble an 'o'. And letters wont be connected in groups of more than two.
How about you? Which absolutely normal, everyday things are you strange about?
I'm slightly nervous around dogs too. I dont trust them much. I'm sure I'd be at complete ease, displaying inspirational bravado and courage in the face of adversity, in the company of a man-eating tiger. But not so much dogs. The best I can summon is a superficial cool and an unfettered nonchalance, spoiled slightly by cautious, nervous steps to always maintain a safe distance (lest it suddenly decide to jump).
I dont even have a favourite toothpaste or deodorant brand. I'm always switching from one to the other. Oh, remind me to buy a new toothbrush later, will you? Its been a while.
I dont walk across the border of the tiles on marble floors. In case they're too small for me to step inside, I step exactly half inside each.
I'm paranoid about handwriting. Every line must be perfectly horizontal. The 't' should be perfectly crossed. And the 'i' should be dotted just right. Not too bold. And not too lightly either. The 'a' should not resemble an 'o'. And letters wont be connected in groups of more than two.
How about you? Which absolutely normal, everyday things are you strange about?
Friday, November 09, 2007
That Time Of Year
Its not like I dont like Diwali. I like looking drop-dead handsome in where-did-you-get-that-its-looks-so-awesome clothing. I like walking out on the streets, and seeing so many other people around. Everyone laughs, everyone smiles, everyone is talking to everyone else. Every single one is happy for once. A festival leaves no place for sadness. As if by simple requirement, everyone tries to be happy. I also like watching the highly expensive rockets some people by. And I gasp just as much as everyone else, when it completes its mad dash for height, and explodes into a carnival of colour and light. I like to see people holding phuljharis and waving them about in childish glee. I like to do it myself. Its one thing you cannot do, while maintaining a sober face. You cant wave a phuljhari and still be an adult. There's always the tracing out of vivid patterns in the air, the inevitable light-sabre duels, or the aimless waving around in figure-of-eights. There is always the unabashed, unbridled expression of sheer joy as you follow the rapid waving of your hands, the fire-enhanced sparkle in your wide eyes, and we lose ourselves in a shortlived, sparkling candle of light.
Its just that I dont like the bombs. And they're whats most popular now. Its a festival of noise and sound and raucous cheering. It makes no sense to me, and my delicate senses. To a man of such refined tastes as I, it appears only a vulgar pursuit of god knows what. Lighting a little wrapped-up box, throwing it into the air and watch it explode. No lights, no panorama of colours, and no beauty to stare at. Just an explosion. And a loud noise.
So I spend most of my precious time in running about trying to dodge bombs thrown horizontally towards me by rascals and ragamuffins who like to see me jump. And I watch them from behind a post or a tree, and I tsk them. I tsk, and I wonder what has gotten into mankind. And a few of the womankind. *sigh*
Lets look at the positive side. The other guys are lost in their mad scramble and make-believe wars with bombs and explosives. That leaves most of the girls free for screaming and yelping at sudden noises all night. I smoothly slide into the picture, and sweep them off with subtle charm and well-disguised innuendo. The evening pays off.
Happy Diwali!
Its just that I dont like the bombs. And they're whats most popular now. Its a festival of noise and sound and raucous cheering. It makes no sense to me, and my delicate senses. To a man of such refined tastes as I, it appears only a vulgar pursuit of god knows what. Lighting a little wrapped-up box, throwing it into the air and watch it explode. No lights, no panorama of colours, and no beauty to stare at. Just an explosion. And a loud noise.
So I spend most of my precious time in running about trying to dodge bombs thrown horizontally towards me by rascals and ragamuffins who like to see me jump. And I watch them from behind a post or a tree, and I tsk them. I tsk, and I wonder what has gotten into mankind. And a few of the womankind. *sigh*
Lets look at the positive side. The other guys are lost in their mad scramble and make-believe wars with bombs and explosives. That leaves most of the girls free for screaming and yelping at sudden noises all night. I smoothly slide into the picture, and sweep them off with subtle charm and well-disguised innuendo. The evening pays off.
Happy Diwali!
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Back
After a long time, I walked slowly back. I walked slowly back, with a cool night time breeze through my hair and against my face. I dont always notice it these days. How often have I been staying in my room, involved in something or the other? On nights such as these, evenings sometimes prettier and duskier? How many times have I been sleeping in, because I stayed up late the last night, and so I missed a beautiful day's start? Much lost time. So, I walked slowly back.
And I looked up at a clear sky. A pollution-free, clear sky. And pure black, except from near the lamp-posts. The absolute of blackness, peppered with pinpoints of twinkling. Stars form shapes, if you look closely. There is a beautiful symmetry to them. It doesnt take any effort to pick them either. Eyes must be naturally attuned to picking out shapes from randomness. And there are constellations. I always only see Orion. When did I last do that? Just look up, and stare. When did I last look anywhere and just look, and not have to see and observe and conjecture?
It gives me a rush of blood, thinking of all this. And a rush of thoughts. Random and incoherent when together, but integral part to a maelstrom of random thought over all my thinking years.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep ... The woods decay, the woods decay and burn ... Great and grand thoughts of achievement ... I will do all I want to and nothing else ... And never anything less ... I will know what to do ... I will be simple ... Everything will be simple ... And if you feel you cant go on, in the light you will find the road ... Friends in silent company ... Parting ... Walks ... Laughter ... Everything is good ... Abundant freedom and unlimited happiness ... Little things ... Crayons, action figures, homework and Enid Blyton ... Growing up, so eagerly and so impatiently ... What in the world for?
Adulthood is over-rated. For one thing. I vow to remain a child.
Conventional posts are over-rated. For the other thing. So there.
There is no excuse for forgetting how you always wanted to be.
And I looked up at a clear sky. A pollution-free, clear sky. And pure black, except from near the lamp-posts. The absolute of blackness, peppered with pinpoints of twinkling. Stars form shapes, if you look closely. There is a beautiful symmetry to them. It doesnt take any effort to pick them either. Eyes must be naturally attuned to picking out shapes from randomness. And there are constellations. I always only see Orion. When did I last do that? Just look up, and stare. When did I last look anywhere and just look, and not have to see and observe and conjecture?
It gives me a rush of blood, thinking of all this. And a rush of thoughts. Random and incoherent when together, but integral part to a maelstrom of random thought over all my thinking years.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep ... The woods decay, the woods decay and burn ... Great and grand thoughts of achievement ... I will do all I want to and nothing else ... And never anything less ... I will know what to do ... I will be simple ... Everything will be simple ... And if you feel you cant go on, in the light you will find the road ... Friends in silent company ... Parting ... Walks ... Laughter ... Everything is good ... Abundant freedom and unlimited happiness ... Little things ... Crayons, action figures, homework and Enid Blyton ... Growing up, so eagerly and so impatiently ... What in the world for?
Adulthood is over-rated. For one thing. I vow to remain a child.
