Intensive rescue moisture locking lotion.

The moisturiser in front of me says it is hypoallergenic. Someone wandered by and asked me the meaning of anthropogenic.

One comment is waiting in limbo from back in the day when I used to have comment moderation and is feebly asking me to accept or reject it. I've been being staunchly cruel for over a year now. Not all those who wander are lost, Tolkien said. It shall serve some purpose, I'm sure.

My exams are almost here. Which means I should get all tense and start studying frantically. No, really, I should. And become the irritable impatient bitch of yore who would snap at simply everyone during exam time and freak them out. Rush into the mess, grab a packet of biscuits, rush out, growl at someone who dares to bang into me and grab my books again. I can't believe I miss that person.

Labouring over labour law. Wanting to do so many things which I do not have the time for. Castles in the air that are helium light which speed away before one can dwell on them. Blog template is boring. Must spruce it up. Am full inspired by this chick who really does not need any more traffic that she's already got, but I'm linking her anyway.

Gallons of coffee are whispering out to me tantalisingly. I give in and go over to the dark side. Really, very dark with lots of sugar. Nothing else keeps me up.

Just don't ask me why.

I’ve done several stupid things in life, of course. Beginning to list them would just be idiocy. But one of them stands out with a bright pink ribbon on as being absolutely ridiculous, for me atleast.

Once, around three years ago, I was addicted to codeine. I was a hardcore insomniac and would literally spend weeks of sleepless nights, just tossing feverishly. It helped me sleep, it helped me function throughout the day. And then it helped me sleep again. Back then, nothing could beat that simple bliss of simply being able to sleep in peace. And then somehow, when I got a tad too attached to it, I stopped it, withdrawal symptoms and all. That's another story though.

Early this year, I was depressed. Several horrible things had happened and I just couldn’t be more torn or trapped in my own head than I already was. And unfortunately, possessing the brilliant habit of overthinking things and turning them over and over in my head, on one particular evening I could simply not take it anymore. Just being conscious was driving me crazy. That, and my tendency to sleep whenever I’m depressed joined forces and told me to have some codeine again so I could sleep and escape the madness that was my very being. Half a bottle worth, to boot. And then I slept. And slept. And fell upwards in my sleep. And gibbered. And spun. And tossed. And cried. And flailed. And had the most miserable, trippy, crazy, depressing 15 hours of sleep ever. And woke up the next day, still depressed, but determined NEVER to do that again. Insanity. Not only was everything I was obsessing about magnified, but twisted and vibrant and mashed up in my head at the time. If that makes any sense at all. There was one very glaringly obvious lesson learnt.

Now, it’s just reserved for when the weather changes and I get one my famous colds that insist on lasting for a month at a time.

(Now pay heed to the title people. It's there for a reason.)

Horn OK pretty please

I love my room back home. It has one and a half bright green walls, is cool and airy, has a ginormous wardrobe and a huge bed. And it is just not me at all. Also, since I’m out of the house for 9 months a year, it has turned into a store room of sorts, accumulating random unwanted clutter that floats around my house and finally ends up in my room, like the proverbial watery grave. Random files, paper (oh so much paper), unattractive showpieces that were gifted to us, clothes that are not old or tattered enough to be properly thrown away, which languish in there with some valiant hope that they will be worn someday, like when the mood strikes someone to wear those sky blue silky bell bottoms bought in 2002 again (what WAS my mom thinking when she got me those things?) or clothes that people (read me) hope to be able to fit into again someday. Sigh.

Because I can, I’ve gone all out in my room in hostel. I’ve painted one wall, printed out a dozen carefully picked posters and put them up, put up some quirky paintings, hung up a beautiful mask I got as a birthday gift, stuck pretty postcards above my mirror. But if I could, I would go nuts in my room back home.

One wall of dark red/purple/maroon, retro pop art decorating the walls, vintage posters, psychedelic sheets, a red Lazyboy couch, a massive wooden bookshelf, wooden floors, a bamboo swing in the balcony, a flower in a mottled green wine bottle on the windowsill and my pièce de résistance that I bought only a couple of days ago, an ancient looking truck horn with a gorgeous metallic green curved body and a bright red ball-like thing you can honk on that makes the most hilarious sound ever and makes everyone who sees it laugh in incredulousness as to why I would buy such a thing, up on one wall. You MUST know what I’m talking about. It makes you want to write a song titled “Horny OK Please” as soon as you look at it.

