Sunday, December 20, 2009

Burn. Destroy. Make an omelette.

I like burning things. Actually, I like watching things smoulder quietly. And I don’t just mean things like Gael García Bernal, though that in itself is quite ogle worthy. A piece of paper, set on fire which has been stomped out, though not completely, which has a tiny orange hypnotic bead of fire still inside, running through it quietly and stealthily, making that piece of paper curl and blacken and disintegrate. Destroying from within, without an actual external manifestation of a flame. Neat.

When I lived near the sea, a window overlooked the beach and an old distant lighthouse. Whenever I was down I would go stare out that window into the darkness. This is not to say that I was only down when the sun went down. Pliss to understand. On staring into the distant darkness I would see a faraway pinprick of red coming from the lighthouse. It would disappear. And reappear. 4 seconds later. Counting those 4 seconds again and again till that red dot appeared again was peace.

Now, when I’m down, I find a friend online who realises the importance of finding a random word and brutally assassinating it. The word of the day was egg. What followed was an eggsagerated eggstreme discussion on the eggsistential nature of the eggsplanation of the eggsplicit nature of the egg. Said egg is huge, laminated, has graffiti painted on it and is rolled menacingly at people we don’t like to scare them away. Also, it is called Hugo the Angry. I just heard the oh-so-distinctive sound of all eggs in the near vicinity giving up and dying of eggsasperation. I feel so much better now. My friends are awesome. Also very kooky. Kooky is good. It's a funny word. Kooky. Kooky. Ok then. Bye.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Divya versus Divya

Without further ado. Divya versus Divya.

Act I:
Dibba: This is my cat. Shrimati Jane Iyengar. She began life as Jane Eyre. Then I Tamilicised her.
Me: You should have named her Iyer na then.
Dibba: Wtf. I’m Iyengar. *pride*
Me: Bloody caste obsessed. You changed the cats caste!
Dibba: Iyers are our sworn emenies...enemies...emenemies...whatever. They secretly practice witchcraft. And do black magic.
Me: Yes I love you too emenemie o’ mine.
Dibba: You're Iyer eh? Er… when I say witchcraft, I mean, of course, the HAWT kind. And er… black magic is in fashion also. Also, I love black. Black is good. And magic is always hawt. (Reminder to self - must stop nervous chatter) Er… I LOVE YOU DIVI!
Me: Sigh.. You just say that because you don't want me to turn you into a newt.

Act II:
Dibba: Oh no. Everyone thinks I am a social mongoose :( Er... or mole. Mole, yes. Mole. Not mongoose.
Me: No I like mongoose better. Social mongoose... Sounds so cute. Like a mongoose taking a day off from killing snakes and going for a party and meeting all its groupies. “Ooh you kill snakes... Dangerous… What a turn on… Your hole in the wall or mine?”
Dibba: But mongoose is not technically correct. Mole is the dude that digs and is mole-like...
Me: Correct shorrect. I like mongoose better.
Dibba: Social mongoose just sounds 'cute'. Cute' is not HOT. Would you stop trying to take away from my great and steamy sex appeal? As, er… a mole? (Shit that didn’t work).
Me: Fine... You want to be an unsightly black mark on someone’s body, suit yerself. YOU could be having hot mongoose sex right now but nooo…
Dibba: My dear zoologically challenged woman... I was picturing the hawt black-as-midnight, velvet skinned. silent-as-death antisocial animal, and you HAD to pick the grandiose freckly things.

The end. For now.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

I don't even like cricket.

"Ooh aah I want my bra, I don’t know where my undies are."
No, this is not my life’s anthem. This is apparently an ad for a lingerie store. Sounds like the transcript of a Lady Gaga video to me. Props to that woman. She wears no clothes, still manages to cover up the important bits and gets away with lines like “I wanna take a ride on your disco stick”. Oh, what an image. It’s like those morbidly fascinating things which you MUST stare at. Like a gory car accident. Or the sight one of my wannabe-alpha-male friends hitting on women way out of their league. Only, in the latter case, you point and laugh. If you try that with the car accident, some people just might resent it. Unless you happen to be in the accident. In which case people will just be very worried.

Yesterday I heard the best slang term I’ve heard, ever. T20 khelna. Meaning, having a fling. What a brilliant term, boss. Hats off. Umpire wala, even. So much potential with this one.
“I’m playing the field. The pitch if you will.”
“I’m looking for a player who really knows how to handle his bat.”
“What’s needed is a man with a lot of experience with the balls.”
“A maiden over would be appreciated.”

The one type of cricket that sounds like fun, apart from India-Pakistan matches.

Ah the joy of being ridiculous. Unmatched. Un-‘match’ed. Ok, never mind.

Sometimes, you just want to communicate and let the world know you still exist. Feel like blogging with nothing to say, feel like tweeting with not even 140 characters to share. In such cases, what works best is getting slammed and communicating so much that the next day you never want to speak another word ever again.

You know what sucks? Yes? Do tell, I don’t feel like typing it out.

Thursday, December 03, 2009

Yes, no?