Conventional posts are over-rated. For the other thing. So there.
There is no excuse for forgetting how you always wanted to be.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Nothing
Did you know that --
Oh, and take a look. An omniscient God.
- Led Zeppelin is the only band in the world to have had all of their albums (each one) reach the top of the billboards?
- Rice is a fruit?
- Dragonflies mate while flying? I've actually seen this.
- though the course may change sometimes, rivers always reach the sea? (Led Zeppelin - Ten Years Gone)
We never know all that we think we know about the world. There is always something new to find out.
Oh, and take a look. An omniscient God.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Afterhours In A Theater
There is something very depressing about an empty mailbox. The loneliness of it. It stands tall and straight. As if unaffected, whether empty or full. But there are the questions. Did they write before? Do they not now? Why not? Did something come, in the dead of night hidden in a cloak of anonymous promises, to spirit them away?
Where are they now? In a better land, perhaps. Surrounded by the high walls of newer, fresher, self-replenishing joys? Those walls can be thicker than stone could ever be. They are strong. Resilient against ravaging hordes. Too powerful for armies, bearing fire and arms. Cold to the cries of those left out. The sound of fists beating from the other side, all cold night. The stone swallows all.
And what of the man? The owner of the mailbox? Who would he be, can you tell?
Perhaps he is old. The years have taken away the friends and companions of the age gone by. And only he is left. To contemplate, to reminisce. To cry, and to have no one to smile to.
Perhaps he is young and busy. Too engrossed in whatever once seized his fancy, the correspondence having dried up in the meanwhile. Neglect, lack of time, and not a care in the world. He will wake up one day, and realize the lack of a presence. The vacuum, where laughter and tears and memories were supposed to be.
Perhaps he is young and lonesome. And proud. Too young to not be proud. To proud to call first. To take a look back, and see what has happened. To ask why it happened. To take a step in another direction. Perhaps the pride was defined in the complicated patterns of what everyone else might think. Perhaps he is now too lonesome to try again. Loneliness and pride together can be cruel torturers. The empty mailbox says all that. Or one day, it will.
What can we, who have no time and no care, do? The house may turn to ruin. The man may wither in the darkness. He may perish. What of it? There are places to be, people to see. And there is pride. Who would put in the first, lonely note? What if someone read? What would they say? What if no one read? Surely everyone isn't wrong? Why so many questions? No time. We go on.
No time for an empty mailbox.
Take a step. Be the first. Be the second. Be the tenth. It matters. Today, and in the days to come. Ladies. Gentlement. Guys. Girls. Comment.
Where are they now? In a better land, perhaps. Surrounded by the high walls of newer, fresher, self-replenishing joys? Those walls can be thicker than stone could ever be. They are strong. Resilient against ravaging hordes. Too powerful for armies, bearing fire and arms. Cold to the cries of those left out. The sound of fists beating from the other side, all cold night. The stone swallows all.
And what of the man? The owner of the mailbox? Who would he be, can you tell?
Perhaps he is old. The years have taken away the friends and companions of the age gone by. And only he is left. To contemplate, to reminisce. To cry, and to have no one to smile to.
Perhaps he is young and busy. Too engrossed in whatever once seized his fancy, the correspondence having dried up in the meanwhile. Neglect, lack of time, and not a care in the world. He will wake up one day, and realize the lack of a presence. The vacuum, where laughter and tears and memories were supposed to be.
Perhaps he is young and lonesome. And proud. Too young to not be proud. To proud to call first. To take a look back, and see what has happened. To ask why it happened. To take a step in another direction. Perhaps the pride was defined in the complicated patterns of what everyone else might think. Perhaps he is now too lonesome to try again. Loneliness and pride together can be cruel torturers. The empty mailbox says all that. Or one day, it will.
What can we, who have no time and no care, do? The house may turn to ruin. The man may wither in the darkness. He may perish. What of it? There are places to be, people to see. And there is pride. Who would put in the first, lonely note? What if someone read? What would they say? What if no one read? Surely everyone isn't wrong? Why so many questions? No time. We go on.
No time for an empty mailbox.
Take a step. Be the first. Be the second. Be the tenth. It matters. Today, and in the days to come. Ladies. Gentlement. Guys. Girls. Comment.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Tyler Gave You My Book?
All the trouble with all the people resides in that one ugly little habit. Erased and/or corrected, and the world would be a happier place. Jealousy stock would fall, hatred would cease, and evil would not have a large enough ego-bloated head to rear out of the waters at anyone anymore. But will that happen? Oh no! Surely not. People will continue to err outrageously. And the world shall remain torn asunder, by grief and misery and idiocy. I need you to recognize it, the famous pitfall of humanity, and not make that damned mistake right now. Refrain from that ancient error, that pre-historic mistake of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. The consequences could be dire. Involving even the flowing of rivers of flood past mountains of corpses in the heat of war - "Not that I mind you raping our women and enslaving our children; its just that you're short. And bowlegged. Did you know that...er...umm...Genghis did you say your name was?".
There is much wisdom in playing it safe. Keeping our traps shut, till we know what to say.
So try. Try very hard. For I need you to be understanding and sympathetic. I need you to be big-hearted, kind and outwardly nice. I need you to be not giggly, fun-makey, and silly-jokey-cracky. I'm not very good at this sharing stuff, but I'm putting a step forward, arent I? Appreciation is deserved. I'm going to share. And as any sharer would say, its tough to do so when one is not entirely sure about the intellectual and emotional capacity of one's sharee. Thats you. We'll sit and discuss this through like mature people. Since I dont yet know how silly it is, or how outrageously positively alarming (its just a bit queer in my best opinion), you have to clear it all up.
The thing is, my exams are nearing. The nearing of all exams is, as you know, preceded by the commencement of ritual studying. You turn the room upside down, in frantic search of those elusive, hidden raw materials - the textbooks. You decide to brush the dust of the ages off the cover and arrange your table to look more respectable in demeanour and general respectability. The books are carefully placed, with the title in front (not upside down, mind you), one on top of the other, beginning with the largest below up to the smallest book. You dust the table and you buy a pen or two. You even buy two notebooks or three, lest an unforeseen need to write arise. And you sit on the chair, after having a nice bath and brushing your hair, and you get all comfortably settled in and everything, and you rap on the desk gently for 10 to 15 minutes with your shiny new pen. The first obstacle has shown itself. How does one start? It takes me a couple of days at the very least to get past this stage, as I traverse for lengthy periods of upto ten minutes (give or take five), through all the books in search for a starting point. Something to say "Start here, and you will surely succeed ucceed ceed eed ed d" [well, i'm reading god of small things these days. nice and all. but has an...influence... so to say] So what does that sort of thing lead to eventually? All this procrastination, and wet hair neatly combed and a creaky chair properly filled up with our selves? The inevitable result of this Flipflap, like a blue lusty pigeon's wings as it hops across the dusty once-green garden over to its grouchy and eagerly frolicking partner on the other side of the meandering RIVER with muddy footprint-worn banks and water strewn with clothes and leaky boats and memories of leaky boats (ykael staob) and hair falling and adolescence, is that we all get together and think of pickles and huts and coconuts and slaps and oh I'm so sorry I'm doing it again.