And oh, before any of this, I would rush to remove the two lurid scary blue tubelights that my mom got installed because she thought that it would give the room a “cooling effect”. What it really does is make my room look like something out of the twilight zone or a creepy testing lab floodlit with UV light where some alien baby is being spawned. *Shudder*

Ah the urge to decorate prevails. My tiny 8x10 hostel room has no space for me to do anything more. Must restrain self. Yes mom, this is a hint. :D

Dance with me, sway with me.

So there was this Music Festival here. And it was absolutely fantabulous. It, being the second concert (perhaps third) ever of my life, it far exceeded any expectations that one might have entertained.

Yours truly being a person of the shy reticent and vanilla kind when it comes to people she cannot go and break down uncontrollably to, bouncing up and being one of the first people to start dancing in front of a thousand people because the group playing on stage was just so fabulous, now that is a feat. Going up and telling the brilliant yet shy Marwari folk artists how great they were (while everyone concentrated on the cute UK guy) and watching them get overwhelmed,  jump up while dancing and giving a lead vocalist a high five, telling him you lust after his bright gold shoes with electric pink laces, dancing with a gorgeous Rajasthani eunuch with (alas) a better figure than yours, watching stoned hippies dance gracefully in a trance, laughing with unknown foreigners at the sheer beauty of it all, dancing till I was tired enough to collapse, losing any and all inhibitions.  This was a whole new world.

Held at the so-gorgeous-it-hurts, beautifully mood-lit Mehrangarh fort, and lasting till 2 in the morning, these dazzling couple of days spent at the festival seem to have just made me utterly and completely depressed. On one hand, you forget all your work for just a little bit and live in this dream land of lights, architectural wonder, rhythm, harmonies, fusion, dreamy musicians and one perpetual high. And then one is forced to come down to reality again and despair that one will never get a job. 

Life should be one eternal music festival. I have missed out on so much by not doing this earlier.

Feeling Bookish

As I post this, I realise it's been such a long time since I've sat and properly read a book for hours on end like I just did. For someone who used to skip meals on a regular basis so as to continue reading, quite shameful. The internet always beckoned, Gtalk was my guilty pleasure and if nothing else, random browsing and tagline-reading took up most of my time, these past three years. 

For the past week I've switched on my laptop only when I absolutely had to, instead of having it on all the time, running in the background, when a faint ping would send me scurrying back to see who had buzzed me with the new all important piece of trivial gossip or which new (usually) inconsequential person had deigned to ask me "wassup" with my life. Now I am internet free, to some extent. Sure I still google everything around me. I still want to occasionally chat online with my friend in the US and keep in touch. (How else can I ensure he gets me the requisite amount of gifts when he comes back to visit?). I still depend on group emails to inform me there is a test tomorrow and I must stop emulating the great Rip Van Winkle and do something about it. But no more does the little (steadily growing) number in brackets next to the word "Inbox" freak me out. No longer do I have the urge to read taglines, or even have one for that matter. Well not as much. The 5 step program to dealing with your internet addiction continues.

Similarly, I have not been separated from my cell phone for more than 20 minutes since I was 17. Recently, I was forced to go a whole 5 hours without it. LIBERATION. I now know what those anti social philistines keep harping about. No random messages from Reliance informing me I have missed calls and how about I try their super cool money saving offer which was tailor made for me. No one to be accountable to as to where you are and when you're coming back from wherever you are. Having the ability to go out and just get lost when you want to, and stay that way till you feel like having any sort of company again. The bliss, of course, lasts till the time you're forced to get back and having to reply to those 9 messages and 8 missed calls that flooded that darn electronic box when you were away.

This is how Buddha attained enlightenment, aint it? Renouncing material pleasures and all that. And I did it without a big holy tree. I should start a religion. Everyone worships me anyway. ;) Ahem. Alright. Bye then.

Fish of the hip-hop variety

Restless.
Same old routine, same old meals.
Same classes, same people in said annoying classes.

"The time has come", the Walrus said, "to talk of many things".
Talk is all well and good, but nothing's happening wise guy. What good did talking do anyway? It sure has a lot of entertainment value, to say the least (just see my previous post) but what good did it do, really, if nothing happens?