In chemistry we used to keep learning about some reaction called attack of the nucleophiles. Not only did I fail to understand the concept, but I always invariably conjured up War of the Worlds images whenever I heard about it. Just look at the phrase “attack of the nucleophiles” and tell me you don’t imagine vile green creatures in phallic spaceships attacking the empire state building with laser weapons. If you don't, I'd advise you to do so. Keeps life interesting. Wouldn't go so far as to say it kept chemistry class interesting but I did get encouraged to refrain from jumping up and jamming my blue ball point pen up the teachers nose. No offense to the teacher. Or blue ball point pens.

A few weeks ago, I opened my umbrella and held it up against the sun. It tilted, just a little bit. I paid no heed to it. It squeaked softly. I twirled it merrily and continued on my way. I paused to talk to someone, holding it in front of me, to shade us both. It creaked. And then it cracked. It suddenly broke into two and fell down. Then I was left holding a broken metal stick with a plastic handle and a red and white candy striped umbrella head with a three inch handle and looking absolutely stunned. In such circumstances, you improvise. You stick the striped umbrella part outside your door to provide an amusing, yet aesthetic showpiece. You propose making it into a hat. You make unsuspecting passers-by dance with it. The perks of being slightly less than sensible.

The first time I saw Robert Sean Leonard on screen, he was the super cute guy in Dead Poet’s society who killed himself because he was adamant on not going to medical school. Now, he’s acting in House. Still looks the same, very cute albeit perpetually a tad sheepish. He’s playing a dedicated oncologist. Irony. Delightful.

Yesterday I saw a Youtube clip of some band who said that they are inspired by shiny things. Whether or not I like their music, I profess undying love for them just for saying that. Speaking of shiny things, I saw an ad for a bling argyle dress yesterday. Extreme hotness. I have an unhealthy fascination for argyle. Anyone who gives me a bling argyle dress shall be duly rewarded. That also goes for anyone who rescues me from the horror of working an eight hours shift for six days a week. SIX! Weekends, be mine once again! I shall honour and cherish you forevermore, I promise.

Those who ought to have remembered my 21st birthday and didn't wish me, may there be flustered pigeons flapping around your head wherever you go. Bye then.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Nonsense-aaya namaha

Once upon a time, when I was very small, very round, and very naïve (now I am not small, in any sense of the word. Therein lies the difference), I used to often go with my mom to her colleagues house. The grown ups would sit and discuss work, places they bought their saris from and fancy recipes, while the kids would be packed off to play together. One particular colleague had a son who I played cricket with on a regular basis. After having been to that boys house many many times and after one particularly good game of cricket, I was jubilant. On the way home, I asked my mom in a very matter-of-fact way and with full confidence: “Mom, when I grow up, I’m going to marry Nikhil na?” A highly flustered mom hummed and hawed for a while, gave me a hasty “Let’s see, let’s see, now come on hurry up” and frisked me away.

Circa 2009. Mom sees a gold bracelet she likes and asks me if I’d like something like that for myself. When I politely decline, she goes ahead anyway and says I can have it for my wedding. Ditto for any grossly expensive and blingy jewellery set or sari or pretty much anything she likes and wishes upon me. Now I humm and haw and mutter an infuriated “Be happy if I even get married” under my breath. When my mom starts off about her future son-in-law who she insists must be TamBrahm, Iyer, vegetarian, etc. etc, I give her a “Be happy if I end up with a guy instead of a girl.” That succeeds in ending the discussion right there, thankfully. Ah, how times change.


Friday, November 20, 2009

Dust bunnies will take over the world one day

During my exams I was overcome with boredom for whatever subject it was I was supposed to be studying. Also, my room was an utter and total mess. It looked like my cupboard had exploded, my bookshelf had emptied itself over that, a paper shredder had done its business over THAT and a sandstorm had passed through and left me in its wake. It wasn’t pretty. If you think I’m so bored and I feel the need to revive the blog so much that I’m going to describe how I cleaned my room... you would be absolutely right. Moving on...

I find it impossible to actually sit and fold clothes and put them away unless I summon a hapless hostel friend, perch her on one end of the bed and have her talk while I pick up clothes by the armful from the bed, hang them up or put them away. Till then they stay in a steadily growing pile on my bed and serve as an elevation for my feet whenever I sleep. For the first few exams, I thus had a multi-hued foot cushion, a pile of books, notes and loose papers on the side of the bed next to the wall, and my stuffed football perched neatly on top. All in all I might have had around 2x3 feet of actual empty space on my bed and it was getting too cold to sleep on the floor. Needless to say, something had to be done. When I started cleaning, a neighbour was present and talking me through it. She left, another one walked in. Then she left too. Bloody dedicated people. In the midst of the session of the third good samaritan (who was more than willing to talk because she did not want to start studying) was my bed actually free of excess clothing. Phew.

