Saturday, December 31, 2005

Happy New Year

If I had a tale that I could tell you,
I'd tell a tale sure to make you smile.
If I had a wish that I could wish for you,
I'd make a wish for sunshine all the while.

- J. Denver.

Have a wonderful 2006!

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Bhoi In The Mo(u)rning

Please join me in mourning for the sad demise of my computer's motherboard.

In other news :

1. Created a furore at Inox Forum this morning. Reasons were as follows:-
(a) Young love, I like. But if u want to make out at a movie hall, u will adapt ur moves so as NOT to incessantly bang ur platform heeled bigfoot against my seat.
(b) Exhibiting your femininity, why certainly. But "ooooooweeeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaaawoooooooo, I'm soooooooo sc-sc-sc-ared-d-d-d" at the topmost of falsetto pitches, it's outdated. and irksome. Hop on to your boyfriend's lap. Squeeze his arm to a pulp. KEEP QUIET and let me watch my movie.
(c) Yes, I know you've paid for the movie ticket. So have I. But it's called a movie ticket because ur here to watch a MOVIE. Not to make public speeches to the effect of,"Oh look yaa, a spider's got into her dress. now she'll put her hand on her breast, no? oh she'll take off her clothes, see na yaaaa." U didn't direct it. U don't know what's coming next. Neither do I, for that matter. So how about we shut up and WATCH? And if u must talk, talk amongst urselves, the rest of the world doesn't care to indulge ur stupidity.
(d) Everytime u see King Kong, u don't have to guffaw,"dekh dekh, boyfriend aa gaya uska." and double up in LOUD laughter. Once, ok, Twice, fine. More than that, and u've had it. Ur sense of humour is too substandard for charitable tolerance.

2. I'm in love with King Kong. Awl over again. If u must know, he was my first crush ever. My knight in flea-ridden fur, how I sniffled when u crashed off the Empire State Building, snorting and roaring ur love till death did u part. :-[

3. I've said this before. D is an asshole. I've no idea why I think he's adorable sometimes. He is not. He is a perfect ... wtf, I've got to stop posting about him.

However, now that my beloved leetle computer is an orphan, I shall not be posting again for quite a while. Everybody be evil and keep adoring me. Or else.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Touch Me Not

I've always wondered about this. What is it about our upper-middle class club-culture-seeped Indians that makes them hug and kiss everybody in the vicinity of their Chanel and Shahtoosh, or their Tommy Hilfiger and Hugo Boss, dripping false familiarity while they size you up, to reckon whether the shoes you're wearing are off the streets of Bangkok [they're Khadim's, thank you] or whether the pair of faded jeans are [wozzit they said? blow-dried?] Levi's or [stone-chipped?] Lee. They're worn-and-torn Bare jeans, if you please.
I mean, the first time you're introduced to a lady and you find your face stuffed into the folds of her zardosi or whatchamacallit- is not what I call a pleasant feeling. And whatever happened to men smiling gallantly and shaking hands? What the hell, whatever happened to our good ol' namaste?! It's a perfectly dignified, [hygienic] way of greeting a person. I say, while we're being good and honest here, I do NOT like having another woman's breast pressed against mine, and i do NOT like men I barely know wetting my cheek with their lips!! I mean, I'm fine with hugging - but only when I've known a person for years and am especially happy to see her/him. Mostly I would hug when in areas of deep emotional crises - but generally, I like to keep aside such gentle fondling for the very-close and the most-beloved [that boils down to about 4 people in my life, as I distressingly find]. But I fail to understand widespread petting of one another just because it's the way to be in fashionable circles in Paris [pronounced pah-ree. roll the 'r']. I mean I understand that this is common in the West and, really even here I have nothing against such aping - leave me out of it, is awl I'm saying. Me, I'm awl for the folding of the hands and the light bowing of the head. The handshake even. There's variety in that - 5 or 6 different ways to shake a person's hand, depending on mood and occasion as D had rattled off when he'd freshly returned from training for his job.
So, tell me true, dear reader, is there a latent homophobe of sorts lurking wildly among the fatty acids that make up my being? 'Tis a most worrying thought.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Oh but he's so inexorably pretty when he's all silent with a lingering smile at the ends of his curled lips that you just want to reach out and stroke his hair and tell him this is forever!