A friend of mine, when she gets into a rut, tends to destroy everything around her. I do the opposite. I go out and do new things with a vengeance. I got my hair streaked. Then I got another ear piercing. Then I got a tattoo. Now I've gotten a new haircut. But that's not enough. Something must be done. Now. Running out of things to do here people. Aarghh.

Anyhoo, vanilla people are the most interesting of the lot because they do things you would never expect them to. The wild lot that goes around acting all cool and supercilious, those are actually the most boring of the lot. They just do the same old things. Or new wild things that arise out of them doing the same old things. Namely pot. I might be a tad biased here. Or not. Will I get angry pothead trolls commenting on this post? Time shall tell.

A couple of friends just spent the last 8 hours tracing the genealogy of the pre Tudors and making an elaborate-as-hell family tree and being very earnest about it. Which is totally great. Another friend gave her impersonation of the family tree enthusiasts by pouring out a stream of words that sounded vaguely like "Oh my god we forgot the first Duke of Nottingham who was also the sixteenth duke of Worcestershire who sired the Duchess who was the sister of the illegitimate whore of Piccadilly!" Which makes it even better, as we all can see.

I wonder why boys are so uptight about homosexuality. I have never met a single guy till date who has been fully comfortable discussing the topic without fidgeting in their seat uncomfortably, proclaiming that it is odd and weird and can-we-change-the-subject-please. By homosexuality, of course, I mean the male sort. The same between girls is of course a fine, elegant and popular topic of discussion. But that apart, more boys than girls=homophobes, why? Does it stem from the simple fact of life that girls are more affectionate than boys and have no qualms going and hugging their female friends whether they are depressed/excited/nervous/overjoyed/high whereas guys prefer the stoic and ultra sophisticated high five/chest bump? Leave a comment, enlighten me. Or alternatively, vent your indignance at above paragraph.

I am currently sitting on the strawberry swing. And imagining Humpty Dumpty doing the same thing. Egg splattered all over the children's park. Oh dear. Thomas Friedman would be having the time of his life. And getting severe cholesterol. Oh dear indeed.

Stream of consciousness petering out into a tiny little pool, filled with tiny fish that protest being subjected to the stereotype of having a bad memory. Also, they are wearing little bling caps. Ooh gangsta fish. Ok then. Ta.

I get high with a little help from my friends.

Things friends say when high on life or other contraband substances:

1. Due to unforeseen teeth, I could not bellydance.

2. We should make a movie about our lives in hostel. It shall be funny, nonsensical, touching, sweet and reflect every girls trauma with their real selves and what they think of feminism and life. It will be very well accepted everywhere. It will be a whatever.

3. The end of the world will come when cymbals clang and there shall be a "Pshhffgtgttt" sound as though the Earth is being sucked into a shower drain and everyone will think happy thoughts. So essentially everyone will die happy.

4. (In response to above theory) You already made the sound! Now you've ruined the end of the world for me!

5. (In response to above response) So the most important part of the end of the world for you is the suspense, is it?

6. Cars are hot. Bikes are not too bad themselves. Bikes are like anorexic cars.

7. The Scream is like a zoozoo finding out it hasn't taken its books to class.

8. We suck like imported vacuum cleaners. Vacuum cleaners can atleast claim it is their job.

9. I would be honoured if I were asked to star in an Usbekistani porn movie.

10. I think I shall lie down and give up on this world. But first, I shall make some Tang.

11. Every man is an island, Huxley said, as also Simon and Garf uncle. So if people try to invade your island with their silly criticism, you put on your big girl hula skirt and sink their boats. By throwing half-coconuts at them. Which will be easy to get because that's what their bras are made of.

Props to Indiegurl, Ramsub, Revelsign and Hoverer. Now just try and guess who said what. :D

Imagine all the people...

... living life in spazzed-out mode due to the liberal quantities of acid they have ingested. No? Anyway...

I, my friends, have an overactive visual imagination. Tell me anything and it will play out in my head. But no, not in the normal way- I'm sure that's quite a common phenomenon- else this would be a pretty darn boring blog post. The images in my head are like something right out of the delusions of above mentioned spazzed out people. Tell me a Hindi word I don't know and I will imagine it to be something that I reckon it sounds like and will confidently continue the conversation until someone stops me and points out that I'm making no sense whatsoever and am using a word that means something like audacity to mean lawnmower. But what can I say, it just sounds right in my head.