Then I tackled my desk. Now that was a whole new matter altogether. While my bed was, on the whole, clean with all my crumpled washed laid out in a heap on it, my desk was the curiosity shoppe from hell. I used to have to nudge several items aside and stop everything from toppling over everyday to fit my laptop onto the desk so that I could plug my internet wire into it. While cleaning it, apart from several generations of dust bunnies that had gone forth and procreated over the semester, I found 4 pairs of earrings, 3 of which did not belong to me (their owners were mighty pleased to have them back), transparent bra straps- 3 in number, several chits I had passed back and forth with people in class, the brand tags of clothes, most of which I did not own, 2 pairs of scissors, 7 novels, one music CD, 100 bucks in cash, a pair of headphones, 2 Ipods (both mine), an Ipod charger (not mine), 12 multicoloured bangles of the same set scattered delicately in different corners, 3 pens in usable and several in unusable condition, and my guitar capo which I had given up as MIA ages ago, among a lot of other junk. And scrap paper and string that invariably follows me wherever I go, of course. Wow. It took a while before I could let my laptop sit there in all its glory. (It’s purple. Regal. You get it. Or not. Bah.)

Hence I was done with procrastinating. For then. You know how it goes.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

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.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

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.)

Thursday, October 15, 2009

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

Monday, October 05, 2009

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.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

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.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Fish of the hip-hop variety

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.

Monday, September 07, 2009

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

Sunday, August 30, 2009

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?

Friday, August 28, 2009

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.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

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

Thursday, August 06, 2009

The one with pudding porn and wannabe Greek statues.

Go to the gym everyday. Then take a week off. Then go back and work your heart out. Get a solid high on endorphins that makes you spend the next four hours excitedly jumping around, singing, dancing and making a pest of yourself to your already preoccupied friends. Powerful stuff, endorphins. Someone should bottle and sell it. Would give a kick stronger than alcohol but without the hangovers and other side effects. I am a genius. And right now, I'm also reminding myself rather disturbingly of Jeff from Coupling, who suggested that they bottle the jelly from women's jelly wrestling matches and sell it as pudding porn. Ah well.

I painted my room last week. It looks fabulous, but that apart, the whole process was a hoot. Painful hoot, but nonetheless, it was that sound which the nocturnal bird made famous by the creative J.K. Rowling is supposed to produce. For this, I had to scrape the wall of all the whitewash. Ah pain... I was assisted by a friend and whilst in the process, I looked like a fashionable member of the Taliban while she resembled a very cheap impersonator of Davy Jones with odd pieces of cloth tied across our faces and heads. I kid you not. Not to mention by the time we were done, you could have cut our appendages off and displayed us in the Louvre to give that other famous lady some company. Why? Observe:

Mommy dearest expressed shock and horror at the fact that I actually went to so much effort and made me promise not to perform such antics again to which I obediently agreed to, since it's not really too likely that I'm going to paint my hostel room wall again in the two remaining years that I'm going to be here anyway.

I've been oversleeping for the past few days. Everyday, I dutifully set two alarms for 7am, wake up, switch both of them off, and lie back down and have a deep existential debate with myself as to whether it actually was 7am or just a perception of 7am or whether I had just imagined it to be 7am because my conscience wanted it to be. Then having decided that it actually was 7am in reality, I affably nod to myself, pleased at having reached a conclusion. But then of course I wake up with a start, discover it's now 9am and rush off to class. Yes, I'm a rather odd person. No, I don't apologise for it.

And now, my bed, next to my gorgeous painted wall beckons. I give in to temptation. Ta then.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

This post has nothing to do with "Lucy in the sky with diamonds"

When you just wake up at 8pm after a helluva long nap and the computer is just twinkling there in a surreal way in its on mode and sitting there next to you and it's all dark and you can see nothing else until you turn on the light but till then the screensaver is a big bunch of large bubbles floating away on a background of a huge yellow poster of the number forty-two and then you feel you're floating in space somewhere but of course what sort of space has bubbles in it oh perhaps its underwater but underwater wouldn't be yellow silly, and then you turn on the light and the harsh white light jars your sight for a minute, the muted yellowness of the computer lit room disappears and you realise you fell asleep in jeans and a full sleeved tshirt in this bloomin' hot weather, is that asininine or what, oh dear I just misspelt asinine in the most juvenile way possible, and you also realise that the line "picture yourself on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies" is stuck in your head and for some reason you can only think of purple marmalade and wonder what that would be.. perhaps grape marmalade.. but with grape skin in it, that just sounds weird but that's maybe because you hate it when grape skin gets into freshly made grape juice, fresh grape juice dries out my mouth anyway, and maybe orange is the best kind of marmalade to have after all, and then after analysing marmalade in your head you gaze at your screen with limp arms and heavy eyes which are protesting at being subjected to too much light and thinking you must go drink water before you collapse of dehydration (note to self: stop exaggerating) where seeming nonsense has been typed out not very consciously and think that this post seems even more disoriented than this morning when you spilt scalding tea on someone and then your breakfast on someone else because you were walking around with your head in god-knows-which continent while your feet carried you somewhere else, thankfully not into a wall face-first because that might have been slightly less pleasant.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Oh the pictures have all been washed in black

On paper, I probably sound like an ultra goth chick who wears black leather, has matted dreadlocks and spends her time lounging in biker bars. Or so a friend of mine proclaimed. I don't even know if such people exist in India really. Why though? I have 5 piercings and a recently acquired tattoo. Go on, tell me you didn't all just draw a collective gasp. Ok, now that everyone has formed a nice scary image of me in the minds due to the help provided above, let me assure you that I am a relatively normal vanilla looking person. Really. Chocolate, if you want to take into account my darkish skin. OHKAY anyway...