Where was I? The procrastination. Yes. The sight of all the books, and the suddenly hot afternoon weather, coupled with the touching-proximity of a comfortable bed and pillow that I steal furtive longing glances at. One thing leads to another, and I end up in bed with myself. Before I know it, I've slept 3 times in the day already, and I cant even stay up at night. Days pass, and no work is done. Exams creep closer and closer, and tensions mount, and anxiety leads to depression, and depression leads to a desire to forget it all and escape into an alternate universe, and alternate universe leads to sleep, and bang. I'm asleep. Its a vicious cycle. And thats not even the problem.
The problem is in when I'm asleep. Don't say that I'm jumping to conclusions about it, and I should perhaps take some more time to assess it before I cry for help, and even if I do it should be directed such that it falls within the acoustic boundary of someone with the actual capacity to do something about it, rather than passing blog-surfers with only half a mind to the text. Its really quite serious, yes. And its happened like three times already. Whats that word for it? Come on. It begins with 't' only. Not too big, and just about appropriate. Umm...aaah..yes. 'Thrice'. Its happened thrice already! On three consecutive afternoons.
So, here's the thing. I fall asleep, asking my room-mate to wake me in an hour or so, for today shall be a different day. Today, I will not fall, nor succumb. Today, I shall study! *glorious ovation and wild cheers from Coliseum spectators* And then I wake up, three hours later. I check the time, and direct quicksilver fury at my room-mate who seems as impervious to slumber as a good Indian boy trained to study forever, pausing to sleep only on national holidays.
Here's the thing. He tells me, that he did wake me up. And that I got up, and spoke to him awhile. And I switched off my backup alarm. And I washed my face. And then I went back to sleep. And I dont remember any of it!
??!
Thats the first time that happened. The next day, as I fell promptly asleep again, a mere 3.5 minutes after opening the first book, it happened again. Freakier this time! I was woken by someone from my class, who wanted a book. He woke me. I got up, and I spoke to him. I gave him the book from the neat pile on my desk. He bade my goodbye (presumably) and I him. He went, and I fell asleep again. I. Do not. Remember. A thing.
The third time was yesterday. Obviously, I tried not to fall asleep. And I held out, bravely, for half an hour. I was only going to sleep for an hour this time. And I woke up after 3 hours, with vivid memories of having fought off dragons and demons and the living dead, thanks to my 18 years at "Ninja Training School of Excellence In Ninja-ing", Opp. B. Lee Foundation for Multiple Parallel Cuts and Scratches, Forbidden City, I Cant Tell You, China. And apparently someone had come in for my Thermodynamics book, which I personally gave him with my waking hands and a smile on my waking face, before I dozed off again.
And you know what? No, why dont you try and guess this time? Come on, go for it. Its quite easy, really. Yes...yes...thats bloody correct! I dont bloody remember!
So my roommate thinks I'm crazy. His exact word being crazier, but thats not the point. And I just recently saw Fight Club. And The Butterfly Effect. And I've seen A Beautiful Mind. And I've read Harry Potter II. And I remember Me, Myself and Irene. And I've seen that other movie too, about people going cuckoo and doing things and not remembering afterwards, and looking confused and baffled with the turn of events around them, till they reach a point of either great clarity or insanity or both and the movie frigging ends and all is well. Or, disastrously over.
Can you help? Speak out, if you can. With tender words, and a loving caress over my knit forehead. I'm afraid of sleeping. I lie awake at night, for as long as I can. I jump at sharp noises, and check to see if I'm the one making them. I frantically scan through my most precious belongings every time I wake up, lest I gave them away. I spend my free messages in asking people if they saw me today, and if I gave them anything.
I'm all shook up.
So.
?
??
???
There is much wisdom in playing it safe. Keeping our traps shut, till we know what to say.
So try. Try very hard. For I need you to be understanding and sympathetic. I need you to be big-hearted, kind and outwardly nice. I need you to be not giggly, fun-makey, and silly-jokey-cracky. I'm not very good at this sharing stuff, but I'm putting a step forward, arent I? Appreciation is deserved. I'm going to share. And as any sharer would say, its tough to do so when one is not entirely sure about the intellectual and emotional capacity of one's sharee. Thats you. We'll sit and discuss this through like mature people. Since I dont yet know how silly it is, or how outrageously positively alarming (its just a bit queer in my best opinion), you have to clear it all up.
The thing is, my exams are nearing. The nearing of all exams is, as you know, preceded by the commencement of ritual studying. You turn the room upside down, in frantic search of those elusive, hidden raw materials - the textbooks. You decide to brush the dust of the ages off the cover and arrange your table to look more respectable in demeanour and general respectability. The books are carefully placed, with the title in front (not upside down, mind you), one on top of the other, beginning with the largest below up to the smallest book. You dust the table and you buy a pen or two. You even buy two notebooks or three, lest an unforeseen need to write arise. And you sit on the chair, after having a nice bath and brushing your hair, and you get all comfortably settled in and everything, and you rap on the desk gently for 10 to 15 minutes with your shiny new pen. The first obstacle has shown itself. How does one start? It takes me a couple of days at the very least to get past this stage, as I traverse for lengthy periods of upto ten minutes (give or take five), through all the books in search for a starting point. Something to say "Start here, and you will surely succeed ucceed ceed eed ed d" [well, i'm reading god of small things these days. nice and all. but has an...influence... so to say] So what does that sort of thing lead to eventually? All this procrastination, and wet hair neatly combed and a creaky chair properly filled up with our selves? The inevitable result of this Flipflap, like a blue lusty pigeon's wings as it hops across the dusty once-green garden over to its grouchy and eagerly frolicking partner on the other side of the meandering RIVER with muddy footprint-worn banks and water strewn with clothes and leaky boats and memories of leaky boats (ykael staob) and hair falling and adolescence, is that we all get together and think of pickles and huts and coconuts and slaps and oh I'm so sorry I'm doing it again.
Where was I? The procrastination. Yes. The sight of all the books, and the suddenly hot afternoon weather, coupled with the touching-proximity of a comfortable bed and pillow that I steal furtive longing glances at. One thing leads to another, and I end up in bed with myself. Before I know it, I've slept 3 times in the day already, and I cant even stay up at night. Days pass, and no work is done. Exams creep closer and closer, and tensions mount, and anxiety leads to depression, and depression leads to a desire to forget it all and escape into an alternate universe, and alternate universe leads to sleep, and bang. I'm asleep. Its a vicious cycle. And thats not even the problem.