The first time someone told me I "had the floor" while speaking, I imagined myself in a large amphitheatre surrounded by people with me speaking into a microphone, and when I was done, I gently levitated off the ground so as to signify that it was the other persons turn to talk.

The first time I ever read a P.G. Wodehouse, I saw the name Bertram Wooster and promptly imagined a rooster. Common, you say, Jeeves my man? Well this rooster was a very haughty looking impatient one that was wearing a brown waistcoat and after every minute or so it would pull a large gold pocket watch attached by a chain out of its pocket, flip it open and peer at it in annoyance, tucking it away carefully after it was done.

The first time I heard of the author Thomas Friedman, I immediately pictured a hot road in a desolate desert town. The atmosphere is tense, restless and very sepia. A man with a cowboy hat strides up, reaches into his pocket and menacingly pulls out an egg. He cracks it gently onto the ground where it beautifully gets cooked into eggs sunny-side-up, which he transfers to a plate and jauntily swaggers away with.

I love my imagination. Except for the times my loving friends try to make me cringe in disgust by going on to describe certain unattractive specimens of the opposite sex in extra tiny pieces of clothing. Ugh. The horror... Sigh... Pros and cons...

P.S.- Is this even common? What's the craziest thing you've imagined?

I hear thunder...

I live in Jodhpur. I hate the weather in the summers with a vengeance.

But just for the unexpectedness of sudden heavy rain falling in huge hard bullets, cloudy skies, sandstorms, brilliant forks of lightning and crazy tempestuous wind after 3 weeks of unrelenting blistering heat and sun, I love this city.

That, and the cute camels that always seem to be secretly amused at the person that is making them pull the heavy carts on the roads. And the fact that we get fabulous discounts absolutely everywhere simply because we study where we do, from waiters who know us too well for us to need to actually ask for them.

I think my point is made. Ok then.

Sexed out

Recently, all of us girls ended up discussing how we got our respective sex education, or as we call it, "The Talk". One of us got sat down at 13 by her mom and got the birds and bees talk freely as though the weather was being discussed, one got gifted a book so that the parents wouldn't actually have to talk about the embarrassing subject, and a few, like me, just learnt about it from various extraneous sources.

I had heard the word sex several times of course; I just never knew what it meant. Soon, I figured that it was the process by which babies were formed, but didn't know the actual method people went about it. The phrase "having sex" sounded too much to me like "having dinner" or "having a glass of milk" for my imagination to run wild. However, when I was in the 8th grade, I just figured in out in my head after reading too many novels and watching too many sitcoms that this might be what people do, and then dismissed it because it seemed way too implausible and just plain weird. Imagine my surprise a year later when I read the same thing I had thought of in my biology book. I was extremely impressed with myself for figuring it out and way grossed out by the actual process.

I was never one of those kids who thought that girls became pregnant when they got kissed by boys, like so many did, including some of my friends. I'm not sure how I thought they came into existence in the first place; I just always assumed I'd find out later. In this regard, I was once reading a book when I was around 12 (hence without having even an inkling as to what sex was) in which a couple was having a baby without being married. To my innocent institutionialised self, something seemed terribly wrong. I went to my mom and told her about the situation, after which I asked her how this was possible and whether people could even have babies without being married. My mom made it a point to hurriedly reassure me that it was not possible and only after marriage could babies be born and there was something obviously wrong with the book I was reading, making a mental note to carefully monitor which books I was allowed to read from now on. But I was not to be placated. How, I demanded to know, could the body know if a person was married? How would it know that a paper had been signed and a chain been put around the girls neck for a baby to suddenly sprout inside of her? My poor mom had to bear the brunt of my uber curious self for quite a bit until she managed to extricate herself from the situation by vanishing into the kitchen.

I admit though, I was quite a late bloomer in so many respects when it came to these things. Till my 6th grade I thought the word sexy was an expletive. Till I was in my 9th grade, I had only a faint idea what sex was. Till my 10th grade, I had no idea what a condom was. Only when I was 16 did I find out what the work f*ck meant. (Till then I had always thought it's a word like b*stard which was, to me, just a random expression that all South Indian drivers used with great cheer and enthusiasm whenever they got cut off at a signal.) On hearing all of this, my worldly wise friends can only shake their heads in amused bewilderment and wonder if I was in fact living under a rock for the entirety of my adolescent life. What can I say? :P