The news of my tattoo has been floating on the college grapevine and causing no dearth of excitement, since it's not really very common here, as has the news of a tattoo which another boy in my college has got. Now the existence of this boy in my college was revealed to me only when I overheard the news of his tattoo, and it was probably vice versa for him. A guy friend of mine graciously let me know that he had informed his entire hostel about the fact that I had got a tattoo and now all the boys there now worshipped me and thought I was a smoking hot goddess, but I was second in line to previously-referred-to other boy. Guys are weird.. Go figure :P

Since me and other tattooed boy have had zilch interaction before, I didn't think I could very well march up to him and ask him to pull up his sleeve and show me his tattoo, me being so curious and all. And I really didn't think I could make an exchange offer out of it either because.. well just because... use your imaginations. (Not too much mind you. Yes, I think that's more than sufficient. You can stop now :P) So yesterday, the uber curious and currently tattoo-obsessed me was delighted to see that he was wearing a sleeveless tee in the mess, albeit facing away from me so I could see nothing more than a couple of black squiggles on his arm. So I went over to the other direction and pretended to intently study the mess menu board while all the while trying to peek at his arm. While staunchly ignoring the prices of jeera aloo and handi chicken, I noticed that he had now conveniently turned and was facing the direction I had come from. So I retraced my steps and made a huge show of peering into the dining hall to find an imaginary friend I just HAD to talk to. But by this time, said tattooed boy was shooting me strange why-are-you-acting-so-deranged-you-crazy-woman looks, so I quickly beat a hasty retreat without having satisfied my curiosity after all.

Oh dear, now I sound like a crazy leather wearing gothic stalker lady. Eh it's still my blog. Eat my shorts, all ye judgmentals :D

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Post #148

No I can't think of a nice title for the post. So sue me. Anyway...

I am sitting on the bed and listening to "Where is my mind" by the Pixies and the BRILLIANT lead guitar is stuck firmly in my head, mingled with the sound of a cigarette lighter clicking on and off continuously in a rhythm and it's forming one weird as hell remix in my head.

A song stuck in your head is apparently called an earworm. Now to my super visual imagination, I can picture a babel fish-like creature which thrives off the brainwaves containing the strains of the song and grows fatter and fatter till it dies of overkill and it eventually replaced by another baby earworm which then suffers the same fate since a song in my head can get unstuck only by inducing another one to get stuck there instead.

I'm back to college after the vacations and I was really looking forward to it. All my juniors looked at me in horror when I said I was waiting to come back and they did their whole "Naheee.. home is the bestest place in the entire world and college is an infliction upon us that 5 years of purgatory will cure." I was that way too once upon a time. Things just happen in college all the time. There are simply so many things to do. After a month of sitting on one's steadily bloating ass and staring gloomily at the television/computer/wall because all your friends are working/studying for exams/attending college instead of meeting you (which is one of the main attractions of coming home in the first place), you just want to DO something. And there's no shortage of that in college. It even gets a bit much sometimes. Also, there's always full on drama all the time. People around you behave as though they are in one big soap opera which is too juicy to not observe. If people are not hooking up, they are breaking up. If they are not breaking up, they are cheating on each other. Ex boyfriend slaps new boyfriend while girlfriend unhappily intervenes. 10 girls gang up on one and yell at her for offending one of their friends. Kleptomaniacs are caught, juniors are ragged, games are played around you and with you. When you're involved, it's not always fun. But it might just be better than mind numbing boredom that arises out of continuous nothingness. Ok it's not. But it's something to do nonetheless.

A friend who is famous for saying the most fantastically insane things without meaning to has already made me rejoice to be back in college and it's been just two days. When she was recounting a story about how some crows were fighting in mid air and she threw a biscuit at them, she popped out this little gem: "Dude the crows just pounced on the biscuit in mid air. It was like Tom Cruise, only it was a crow!" Another time, she remarked on the women who used to keep a maun vrath in the olden days: "If women kept maun vrath, people poured water on their heads. So not only must one be completely silent, one must be silent while water is copiously being poured on their heads. Raw deal man.. what nonsense." On commenting on how boys seem to take pride in giving their girlfriends hickeys, she says "What our necks are Taj Mahals or what that any boy can come and write his love story there?" While bemoaning the lack of any decent guys in college capable of giving us any sort of action she came up with "We might just have to turn lesbians out of necessity. And then we can tell all the guys out there who want us 'IN YOUR FACE... only.. we're NOT!'" And she tops this all off by saying "I am in your room. That means your room is now filled with awesomeness. Consider yourself blessed. I really must sleep, mustn't I?"Ah Dibba, (Divya Srikanth, just for Google's sake) keep it up. We shall keep chronicling this in the name of public interest. Yes, you're most welcome. :D

All hail college life. Now let's hope we get out alive.