But then, it isn't.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Shaadi Vaadi Hai Rabba - II

So Shoe is now a beast of burden. Or a married man, if you will. Anklet is, as predicted, fair, pretty, smiles docilely. And constantly, even after 3 hours of standing on the dais, displayed to hundreds of people she doesn't know. Hundreds of people who smile broadly back, and then speculate on the notun bou's appearance and the cost and quantity of her jewellery. But Anklet seems great - she'll never be an Ank, but she'll make a fabulous Anklet Boudi whose pulao mangsho and payesh are to die for and who will always giggle with you. I like her!
As a prelude to the reception, we met up at Deb's for a celebratory drink-n-dope. Chez Deb is the best party pad ever ever. It's a spacious, tastefully furnished empty apartment - all marble, lots of rooms, just the correct soft lighting for a party. And woohoo, she's promised to come back for the New Year's party, which by the way, is always a riot - anywhere between 30-50 people, all sorts of dope, Kneo's "ley taal"[lethal] cocktails which always taste like daab er jol[nariyal pani], and which always always get you high in fifteen minutes [no, I haven't a clue about what goes in there. None of us do, he shuts himself in the kitchen and emerges juggling cocktail shakers, lime and glasses], lots of music and manic dancing, russian salad and cold cuts. But that's another post altogether. Incidentally, should Deb get leave from work in Delhi and land up to let us have our party, it'll be a boon, considering our only other alternative was to loiter around Park Street and Sudder Street until we were picked up by cops and could have our party at the station. [erm... it can be done, believe it or not. Some of the gang tried it a couple of weeks back.]
Anyhoo, the drink-n-dope yesterday. While the girls changed and tripped over each other's saris in their pencil heels, the boys trudged drunkenly around, pretending to be Bollywood villains of the '70s and leering at the girls. Well ok, only Kneo, true to form, did that. J looked exquisite as did Squee, although she broke the sari-wearing pact. Of course, I was the clumsiest and happened to be able to drape my sari solely in a manner that made my arse look like the dome of the Birla Planetarium. So, much sari-fixing followed in terms of 1) Slapping my bot furiously to tame the creases that had gone haywire, 2) Boxing my bot and chanting,"Die! Die!", while Joyus, Deb's fiance yelled, "Perverse! Perverse!" and also,"Bondage!" 3) Scowling, and then Deb tut-tutting,"Oh darling, it's not the sari, it's just you!"
I broke my no-zoint record. Ended up having too many and feeling a trifle tipsy. Although I insist that wasn't the booze or the zay, it was the stilletoes.
Then everybody got philosophical and began advising Jay, Squee and me[yea yea, not "me" but "I". go ta hell] about the future. Joyus strummed the guitar and said stuff about leaving Kolkata because it was a bad place to begin one's career, Alcohol Al waved his drink at me in assent, and the Sundance Kid told me I should leave Kolkata to learn that if I don't wash my undies today, tomorrow they will remain unwashed. Profound.
When we finally decided to leave for Shoe's reception, it was already 15 minutes after we had promised to reach. And Salt Lake is quite a distance to travel from Jodhpur Park.
So taxis were hailed and oh look, mo zoints being rolled! Kneo was superbly high and kept gibbering the entire time. At one point he sang a song called "Cauliflower Kim" or something to that effect, when the cabbie couldn't take it any more and indulged in some serious motor madness. He was only pacified when Squee wielded a cigarette under his nose, which was when he slowed down and prepared to goggle his eyes at her.
The reception itself was understated and dignified and attended by bureaucrats and real estate magnates. Shoe's father is an important person and his mother looks like Helen - not in her cabaret dancer days, but in the now. Shoe was playing the perfect host - scampering all over the shamiana which had been done up in a cheerful Rajasthani theme and asking people to "Eat well". It was amusing watching him be a quintessential groom - polite smile in place, engaging in small talk and playing with the children. He confessed later to having downed a few stiff drinks and a couple of joints, which basically explains it all. The food was again, simple but fantastic- especially the chutney, which had kaju, kismis, khejur and aamshotto. Joyus played the photographer, roaming all over the place with his digital camera, overhearing conversations and rushing back to report same, convulsing in laughter thereafter. At one point he claimed to have seen a voyeur in the loo. Kneo kept tripping over the carpet, Alcy Al and Sundance constantly disappeared,holding hands [they're not gay, drink makes them ... convivial .. with each other], and Andy kept looking for bins while The Furies [J, Squee and "I"] spotted an Uncle Fester in drag.
Much fun was had, that's what I'm trying to tell you.
Not a taxi to be found when the guests had mostly all left, and we had contributed magnanimously to drinking all the milky sweet coffee, leaving none for others. So we walked awkwardly for a while, till our ankles and every part of our being screamed for liberation. The boys finally had mercy and left us to have masala pepsi at a road-side stall [god knows why it was open at that unearthly hour] and nurse our aching limbs while they took an auto to Karunamoyee to hail cabs. Somebody's cheery suggestion that we take a bus was vetoed with a lot of us reaching for the sharp end of our shoes to poke him with.
All in all, good stuff. But Middlemarch must be read forthwith.