The problem is in when I'm asleep. Don't say that I'm jumping to conclusions about it, and I should perhaps take some more time to assess it before I cry for help, and even if I do it should be directed such that it falls within the acoustic boundary of someone with the actual capacity to do something about it, rather than passing blog-surfers with only half a mind to the text. Its really quite serious, yes. And its happened like three times already. Whats that word for it? Come on. It begins with 't' only. Not too big, and just about appropriate. Umm...aaah..yes. 'Thrice'. Its happened thrice already! On three consecutive afternoons.
So, here's the thing. I fall asleep, asking my room-mate to wake me in an hour or so, for today shall be a different day. Today, I will not fall, nor succumb. Today, I shall study! *glorious ovation and wild cheers from Coliseum spectators* And then I wake up, three hours later. I check the time, and direct quicksilver fury at my room-mate who seems as impervious to slumber as a good Indian boy trained to study forever, pausing to sleep only on national holidays.
Here's the thing. He tells me, that he did wake me up. And that I got up, and spoke to him awhile. And I switched off my backup alarm. And I washed my face. And then I went back to sleep. And I dont remember any of it!
??!
Thats the first time that happened. The next day, as I fell promptly asleep again, a mere 3.5 minutes after opening the first book, it happened again. Freakier this time! I was woken by someone from my class, who wanted a book. He woke me. I got up, and I spoke to him. I gave him the book from the neat pile on my desk. He bade my goodbye (presumably) and I him. He went, and I fell asleep again. I. Do not. Remember. A thing.
The third time was yesterday. Obviously, I tried not to fall asleep. And I held out, bravely, for half an hour. I was only going to sleep for an hour this time. And I woke up after 3 hours, with vivid memories of having fought off dragons and demons and the living dead, thanks to my 18 years at "Ninja Training School of Excellence In Ninja-ing", Opp. B. Lee Foundation for Multiple Parallel Cuts and Scratches, Forbidden City, I Cant Tell You, China. And apparently someone had come in for my Thermodynamics book, which I personally gave him with my waking hands and a smile on my waking face, before I dozed off again.
And you know what? No, why dont you try and guess this time? Come on, go for it. Its quite easy, really. Yes...yes...thats bloody correct! I dont bloody remember!
So my roommate thinks I'm crazy. His exact word being crazier, but thats not the point. And I just recently saw Fight Club. And The Butterfly Effect. And I've seen A Beautiful Mind. And I've read Harry Potter II. And I remember Me, Myself and Irene. And I've seen that other movie too, about people going cuckoo and doing things and not remembering afterwards, and looking confused and baffled with the turn of events around them, till they reach a point of either great clarity or insanity or both and the movie frigging ends and all is well. Or, disastrously over.
Can you help? Speak out, if you can. With tender words, and a loving caress over my knit forehead. I'm afraid of sleeping. I lie awake at night, for as long as I can. I jump at sharp noises, and check to see if I'm the one making them. I frantically scan through my most precious belongings every time I wake up, lest I gave them away. I spend my free messages in asking people if they saw me today, and if I gave them anything.
I'm all shook up.
So.
?
??
???
Saturday, October 20, 2007
The Number Five
A most dangerous tag, from the evil Machiavelli that is the twisted mind of JS.
I must comply.
List 5 things that you want to say to people but never will. Dont say who they are.
1. I'm not gay! Or pathetically meek!
2. Yes. Its you. Not me. You.
3. Yes, I do. More than anything else in the world right now, I so do. Ye gods! Yes I want the last piece of cake, please. Yes, over here. Hand it over. No, there's no need to hesitate about it at all. Its simple enough. Give it now. And dont try to bandy words or buy time. Oh yes, even though you got just one piece, and you so it first. I want it now! ... Mmm...Shthanks...mmm...That was most excellent. Does it feel good to be polite and courteous now? You just earned for yourself the pure, untainted joy of doing good to someone else. Feel warm do you? Feel like you made it a better world huh? Huh? Huh huh? You're a pathetic loser.
4. Oh hey. Long time its been eh? So...how's things?
5. Dont be nice to me. Just give me a good enough reason. Please give me a good enough reason.
Five Things I'd Love To Do Before I Die
1. Kill a leader.
2. Go scuba-diving.
3. Play 'Stairway To Heaven'.
4. Halle Berry.
5. Fool all the people, all the time.
Five Things I Will Not Do Even If It Kills Me
1. Try to appreciate hip-hop.
2. Kill a postman.
3. Look straight down from a cliff. (Because that will kill me)
4. Agree with someone, without adding a 'but'.
5. Leave a pizza unfinished.
Five Things I Do When I'm Away From The Public
1. Curse the public.
2. Make vivid, detailed posters of the public and come up with different ways to kill every individual member.
3. Hail Hitler.
4. Ogle at myself in the mirror and pay highly flattering, if slightly inappropriate, compliments.
5. Go absolutely, completely quiet (in the absence of a mirror, that is).
Five Fave Sentences/Quotes
1. I swear by my life, and my love of it, that I shall not live for the sake of another man, nor ask another to live for mine.
2. Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead.
3. Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dreams. I am a traveller of both time and space, to be where I have been.
4. I killed Roger Rabbit. And I have a rug to prove it.
5. Ah, life. I guess it'll all make sense once we grow up.
Five Things I'll Make You Wish You Didnt Do, If You Did
1. Mock Led Zeppelin.
You can do whatever else you like.
Five People To Tag
The fun of the tag is when you pass it onto some properly busy souls, who have time not for it. So I give you, Ami & Koyel & Rimi & Flaff. I know you're quite obviously engrossed in vastly important spheres of existence, in which specks such as these are mere trifles and what not, but I shall be checking. So. Comply. *cold, narrow-eyed stare*
I must comply.
List 5 things that you want to say to people but never will. Dont say who they are.
1. I'm not gay! Or pathetically meek!
2. Yes. Its you. Not me. You.
3. Yes, I do. More than anything else in the world right now, I so do. Ye gods! Yes I want the last piece of cake, please. Yes, over here. Hand it over. No, there's no need to hesitate about it at all. Its simple enough. Give it now. And dont try to bandy words or buy time. Oh yes, even though you got just one piece, and you so it first. I want it now! ... Mmm...Shthanks...mmm...That was most excellent. Does it feel good to be polite and courteous now? You just earned for yourself the pure, untainted joy of doing good to someone else. Feel warm do you? Feel like you made it a better world huh? Huh? Huh huh? You're a pathetic loser.