Monday, June 15, 2009

I am Jack's fractured sense of being

She sat on the couch and stared blankly at the TV. It wasn't fully in focus but she didn't really care. It crossed her mind that she should probably get a move on and start working, but she wasn't too inclined to do so. A thought tentatively made its way up to her and timidly suggested that perhaps she might want to sit up straight and take some care of herself, perhaps tidy herself up a bit, but again, she told it to take a hike. (The thought crept away in defeat and ended up with a woman who got a mega makeover and landed the guy of her dreams so perhaps the girl might have felt bitter about dismissing the thought had she known, but she didn't. It was her loss nonetheless.)

She wasn't really interested what was playing on television, she wasn't watching it with too much involvement anyway. A movie was on. A happy ending came up. She got a bit teary eyed at the ending, as she always did, whatever be the movie. She started crying. But then, unlike normal circumstances, she kept going, on and on, breaking down completely and going at it again with renewed vigour just when it seemed she was calming down a bit, not knowing why, but being sure that the happy reunion of the long lost lovers on screen was not the reason for her waterworks. She just need an excuse to get hysterical.

"Ach, this was bound to happen", she sighed, after she was too spent to cry anymore, "This is probably what happens when you feel like you're a couple dozen punches, a lot of blood and some kick ass dialogues away from turning into Tyler Durden."

Thursday, June 11, 2009


I've said it before. Talking nonsense is one of the most glorious things a person can do. With a person who understands that it's utter nonsense and participates fully with that spirit, of course. But of course, once in a while, we encounter some brilliant people who think all of it is beneath them and seek to enlighten us about the same.

A classic example is seen when I was having a conversation with A , regarding our friendly hostel ghost that us girls summoned when bored to tears during a blackout. A seance was duly conducted, makeshift ouija board made, mood lighting given with candle stumps and viola!

His name is Rameshwar. Affectionately called Ramu. He was habituated to living in an empty room on the ground floor of the hostel but when someone moved into that room, he was in a quandry.

Now me and A were sitting and discussing the particular predicament. We wondered if Ramu visited the girl who occupied his old room and whether she enjoyed his company. Whether she even knew if Ramu visited his old room from time to time and what those two were upto when she mysteriously disappeared into her room at odd times. About where he would now live. We concluded that he had now shifted to the empty room containing the communal fridge. We congratulated ourselves on single (double?) handedly solving the mystery of the missing chocolates from said fridge.

We were in the throes of discussing whether Ramu actually ate the chocolates or gave them to visiting spooks when a voice piped up. It was self assured. It was overconfident. It spoke with an air of pitying us fools to whom such obvious wisdom had to be imparted. It said, "Uhh guys... You know... There's no such thing as ghosts."


It's people like this we should stay far far away from.

Monday, June 01, 2009

Much laughings, yes.

I am currently reading A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth. Apart from the fact that it is like a long 1500 page version of a typical masala Bollywood movie, and I can just imagine all the characters upping themselves and shimmying together to Shava shava a-la Kareena Kapoor, I always think of one thing when I pick it up. This is all hearsay, mind you.

When the book was just released, I was around 3 years old or so, thinking of course that I was the next best thing to Nutties in butterscotch ice cream (What? It's the height of brilliance I tell you.) One day, probably when I was out foraging for Nutties, I overheard my dad mention the name of the book. It was then I promptly marched up to him and very authoritatively demanded "I want A Suit of a Boy too!"

Yes, I am still teased by my parents for the most incongruous of things. Like the time I trapped a kitten in my carry bag. But that's another story. Sigh, the injustices of life.

You can well imagine that my first full English sentence ever spoken was "I school go", no?

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The TV Guide to the Galaxy

When life is boring, we want excitement. When we get excitement, we want some more. When excitement turns into drama, life turns into a soap opera. Now no one wants that. It just seems a lot cooler to be living in a soap opera. Before you're amidst all the thundering background music, big bindis, crying heroines and bitchy vamps of course. Only then we tadpo to have the boring old reality show back.

Now I would like to be living in a perpetual episode of Full House. Everyone is always all happy happy. Or maybe Small Wonder. Then I would have all the cool robotic abilities.

Pah. I know. Life should be one big chapter of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. There's space, depressed robots, planets being destroyed and annoying talking computers. Who's with me?
Disclaimer: Tea does not exist in such a life. Now choose wisely.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Think Pink

Sights and sounds seen around the beautiful city of Bombay... Well, whatever complaints people may have about this place, be it about the traffic, the humidity, the innumerable eunuchs, no one can say this Bombay is not supremely entertaining. The things are enough to make one laugh out loud, and then some. And one needn't even keep one's eyes peeled for the same. Here are two doozies I happened to witness in the last few days. God bless camera phones.