Monday, November 28, 2005 - 22 Years + 1 Revelation

We're all "Done, with errors on page". A weighty exclamation point on a comi-conical yellow blur, floating atop the tabula rasa.

Excuse me but I am not drunk. Stymied, merely.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Apple of My i(POD)

This sleek beauty is the Apple iPOD Nano, freshly made available in Kolkata. It has most recently found residence in the snug comfort of D's newly tailored trousers. :-] Yaaay! He bought with own, hard-earned monies. I izza da proud! I can't explain it, but I'm exhilarated everytime he buys something for himself - maybe it's because he vicariously fulfils my shopaholic dreams, but it's more because he's the only 24-year old I know who can afford an iPOD and other such expensive toys. I mean, I know there are a whole lot of others, but they're not my friends. So, we shall be most admiring, and shall regard with wonder how it is as small as a credit card. [D says it is the size of his lighter. I will see, and then will I believe. Chances are I will gape a bit.] And of course, we shall notice how it makes the gom-gom in the ear. :-]

Other headlines:-
I have SEVEN visible strands of grey on my head. It is most disheartening. My mother is worried we might not be able to afford a ghor-jamai. She is this close to beating her forehead and screaming "porarmukhi".
I looked at my behind in the mirror today and squealed,"Brihot pNod!" again, as my father walked past, nodding gravely.
I have not smoked a joint since Pujo, although I am in the vicinity of joints every day. It iz ze pride, zat I swell with.
The Professor, my other good friend and confidante has called 6 times and made weird noises over the phone. Which means it is time to buy a new battery. I must one day write a post about the Professor, who plays quite an important role in ... er .. the tragicomedy of my life ... n awl that. Right now, he's playing the mediator between D and myself, and he does it with panache. The Professor is old (left side of 40), he is balding, unmarried, and believes he can play football and have forearms to reckon with. I believe otherwise, but that's neither here nor there. For the record, the Professor is NOT and has NEVER been, a love interest ['tis a common error made by friends, just thought I should clarify].
D has asked me to a movie next Sunday. I have been unable to tell him that I feel miserable around him. I haven't a clue why he wants to go out - possibly sense of courtesy acting up, wants to show me the iPOD, seeing as how excited I am about it. Polite declination doesn't work with him. [uhm, I cannot lie, I want to see him]. Damn.

And now I'm late for a bit of vodka :-]

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Seven Against Me

I was tagged by Teleute

seven things i plan to do
[] Come out of an exam hall yelling,"I finished! I finished!" instead of yelping,"I'm finished! I'm finished!"
[] Figure out what the hell it is I want to do with my life.
[] Travel to Istanbul and find mad love bang outside the Hagia Sofia.
[] Have a child - somehow, anyhow. {The state of my sex life points quite definitively towards adoption}
[] Lose weight.
[] Get a lower back tattoo. {subject to my losing weight}
[] Spend at least an hour every day NOT thinking about D.

seven things i can't do
[] Tell D how I feel.
[] Give up sweets and chocolates. Or even cut down. :-[
[] See a snake or a picture of a snake and not feel cold and nauseous or have a nightmare.
[] Sew anything more complicated than a button on a shirt.
[] Sing.
[] Run in heels. Or run at all. {Last time I tried, I ended up in bed with 9 stitches, so there}
[] Pretend to be polite around people and conversations I don't give a damn about.