4. Oh hey. Long time its been eh? So...how's things?
5. Dont be nice to me. Just give me a good enough reason. Please give me a good enough reason.
Five Things I'd Love To Do Before I Die
1. Kill a leader.
2. Go scuba-diving.
3. Play 'Stairway To Heaven'.
4. Halle Berry.
5. Fool all the people, all the time.
Five Things I Will Not Do Even If It Kills Me
1. Try to appreciate hip-hop.
2. Kill a postman.
3. Look straight down from a cliff. (Because that will kill me)
4. Agree with someone, without adding a 'but'.
5. Leave a pizza unfinished.
Five Things I Do When I'm Away From The Public
1. Curse the public.
2. Make vivid, detailed posters of the public and come up with different ways to kill every individual member.
3. Hail Hitler.
4. Ogle at myself in the mirror and pay highly flattering, if slightly inappropriate, compliments.
5. Go absolutely, completely quiet (in the absence of a mirror, that is).
Five Fave Sentences/Quotes
1. I swear by my life, and my love of it, that I shall not live for the sake of another man, nor ask another to live for mine.
2. Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead.
3. Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dreams. I am a traveller of both time and space, to be where I have been.
4. I killed Roger Rabbit. And I have a rug to prove it.
5. Ah, life. I guess it'll all make sense once we grow up.
Five Things I'll Make You Wish You Didnt Do, If You Did
1. Mock Led Zeppelin.
You can do whatever else you like.
Five People To Tag
The fun of the tag is when you pass it onto some properly busy souls, who have time not for it. So I give you, Ami & Koyel & Rimi & Flaff. I know you're quite obviously engrossed in vastly important spheres of existence, in which specks such as these are mere trifles and what not, but I shall be checking. So. Comply. *cold, narrow-eyed stare*
Friday, October 19, 2007
Slightly Autobiographical
Slowly, ever so slowly, he feels his jaw muscles stretch. Aching, as if unused and utterly unaccustomed to the concept of function, the mouth opens. He tries, and he tries. He really does. But nothing happens. The magic has passed, has it? He yearns to hear his own voice, to put into words whatever it is that resides in his head. He doesnt know what it is. It doesnt work that way. It must come out, for it to take shape, and assume proper form. So he struggles. His throat hurts, and his vocal cords tighten. Nothing. He gasps and pants from strenuous effort. A glass of water, perhaps? A few minutes' rest, and then another attempt? Nothing seems to work.
He tries again.
He tries again.
Monday, October 15, 2007
The Cutting Edge Truth
Something priceless from a play I saw last night:
"I'm a man, not a woman! I don't go to the restroom in groups!"
He he he he he...oh, its so true...he he he...
"I'm a man, not a woman! I don't go to the restroom in groups!"
He he he he he...oh, its so true...he he he...
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Butterfly
The butterfly, of vermilion red wings and interlaced yellow, danced above the lush green of the field, at the side of the road. It danced everywhere in every direction, having no purpose and no boundaries. The bright summer sun shone down upon her world, and the tree protected from its strong rays, except for the few pillars of pure light which reached the ground, from in between the leaves. The man at the side of the road felt strange, noticing such inanities. He sighed, or breathed, since both seemed to be the same to him now, and went back to his dusty grey sedan.
He was, by all appearances, an ordinary working man. Not working, in the sense of a labourer of course. He wore a navy blue suit, a white shirt and a black tie with golden embroidery on it. The suit had been smart and respectable once. He had felt proud of owning it. It was old now, and slightly creased. The shirt had been worn nearly everyday, over a very long period of time, such that it seemed part of him now. The black tie was only but a tie. Embroidered or not, he didnt care to think about such things anymore. His shoes were brown, and he'd polished them in the morning. But already they were dusty and appeared worn out. He was not an old man; only in his early forties. But his forehead was lined with worries and the toil of years of overtime. His eyes were tired. They had already lost that spark he'd suddenly felt upon seeing the butterfly. The beaten face was crowned by a thinning growth of hair.
He drove through the countryside in the midsummer heat of a Sunday afternoon. It was just like any other, he noted. The large countryhouses with sprawling lawns. Smaller houses designed the same, to imitate the large ones in appearance if not size. There wasnt any sign of life, outside the homes of course. The weather today was not worth the effort. And in the country, he had noted in wonder long ago, people could actually choose to organize their day by the weather, or illness, or moods. He drove on. He'd stop at some houses, or drive on if he didnt feel like. He was supposed to stop at them all, so the rules said. But he'd given that up some time ago.
If he decided to stop, he'd park the car in front of the driveway, then walk up and ring the front door bell. It usually took them about half a minute to open the door, and he spent that time in assuming his approach. It differed, depending upon the person he met with. Usually it was the housemaid. He would be polite and friendly with them and then, after a few minutes of small talk, ask to be introduced to the lady of the house. His pitch changed from person to person. Relying on his mind's well-tuned gauge of personality, he would proceed with his work. With old dowagers he could be anything from flattering and flirtatious, to a solemnly respectful and avid listener. He could compliment any dress, and anyone in it. He could speak of the Great War, as if he'd been in it himself, and of local politics as if he'd lived there all his life. He could weep with them, over their reminiscent ramblings of past days. By the end they would be smiling and blushing widely, glad to have someone who so patiently listened, even seemed to want to hear more. They would offer more tea, more crumpets, anything to keep him seated. But he never stayed over an hour at any one place. It didnt help the business.
With women his own age, he had learnt never to be too amiable. Women of that particular age-group, between 35 and 45, loved nothing more than a hint of a reason to suspect a man's character towards them. So he was calm and he was quiet. It would seem strange to you, that someone in his line of work would be quiet and restrained, but he found it worked. The trick worked, based simply upon the amount of time he spent inside the house. Time, more than conversation, was the real ice-breaker in such situations. He would speak softly, looking down at the ground or at the walls, instead of at the woman. He'd admire the paintings on walls, making a pretence over guessing the artist's name and then apologize profusely over his gross, yet welcome, over-estimations, commenting how similar it looked to the brush-strokes of the Great Masters. He would compliment her on her wonderful choice of vases with the freshly cut flowers.
Younger women too demanded a most uniquely separate approach. It was one he personally disliked. But they were the best customers, and his method ensured that. He'd become old. And he would be tired. It required little effort of him, only the constant awareness of his plan. He'd ask for water, more than once, and drink slowly, holding the glass like expensive china. He would speak straight to the point. It didnt work to speak of this and that with the younger ones. The distraction was achieved by his manner, and his obvious age. And this too, worked like a charm.
The deal closed, he would politely take leave, with a fine old-worldly bow and perhaps a chivalrous kiss upon the hand of his hostess. He'd turn and walk down the front porch, straining to hear the door close behind him. Then the act would end. His head bowed down, and his shoulders slumped slightly. The light in his eyes, which the performance always brought, would go out once again. And he would drive away once more. He didnt earn much. He knew he never would. Selling second hand cutlery and kitchenware was never going to be a booming industry. But it was what he did. The drama seemed to help. The butterfly did not.