Exhibit A

Lady, did a drunk pack of candyfloss throw up all over you? Or are you simply campaign manager for "Barbie for President"?Or perhaps it's to perpetuate the Bubblegum look. Whatever it is, thank you! You made a dreary Monday morning on the way to work a whole lot more fun. :D

Exhibit B

It looks like Axe is launching a new range of car perfumes. Move over AmbiPure Car... Now not only do people want their car smelling fresh and floral, they now want it to be a babe magnet. Looks like this car was on the way back from filming the commercial. Ok but jokes apart, though it kills me to say that, WHY would someone do this to their vehicle? Anyone?

Monday, May 18, 2009

Selfishly exhausted by the green canoodling bubbles.

We must exist for ourselves and ourselves alone. People and things exist just to make us happy. Us, and us alone. If they don't, hey be selfish, out they go. When you feel happy because of something you have done, nothing can be better than that. Better than anyone doing something for you, which is unlikely in the first place. Others are selfish. Live with that belief and not only will you be content, you're likely to be greatly surprised several times in life.

The pleasure of exhaustion is sweet. Masochistic as that sounds, the feeling of being dead beat voluntarily, of feeling absolutely worn out physically can give one a real high.

The word bubble is one of THE cutest words in the English Language. Say it with me and you'll see it. Bubble. Bub-ble. BUBB-LE. Those who saw the inherent cuteness, you're my kinda folk. Mosey on over to the comments section and give me a big ol’ high-five! :D

The colour green is quite soothing. Even dhinchaak fluorescent green that initially makes you feel like a plant when you're surrounded by the colour. Like hotels always say location, location, location; with colours, it's all about lighting, lighting, lighting. Yes. That, my friend was pointless. You did not miss some deeper meaning that was supposedly intended.

The word canoodle is another fascinatingly cute word. I can't help but picture two giant strands of spaghetti making out with each other whenever I hear the word. And I adore using it in sentences. Even when absolutely not required.

Recently, a Gilmore Girls fan told me that the series insists that the cutest sentence in the world is "Oye with the poodles". Hey, who am I to dispute the veracity of Gilmore Girls. Me and said GG fan came up with the new and improved cutest sentence in the world. Behold- "Oye with the poodles canoodling in the bubble". It rock-eth! :D

Blogging when you’re bouncing off the bright green walls for no apparent reason leads to a stream of consciousness that looks something like the above. For purposes of study alone, it shall not be deleted but exposed to the public for the forthcoming important observations.


Monday, May 11, 2009

Panic.. please!

Recently, I was given a birthday gift in the shape of a beer mug with a green planet sticking its toungue out at me painted on it, with the words "Don't Panic" written beneath it in big friendly letters. The timing wished it, and the person who gave it to wished it even more. Hence, I used the mug to drink coffee. Gallons and gallons of eyeball-poppingly strong black coffee everyday durng my exams, to help me stay up and study. Seems I took the big friendly letters to heart.

Never before have I been so relaxed while studying. And it wasn't a good way, mind you. The end of every semester usually sees me fervently poring over my books, snapping at people who disturb me, wandering around muttering under my breath and basically managing to look utterly and completely deranged. Yes, I panic. But this time, noo... I was lounging in my room as though giving the paper the next day was an option that was left to my fabulous self to decide. Studying the material as though it was some light reading that I was perusing to fill the time in between photo shoots. I had myself pausing in between mugs of coffee to wonder- "Hmm.. I'm not that worried.. should I worry about THAT?" Damn you, pretty beer mug.

Another thing that was new in the whole latest exam experience. Hallucinations Inc. Now daydreaming during exams is something every normal person does. So is briefly napping in between answers. But a girl who has had 4 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, sleeping whilst in the middle of a sentence and writing gibberish until she wakes up and realises she's written "The whole human genome is expressed because dah-ling, that's not a very common occurrence, you see", not that normal. Mildly worrying in fact. Canceling aforementioned sentence after looking at in in bemusement for 3 minutes, then proceeding to hallucinate fictional characters spouting super witty monologues while wishing they would speak slower so she could note it down yet regretfully realising that she can't do so anyway because she's supposed to be writing her exam- no, definitely not normal. Very worrying. Needless to say, the exam was a disaster of Vesuvian proportions.

Don't Panic indeed. Hmph.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Where knowledge is wealth.

5K is one who spouts more useless knowledge than anyone I have ever known. Fondly called arbit gyaan, it comes at any given time, especially when you least expect it. While sleeping in class one shall be woken up to be told the different types of whiskey and how much alcohol exactly is in each one of them and how each one is made. While trying not to spill dal on oneself in the crowded mess, one shall be treated to the mesmerising details of the specifications of super-complex razors. When moaning over the huge syllabus of an impending test, one is cheered up by having recited to them details of all the different dialects of Punjabi. Is it any wonder then that he is fondly called the "back of a Navneet notebook" (Just by me actually. It never caught on. Wonder why.)