seven things i say quite often
[] " Meow! :-["
[] "That is true but!"
[] "I, hungwie."
[] "Holy fucking shit! I'm screwed!"
[] "Mairi bolchhi toke kyalabo!"
[] "Ekta dhorai?"
[] "E bawaaaa! Kiiii hawbeyy?!?!"

seven blogs - a) that i read but do not personally know the author of; b) which are not connected with the media; c) which are random discovery blogs
[] kabyo kobolito kobindronath
[] BridalBeer
[] random thoughts from a confused mind
[] cyborg's contemplative corner
[] one in a billion
[] Transitory
[] But Enough About You

I tag whoever wishes to be tagged! :-]

Friday, November 25, 2005

Shaadi Vaadi Hai Rabba

Our beloved friend Shoe, journalist extraordinaire, is getting married to an unknown Anklet, this weekend. It is an arranged marriage, and Shoe hasn't bothered to introduce us to Anklet, because we're philistines, as he so endearingly puts it. My guess is, Ank is pristine, rosy-cheeked, doe-eyed and mostly in shades of white. My best wishes to them, Shoe will keep her deliriously happy, although he will nag and constantly ask for things to be done to, with and around him.
Abhishek Bachchan will not be jumping out of the wedding-cake in plum underwear, as had been promised. In my indignation I have refused to do the Arm Jiggle in 5 Parts, a fascinating sequel to my other most appealing choreography, the 3-tiered Belly Wobble. Hmph, they may have heaved a sigh of relief and Shoe may have ordered a bottle of celebratory champagne, but they just don't know what they're missing.
As a sign of protest, I shall not be threading my upper lip for the happy occasion either.
We're giving them a set of whisky glasses and decanter, an ashtray and a family pack of flavoured condoms.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Made a nooh frand. He shares his name and his nickname with D. Freaky!

In other news, I've discovered my inspirational chant - 'ley taal'. When I'm lying on a cold, hard floor, legs perpendicular to the ground, and bursting my lungs at the sixteenth abdominal crunch, I say,"Ley taal," and voila! Four more crunches happen like a dream. When I'm taking my cellulite for a run on the treadmill, and the world seems dizzyingly distant and not-quite-worthwhile, "Ley taal," I wheeze, and suddenly my chariots are on fire.
'Ley taal', incidentally, is how the Spanish pronounce 'lethal'. It is also, as a matter of fact, the name of a transsexual in Pedro Almodovar's film "High Heels". I'm yet to ask myself whether I find the name or the tranny more fascinating, it doesn't help either that Lethal, the transsexual singer also doubled up as a delectable male, heterosexual Judge in a very becoming false beard. It's all very complicated, but the film is definitely worth a watch.
Anyhow, I find myself mouthing "ley taal" embarassingly often every day, and it makes me feel nice too. Just so you know.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


'Twas a pleasant sunny afternoon, just the right kind of weather, before that slight nip in the air sets in to play squiggly-wiggly all over your spine. On such a day, much like today, a big fat Rainbeau went out to play. Etcetera.
Well, actually, not quite. There was a slight change of plans in terms of a violent cold and the immediate requirement of having to dispose of a mammoth piece of muddlesome muck, that one called a 'term paper', in a moment of derring-do. Of course, three can play at the term-paper-way-way-overdue-time-to-be-killed-by-prof game. So in joined the Bab'ly. Forward came the Squee. And Rainbeau presented herself, preceded by a flourish of trumpets [uhm .. noise made when nose is blown with great gusto] and a spraying of confetti [er .. snot, actually, but you're better off imagining confetti].
Now, you might think that the submission of a term paper that's only two weeks late is hardly cause for brouhaha. But have you ever presented yourself in college on a holiday, and demanded to meet professors, have you shaken your fist at all and sundry, swatted innocent bystanders with your channel file and glared at batchmates who lunge for your term paper like it was a delicious chicken anda roll [and who subsequently scoff at it like the roll metamorphosed into uchhe shedhyo]? [Now is a good time to glare at Bab'ly and look sympathetically at me.]
Anyhoo, the task at hand was to find the Professor in question, who, thank the Lord had been seen on the premises by others. But Charlie's Angels were we not. Our arses flew not hither and thither - we're three very grounded individuals. It was during the seventh cigarette, when Bab'ly had animatedly begun describing how aforementioned Prof. had once saved her from having her identity as Mathemagician discovered, that He arrived. Bab'ly looked here. Bab'ly looked there. Bab'ly looked up and down and promptly fell in love, all over again.
Which is neither here nor there, because of course now we had to run after him. He was with other delegates who had arrived to attend a seminar, on some topic that the meagre intellect of Rainbeau Peep chose not to grasp. So we jumped up, snatched term papers, blew nose furiously and prepared to sprint. And this is what ensued. The asides and things muttered under one's breath and thought to oneself are in italics.