He was, by all appearances, an ordinary working man. Not working, in the sense of a labourer of course. He wore a navy blue suit, a white shirt and a black tie with golden embroidery on it. The suit had been smart and respectable once. He had felt proud of owning it. It was old now, and slightly creased. The shirt had been worn nearly everyday, over a very long period of time, such that it seemed part of him now. The black tie was only but a tie. Embroidered or not, he didnt care to think about such things anymore. His shoes were brown, and he'd polished them in the morning. But already they were dusty and appeared worn out. He was not an old man; only in his early forties. But his forehead was lined with worries and the toil of years of overtime. His eyes were tired. They had already lost that spark he'd suddenly felt upon seeing the butterfly. The beaten face was crowned by a thinning growth of hair.
He drove through the countryside in the midsummer heat of a Sunday afternoon. It was just like any other, he noted. The large countryhouses with sprawling lawns. Smaller houses designed the same, to imitate the large ones in appearance if not size. There wasnt any sign of life, outside the homes of course. The weather today was not worth the effort. And in the country, he had noted in wonder long ago, people could actually choose to organize their day by the weather, or illness, or moods. He drove on. He'd stop at some houses, or drive on if he didnt feel like. He was supposed to stop at them all, so the rules said. But he'd given that up some time ago.
If he decided to stop, he'd park the car in front of the driveway, then walk up and ring the front door bell. It usually took them about half a minute to open the door, and he spent that time in assuming his approach. It differed, depending upon the person he met with. Usually it was the housemaid. He would be polite and friendly with them and then, after a few minutes of small talk, ask to be introduced to the lady of the house. His pitch changed from person to person. Relying on his mind's well-tuned gauge of personality, he would proceed with his work. With old dowagers he could be anything from flattering and flirtatious, to a solemnly respectful and avid listener. He could compliment any dress, and anyone in it. He could speak of the Great War, as if he'd been in it himself, and of local politics as if he'd lived there all his life. He could weep with them, over their reminiscent ramblings of past days. By the end they would be smiling and blushing widely, glad to have someone who so patiently listened, even seemed to want to hear more. They would offer more tea, more crumpets, anything to keep him seated. But he never stayed over an hour at any one place. It didnt help the business.
With women his own age, he had learnt never to be too amiable. Women of that particular age-group, between 35 and 45, loved nothing more than a hint of a reason to suspect a man's character towards them. So he was calm and he was quiet. It would seem strange to you, that someone in his line of work would be quiet and restrained, but he found it worked. The trick worked, based simply upon the amount of time he spent inside the house. Time, more than conversation, was the real ice-breaker in such situations. He would speak softly, looking down at the ground or at the walls, instead of at the woman. He'd admire the paintings on walls, making a pretence over guessing the artist's name and then apologize profusely over his gross, yet welcome, over-estimations, commenting how similar it looked to the brush-strokes of the Great Masters. He would compliment her on her wonderful choice of vases with the freshly cut flowers.
Younger women too demanded a most uniquely separate approach. It was one he personally disliked. But they were the best customers, and his method ensured that. He'd become old. And he would be tired. It required little effort of him, only the constant awareness of his plan. He'd ask for water, more than once, and drink slowly, holding the glass like expensive china. He would speak straight to the point. It didnt work to speak of this and that with the younger ones. The distraction was achieved by his manner, and his obvious age. And this too, worked like a charm.
The deal closed, he would politely take leave, with a fine old-worldly bow and perhaps a chivalrous kiss upon the hand of his hostess. He'd turn and walk down the front porch, straining to hear the door close behind him. Then the act would end. His head bowed down, and his shoulders slumped slightly. The light in his eyes, which the performance always brought, would go out once again. And he would drive away once more. He didnt earn much. He knew he never would. Selling second hand cutlery and kitchenware was never going to be a booming industry. But it was what he did. The drama seemed to help. The butterfly did not.
Friday, October 05, 2007
On Sleep
There's always this problem with resuming things. Its like memories. The thing with memories is that over time they assume a larger dimension and a grander stage than they ever had. So coming back is always tinged with fear and uncertainty and the nervous-shifty-eyedness thing. Its the same with resuming things left asunder, for whatever reason. Such as this space. And that, believe it or not, is my excuse. And, believe it or not, its reduced me so that I even feel the need to be excused. And this one, believe it or not, is only just an unnecessary addendum.
Enough. I shall consider the ice-breaking done.
Coming now to important-er things. I have discovered, finally, the secret to an instant, healthy, and satisfying sleep. Or a nap. Either way. Its not like I'm even springing upon you a test idea, or some experimental thing. I've been doing it upon myself, for the benefit of science, for the past few weeks. I got the idea in class, obviously. I was asleep, obviously. And its a lark. Allow me to illustrate in vivider detail, for you thirsting-for-knowledge types.
Its always that the greatest discoveries happen out of sheer accident. I was in class, as I said, sleeping obviously. And I was woken from my deep slumber all of a sudden, because the prof-monster had crept too close to my spot, and would have pounced in another moment, baring saliva-oozing, sharp-edged teeth, forked tongue and claws and talons from his limbs. And in those initial few moments of semi-consciousness, when we are neither asleep nor awake, I thought. I thought about how quickly and how instantly I could fall asleep in class, no matter that I'd gotten my good 8 the previous night. I thought about how I had to but close my eyes to gain immediate access to my land of dreams, all set up with a vivid, elaborate dream involving whatnots and thingamajigs from across the world. I thought about my happiness and satisfaction upon waking up, and the feeling of joy and contentment I could get from having done nothing at all.
And thats how I've come upon it. The secret to a beautiful, satisfying sleep. It lies in classrooms, over the drone of a professor pouring forth on all-encompassing subjects like crank-chains, iron-carbon phases, and mollier diagrams. It resides in sitting on an uncomfortable bench with your head on the desk, scribbled upon with the wisdom of the ages, as attained by half-conscious, frustrated students over the years. I try to recreate it in my room at nights. I sit on the bed, with my head on the desk beside me. I keep open a book of thermodynamics, or metallurgy, or fourier expansions, lest I find the going tough. I think of my lectures, and I picturise the man before me, standing with paunch preceding, and oiled wisps of hair, and that accented execution of the English language. I put my peers beside me, glazed looks and dazed expressions on their faces, to complete the family.
It takes me perhaps 10 seconds to fall into a deep sleep. I dream of a beautiful Neverland. You should try it sometime.
Enough. I shall consider the ice-breaking done.
Coming now to important-er things. I have discovered, finally, the secret to an instant, healthy, and satisfying sleep. Or a nap. Either way. Its not like I'm even springing upon you a test idea, or some experimental thing. I've been doing it upon myself, for the benefit of science, for the past few weeks. I got the idea in class, obviously. I was asleep, obviously. And its a lark. Allow me to illustrate in vivider detail, for you thirsting-for-knowledge types.