The other day, when I was being treated to a random discourse on the specifications of ASCII values of keyboards for encryption, I was overcome with admiration for and gratitude for all the knowledge I had gained simply by his companionship. For the next two minutes, he couldn't get a word in between what I was saying (rare, for this one). My monologue went something like this:

"I art eternally grateful to thee for all the knowledge conferred upon me, an undeserving soul who hast been blessed with thy words. Thou art the god of arbit gyaan and thou must be honoured. A shrine shall be erected in thy name and followers shall flock from ever corner to bathe in the holy presence that it shalt exude. The aura of knowledge that shalt pervade the shrine shalt be soaked up by one and all and all thine followers shalt bring other people, to make them believe. We shalt go forth and propagate the wonder that is thy arbit gyaan and spread thy word far and wide. Every week an offering of chicken tikka shalt be made to your shrine which thou shalt grace and bless so that thy followers may eat and prosper."

Needless to say, he was amused. And not happy that he wouldn't a weekly dose of free chicken tikka at his own shrine.

Boys. Sheesh. Never satisfied.

And yes, Navneet's tagline IS "Where knowledge is wealth."

Saturday, April 11, 2009

The why and how of things

Why are some people eternally in quest for the truth? To discover where we have come from, where we are going... In order to find that point which determined that we shall be the way we are. It is because these people are troubled? Is it because they were born to uncover the mysteries that plague civilisation? Or is it because they crave an unending puzzle; something that will keep them occupied with no near hope of getting a solution, so that they can ignore their own demons and try to crack the rhetorical questions that other people utter on pretentious first dates without a care in the world? Are they the kind of people who, after solving such a mystery, would take up another practically un-doable task? Or is it because it's abysmally early on a should-have-been-lazy Saturday morning and lack of food has made them believe that their extreme hunger is caused due to the eternal unanswered questions lurking in the shadows of humankind?

Bet you didn't see that coming.

Thursday, April 02, 2009

Platform 9 and three-quarters of an emotional breakdown.

It takes a while coming and it seems like eternity till it does. Just like the train that you need to board, which has halted at a signal just out of reach of the platform. Annoyingly close yet so far. That impatience builds up inside of you and then when it finally chugs slowly to you, you exhale gratefully and clamber on.

I refer to a thought, a mindset that had to come sometime, which you just wished would hurry up. The notion that people, or a person, does not matter. That you would be a whole lot better off without them in your life. That you would be a better person without them holding you back. Without them triggering neuroses you never knew you had. Never knew you could have. Without making you blame yourself for simply everything that was not flowers-and-sunshine that happened, to yourself or to them. Without making you seem, even to yourself, to be mildly masochistic because of your tendency to go and hurt yourself again and again and again, and happily so (?) at that. Without them picking away at your fears and threatening to expose the wound beneath the scab. Without making you constantly fear that you are doing something wrong which will ruin everything while you don't even fully know that there remained nothing to ruin. Without making you feel like your own worst enemy.

People are impermanent. They come, they go away. They do not matter. Especially if they make you feel like shit. In which case, they matter less.

All aboard.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Happy Birthday Ramsub

free glitter text and family website at FamilyLobby.com

It's Ramsub's birthday today (Soumya Ramasubramaniam, just for Google). And I wondered what to give her as a birthday gift. I remarked idly to Dibba dear that it was so darn easy for some people to give nice thoughtful personalised gifts; they can just paint something super-fab and very relevant and tadaa! Done and done. Then I was told to do something that I was good at. Which according to Dibba was to crack one enormous sasta in Ramsub's honour. Thank you, thank you. Now noone can complain that my sad jokes are not simply delightful because apparently people now want them made to order on their birthdays. But I digress... Hence this post is dedicated to Ramsub and some of her quirks, with a few sastas thrown in for good measure, being aided by Dibba and with a sparkly header made by Sindhu. Stingy gift? Maybe. But I didn't feel like doing the whole pretty top and earrings thing. (And for those who do not understand the inside jokes, well maybe that's why they are called inside jokes.)

Ramsub. The should-be poster girl for Johnny Walker. The girl that converted our hallowed hallways from the generation of the walk-man to that of the run-woman. The girl who has probably made most use of her Ipod than all of us put together. The one who will stare at you sinisterly before running at you full speed and scaring the living daylights out of you if it's your first time witnessing this (We call this the EYE-Pod phenomenon). The one who charges, staring wildly, at full pelt in your direction when you're only out for your innocent 2am pee (we call this the EYE-almost-peed-right-there phenomenon).The one who's usually deaf to her surroundings and who you MUST gesticulate at wildly for two minutes to catch her attention and then leap awkwardly aside while she ignores you and stampedes away to glory. The one because of whom, our corridor has developed its own unique traffic system, complete with smooth lane changes and all. The one because of whom all of us firmly believe that no corridor is worth its salt (or floor-tiles?) unless there's a crazy wide-eyed woman running up and down it while swearing to herself and occasionally shouting death threats to the walls or to innocent bystanders.

