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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.