Its always that the greatest discoveries happen out of sheer accident. I was in class, as I said, sleeping obviously. And I was woken from my deep slumber all of a sudden, because the prof-monster had crept too close to my spot, and would have pounced in another moment, baring saliva-oozing, sharp-edged teeth, forked tongue and claws and talons from his limbs. And in those initial few moments of semi-consciousness, when we are neither asleep nor awake, I thought. I thought about how quickly and how instantly I could fall asleep in class, no matter that I'd gotten my good 8 the previous night. I thought about how I had to but close my eyes to gain immediate access to my land of dreams, all set up with a vivid, elaborate dream involving whatnots and thingamajigs from across the world. I thought about my happiness and satisfaction upon waking up, and the feeling of joy and contentment I could get from having done nothing at all.
And thats how I've come upon it. The secret to a beautiful, satisfying sleep. It lies in classrooms, over the drone of a professor pouring forth on all-encompassing subjects like crank-chains, iron-carbon phases, and mollier diagrams. It resides in sitting on an uncomfortable bench with your head on the desk, scribbled upon with the wisdom of the ages, as attained by half-conscious, frustrated students over the years. I try to recreate it in my room at nights. I sit on the bed, with my head on the desk beside me. I keep open a book of thermodynamics, or metallurgy, or fourier expansions, lest I find the going tough. I think of my lectures, and I picturise the man before me, standing with paunch preceding, and oiled wisps of hair, and that accented execution of the English language. I put my peers beside me, glazed looks and dazed expressions on their faces, to complete the family.
It takes me perhaps 10 seconds to fall into a deep sleep. I dream of a beautiful Neverland. You should try it sometime.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Kill _____ (Vol I)
You know, I really need to make more enemies. Friends have their good qualities and come with bonus benefits and all that. They stick with you, and support you and lend money too. But really, they also like to eat starters and soup first, followed by food more than they can consume (or deserve to, in some cases), all to be heartily rounded off with dessert. Then they like to embarrass you in a restaurant full of people by singing to you, and urging you to stand and take a bow. All because its your birthday dinner.
I dont say this out of spite or sudden brainwave. I've thought long and hard over this. Enemies is what a guy really wants. Someone to despise, and someone to hate. I have a whole big bunch of friends - a few necessary close ones, a good number of medium distance ones, and a set of distant ones too. This does not even include the number of acquaintances I'm acquainted with. Every set of friends is properly defined in a continuous function within its own bounded interval (a bit of math jargon that), with only a few strays crossing over now and then, back and forth. Its all organized and catalogued, making it like a filing cabinet. You see how I mean its irritating? Its so nicely done up, that its unsettling and painful to behold.
Being on good terms with mostly everyone is excruciating after some time. Its like watching Three's Company, over and over and over and over. Then again after lunch. And you know you couldnt finish even one episode of that. What? You could? The Brady Bunch, then. There. I know its all beginning to sound horribly brutal and abominably cruel to the mind and senses, but things tend to get that way in your head, when you're sinking in the quicksand of nice, fulfilling relationships with one and all around you.
Which is why you need the hate. Why is why you need fewer friends. Which is why you need more enemies. Which is why, ok thats it.
I really need an enemy. Not an adversary, or a worthy foe. Not someone I must secretly respect for his/her talents, braincells, or sheer machiavellian brilliance, but destroy nonetheless. Thats too much work. I need a standard, simple, easy-to-hate person. A round-faced, sweet-smiling, innocent and angelic guy I would have no reason to despise and hate from the bottom of my heart, thus instantly making me despise and hate him from the bottom of my heart. And all this would be made all the better by the fact that his innocence would hinder him from expecting it of me, and he'd never believe anyone who said someone hated him enough to want to push him off the 4th floor terrace.
For, you see, I already have plans ready for whoever it is I shall finally bestow my ire upon. Sometimes, when I'm in class, I hatch evil plots of hideous revenge and cold retribution for all the unjustice not done to me by my yet imaginary nemesis. I vow to make his existence a slow and painful yearning for death. I swear by the blood of Zorg, my Neanderthalian ancestor, that I will make him shed copious tears and curse the day of his birth. The role person to be hated so in question will henceforth by played by the definite form of a male, for I find my revenge shall be far too brutal to carry out on females. They whine and they fret too much. I make elaborate drawings of my complex plans for his final doom, indicating with dotted lines the trajectory of the multiple Oriental knives that will pierce his body and marking out neatly in block letters the different locations at which his limbs will be scattered. Later I intend to burn the remainder of his body, and push him off the hostel terrace. And then, sitting with narrowed eyes, I'll wipe the blood of my yellow tightsuit, sheathe my Hatori sword, and laugh an evil laugh, chilling the blood of whosoever is within earshot. Things havent had the chance to move on to the destruction of his kith and kin, since this finds me at the approximate juncture when my teacher rudely brings me back to reality, represented by those fourier expansions or those equations of steady fluid flow.
Anyway, thats like the last stage. Dont think I'm only a bloody-minded nasty bad person-ish character. Before things proceed to the well-coordinated plans of torture and dishonourable death with the smell of burnt things and garbage, atop a dumpster at the end of the fall off the hostel terrace, shall come the initial stages of enforced social embargo and gradual-step-by-step-deterioration-of-life-plan I shall bring down upon the object of my hate. I'll tell you later, if you're interested. Examinations are closing in fast and furious, and I must make some headway through my books. I'll also keep you posted in case I find my enemy. Several likely candidates abound, but no one's quite yet progressed beyond deserving my sincere scorn and arrogant dismissal. The hunt is on.
I dont say this out of spite or sudden brainwave. I've thought long and hard over this. Enemies is what a guy really wants. Someone to despise, and someone to hate. I have a whole big bunch of friends - a few necessary close ones, a good number of medium distance ones, and a set of distant ones too. This does not even include the number of acquaintances I'm acquainted with. Every set of friends is properly defined in a continuous function within its own bounded interval (a bit of math jargon that), with only a few strays crossing over now and then, back and forth. Its all organized and catalogued, making it like a filing cabinet. You see how I mean its irritating? Its so nicely done up, that its unsettling and painful to behold.
Being on good terms with mostly everyone is excruciating after some time. Its like watching Three's Company, over and over and over and over. Then again after lunch. And you know you couldnt finish even one episode of that. What? You could? The Brady Bunch, then. There. I know its all beginning to sound horribly brutal and abominably cruel to the mind and senses, but things tend to get that way in your head, when you're sinking in the quicksand of nice, fulfilling relationships with one and all around you.
Which is why you need the hate. Why is why you need fewer friends. Which is why you need more enemies. Which is why, ok thats it.
I really need an enemy. Not an adversary, or a worthy foe. Not someone I must secretly respect for his/her talents, braincells, or sheer machiavellian brilliance, but destroy nonetheless. Thats too much work. I need a standard, simple, easy-to-hate person. A round-faced, sweet-smiling, innocent and angelic guy I would have no reason to despise and hate from the bottom of my heart, thus instantly making me despise and hate him from the bottom of my heart. And all this would be made all the better by the fact that his innocence would hinder him from expecting it of me, and he'd never believe anyone who said someone hated him enough to want to push him off the 4th floor terrace.