The tamilian whose name gives the impression that she knows more Tamil than she actually does. The one with the regular influx of oh-so-yummy curd rice and avakai pickle. The one who gets overjoyed when she finds someone who matches her fantabulous stats. ;) The one who seems to know everything without actually studying for she's always always striding in the corridor with blasting music while we're cramming away a day before any exam. The one who's considered hot property among the PG's. The one who will say something super-intelligent and then follow that up with a duh moment to top all duh moments. The one who can wear a solid inch of kajal on each eye and look pretty without looking like a startled raccoon. The one who we worry about because of her uncontrollable coke addiction. (Before anyone calls rehab, it can also be called a pepsi addiction so just call the dentist.) The one who probably doesn't know how much she intimidates a lot of people. The one who should have started blogging a very long time ago. And of course, the one I should have interacted with more a long time ago.

So Ramsub, may you fall into the hairy arms of your favourite dimpled Deol and blow glass with him. May you end up in a super-cool profession like being an art critic.(No? You tell me then.) May lizards run from your demented stare and pigeons flee as you race toward them (hopefully out the door and not right into the ceiling fan). May you end up with a hairstyle that you're finally content with. May your life be one perpetual sugar high. May you go through life not spending the most in a group of people you're with. May you, one day, understand perverted jokes in their true sense and be as amused at them as you are with the G rated ones you infer (Dibba's dad's name=MC^2, remember?). May your blog prosper and have many more posts, snarky or not, and comments of course from the innumerable anonymous admirers. May you one day have that perfect acerbic conversation with your dhobi that you so want.

Oh... And have a brilliant day :) Happy birthday.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

The Inside of my Head...

... is the house of horrors. Too much cacophony in here. Mostly all white noise. And songs that were never written, yet sung out loud.

People are not welcome inside, including myself.

If only I could padlock myself out, permanently...

I hate it in here.

(Inspired by this with many thanks)

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

I insist...

I'm the sort who has extremely random cravings. (Yes Dibba, random, so there). Sitting in the middle of a boring class on administrative law, I'll turn to the person sitting next to me and say, with an earnest yet deadpan look on my face, something like "I want spaghetti in arabietta sauce with jalapenos, olives and sun-dried tomatoes, sprinkled liberally with parmesan, and I want it NOW". It's not like I do this just for the reactions I get from people, though it is a pretty good incentive. For people who don't know me too well, the reaction is one of incredulousness. For the regulars, they know what to do. They say "Yes yes... tomorrow for sure" and carry on with what they're doing. So now, instead of studying for an extremely annoying mid-term, I want:

  1. My very own miniature Captain Jack Sparrow on a hamster exercise wheel, for the oh-so-adorable way he runs.
  2. My own Faraway Tree.
  3. To be transplanted into Dilbert-land
  4. To resurrect Douglas Adams from his grave and brainstorm about pigeons and Bombay local trains with him and have him incorporate the sheer nonsense of said topics into his books.
  5. To be able to read at the speed Viki does (cute robot from Small Wonder, remember?). This, only because I have said shitty exam tomorrow for which I am stubbornly refusing to study.
  6. French toast.
I really must not blog when I'm bored.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Just give us our cheese.

Our pristine little residential college set a convenient 10 km or more away from the main city is a wonder. It's an isolated sociological experiment in itself with us as little lab rats running around sniffing curiously and running in and out of tunnels.

Rules of the outside world are obsolete in our new and improved civilisation. Relationships run into the extreme, be it of any sort. Friendship is a whole new ball game. You spend 24 hours with your friends (14 if you're of different sexes), talk in a different way you would otherwise, talk more than you would otherwise in a shorter span of time. You’re more affectionate than you would normally be, trust faster than you normally would, change friends more rapidly before you find those you’re most comfortable with. Romantic relationships are even more interesting to observe. One is with one's respective better half all the time, on the phone or chatting if not together, talking too much, and going out too much. And then more likely than not, it ends. And then the drama that follows is again, a sight to see. Theatrics are common in such situations anywhere, but being in such close proximity with one's now-worse half (there are only 500 people in the place, it's kinda hard to avoid people in here) is probably more traumatising than in other places when what they usually show in the movies consists of people storming out with tears and smudged make-up and swearing to stay as far away as humanly possible. But here, see the other everyday, probably even see them coochie-cooing with girlfriend or boyfriend #2 or more. All wreaking havoc with our delicate bewildered minds.

We get a taste of what normal life and civilisation is like when we are released from this place briefly every vacation. But that's almost cruelty, a test to see how we manage to survive in that world after the soap-opera-ish magnification of this one; for it is magnified- emotions, feelings, outbursts, thoughts, experiences, affection, all of it. And then we're taken back into the safe environment that we have grown so used to. One wonders then what will happen at the end of college life when we will never come back like we always do now. How will we survive out there after most have experienced most new things back in college for the first time? Most people have their first relationship in college, for example. How is one to behave outside, when you're not perpetually with the person, when a date does not qualify as leaving each other for half an hour to change clothes and then going out?

They're watching us, I tell you. Nurturing us, to see us die a slow death when they're ready to let us go.