For, you see, I already have plans ready for whoever it is I shall finally bestow my ire upon. Sometimes, when I'm in class, I hatch evil plots of hideous revenge and cold retribution for all the unjustice not done to me by my yet imaginary nemesis. I vow to make his existence a slow and painful yearning for death. I swear by the blood of Zorg, my Neanderthalian ancestor, that I will make him shed copious tears and curse the day of his birth. The role person to be hated so in question will henceforth by played by the definite form of a male, for I find my revenge shall be far too brutal to carry out on females. They whine and they fret too much. I make elaborate drawings of my complex plans for his final doom, indicating with dotted lines the trajectory of the multiple Oriental knives that will pierce his body and marking out neatly in block letters the different locations at which his limbs will be scattered. Later I intend to burn the remainder of his body, and push him off the hostel terrace. And then, sitting with narrowed eyes, I'll wipe the blood of my yellow tightsuit, sheathe my Hatori sword, and laugh an evil laugh, chilling the blood of whosoever is within earshot. Things havent had the chance to move on to the destruction of his kith and kin, since this finds me at the approximate juncture when my teacher rudely brings me back to reality, represented by those fourier expansions or those equations of steady fluid flow.
Anyway, thats like the last stage. Dont think I'm only a bloody-minded nasty bad person-ish character. Before things proceed to the well-coordinated plans of torture and dishonourable death with the smell of burnt things and garbage, atop a dumpster at the end of the fall off the hostel terrace, shall come the initial stages of enforced social embargo and gradual-step-by-step-deterioration-of-life-plan I shall bring down upon the object of my hate. I'll tell you later, if you're interested. Examinations are closing in fast and furious, and I must make some headway through my books. I'll also keep you posted in case I find my enemy. Several likely candidates abound, but no one's quite yet progressed beyond deserving my sincere scorn and arrogant dismissal. The hunt is on.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Give! Now! Need!
Ok. Help is needed. Am in urgent (and that means very urgent) need of a time-stopping device. Nothing with too many frills attached. And I dont really care about the color, either. Just a user-friendly and efficient time-stopping device in good working order. So...who has a spare? Seriously, I need.
You see, I need to stop time. Right now. I need for the present to just about completely halt in its tracks. Then, since I do not intend to inconvenience you guys too much, I shall proceed to construct my own time-backward-goer-thingy. And then, I shall go back in time with it. And then, I shall stay there. And I probably wont be back for a long long time.
I know you want to know why, and you're just too much in the shocked-and-overwhelmed state of mind because I said I'm leaving, so I'll let you in. Uff and no, this is certainly not the time to point that I have an ego the size of Saturn. We're in a crisis situation, and you're my people.
Listen up, people. But look, dont tell anyone. Keep it to yourself, and breathe not a careless word outside. The slightest whiff and it could lead to catastrophe. Do not tell anyone about this. No one need know, and no one need even suspect the existence of such a thing. It has nothing to do with anything of course, but useless trivia has a way of affecting the way of things. But what in bloody hell, you ask? See, its this.
In a couple of days, a certain person of our acquaintance (i.e. me) shall have an age thrust upon him, which entirely suits him not. It is unfair for this to happen, and most definitely far too soon. It is simply unacceptable, and an absolute travesty. Also, a horrible misdeed, a gross misdecision, and terribly erroneous judgment. We are still young, and we are still bubbly and we delude in the imagination that we are still innocent. We like to frolic in lawns and chase after rabbits. We like to make faces at and pretend to communicate with snakes at the zoo. We like to believe in Peter Pan. Which is why, we most certainly do not deserve to have to turn 20.
There. Now, you know. As mentioned above, help and pitching in is urgently required. Provide time-stopping device at earliest, before its too late. Meanwhile, I shall pray for Tinkerbell to arrive. Neverland might just do the trick. In case that works out, its tra la for good, folks. In case it doesnt, I vow to crusade to never grow up. Long and deliberate pondering has led to the conclusion that adulthood is a mantle best suited for dead people and for people who can pick Paulo Coelho over PG Wodehouse. There is still, we find, too much to be young for. Give it to other eager people, who see not the folly afoot. I will not go. For there are still childish things to speak of, and fancies to indulge, chocolates to drool on, lawns to skip lightly across, and things to shrug away. I dont want to be a grown up. I wish only to stay as now, and laugh at them and their things.
PS: Since you must know, no one, and I mean no one, is to wish me a happy 20th. It is not the 20th. It is merely the 1st anniversary of my 19th birthday. Period.
You see, I need to stop time. Right now. I need for the present to just about completely halt in its tracks. Then, since I do not intend to inconvenience you guys too much, I shall proceed to construct my own time-backward-goer-thingy. And then, I shall go back in time with it. And then, I shall stay there. And I probably wont be back for a long long time.
I know you want to know why, and you're just too much in the shocked-and-overwhelmed state of mind because I said I'm leaving, so I'll let you in. Uff and no, this is certainly not the time to point that I have an ego the size of Saturn. We're in a crisis situation, and you're my people.
Listen up, people. But look, dont tell anyone. Keep it to yourself, and breathe not a careless word outside. The slightest whiff and it could lead to catastrophe. Do not tell anyone about this. No one need know, and no one need even suspect the existence of such a thing. It has nothing to do with anything of course, but useless trivia has a way of affecting the way of things. But what in bloody hell, you ask? See, its this.
In a couple of days, a certain person of our acquaintance (i.e. me) shall have an age thrust upon him, which entirely suits him not. It is unfair for this to happen, and most definitely far too soon. It is simply unacceptable, and an absolute travesty. Also, a horrible misdeed, a gross misdecision, and terribly erroneous judgment. We are still young, and we are still bubbly and we delude in the imagination that we are still innocent. We like to frolic in lawns and chase after rabbits. We like to make faces at and pretend to communicate with snakes at the zoo. We like to believe in Peter Pan. Which is why, we most certainly do not deserve to have to turn 20.
There. Now, you know. As mentioned above, help and pitching in is urgently required. Provide time-stopping device at earliest, before its too late. Meanwhile, I shall pray for Tinkerbell to arrive. Neverland might just do the trick. In case that works out, its tra la for good, folks. In case it doesnt, I vow to crusade to never grow up. Long and deliberate pondering has led to the conclusion that adulthood is a mantle best suited for dead people and for people who can pick Paulo Coelho over PG Wodehouse. There is still, we find, too much to be young for. Give it to other eager people, who see not the folly afoot. I will not go. For there are still childish things to speak of, and fancies to indulge, chocolates to drool on, lawns to skip lightly across, and things to shrug away. I dont want to be a grown up. I wish only to stay as now, and laugh at them and their things.
PS: Since you must know, no one, and I mean no one, is to wish me a happy 20th. It is not the 20th. It is merely the 1st anniversary of my 19th birthday. Period.
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