Squee(wide-eyed and prepared to negotiate any form of penalty imposed for late submission): Will you two hurry up? We're losing him!
Bab'ly(blushing, eyes half-shut, either in love-longing, or she was trying to spot where He was going): ooh, giggles.
Rainbeau(huffing and puffing and trying to draw attention to the fact that once again, she was on the verge of death and too fat to sprint): Listen, do you realise we're stalking the man? Shouldn't we ... uhm ... holler?
B(grinning like a pleased cheshire cat): Oh, I've been stalking him for the last 3 years. I'm used to this.
R(wondering where her kerchief went, looking slyly at Bab'ly's kurti): Woman, we do not share your obsession!
S(frowning): Grrrr.
R(stirred to action): Bab'ly, go go, you love him, he adores you, it's the perfect setting! Pounce and we're right behind you!
B(moony and on the verge of passion-spasms): Oooh, look at him walk, look at the way the sun rays adorn his perfect salt-n-pepper hair. When I string him a crown of flowers, shall I use jNui or gNyada? (half-swoon followed by reckless giggling)
S(squirrel-like radiance be damned, Hellfire riseth): Our Father who art in Heaven ... Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil ...
R(ever the .. er ... plotician): Ok, Squee, you look innocent, professors smile at you. You go, we'll look over your shoulder and smile like angels. Tell him we've been looking for him since eternity. Tell him the papers are dynamite. Tell him hemlock is nothing compared to what we have for him. Forget nothing, reveal all! Ask him if we should drop 'em into his pigeon-hole in the office.
S(rolling eyes): Fat conniving ______
B(ok, you really just had to be there): Giggles, hohoho, heehaw. Oooh, I'm so nervous! We're soooooooo dead! (yea, she said it like being killed by Him was equivalent to a really good .. er ... uhm ... organism? ... uhm ... chocolate. chocolate.)
So then, Squee does a hoopla and canters up to Him. She pauses half a second to paste the Angelic Smile. If you'd seen Squee, you would know what I mean. That woman is an adorable devil in disguise. Very useful to us, therefore.
S(buck-toothed and beaming): Uhh, SIR?!?!
He-who-leaves-ze-fish-scrounging-4-her-gills(startled swirl): Eh? (very very wary)
B(gasping for breath, a loony toon): S-S-S-S-SIR! (yes, like S-s-s--rook khan)
R(sniffing and coughing in self defense): Er ... (hand outstretched)
S(undaunted): Sir, we were wondering ... (oh dear, she lost the thread!) .. term ... glub glub ...
B(hysterical): He loves me, he loves me not... he loves me ... (of course, she was saying it in Greek)
R(not to be left out of the action, violently swinging arms and other flabby parts of torso): Sir! Pigeon? But, Sir Sir! Pigeon!
Bemused Delegates accompanying Him: Aah, girls these days, I tell you!
He-who-etc: Hain dao (mildly embarassed)
Rainbeau catches hold of a swooning Fish.

p.s.:- Should there be no posts following this one, dear readers, point all fingers at Babelfish, and look for my bloated carcass in the JU jheel, where the Fish conducts various nefarious activities, most popular of them being to dunk unknowing batchmates into cold and filthy water.

Monday, November 21, 2005

'Tis a nooh day


Aww well *digging the ground with heels, trying not to look up*, that was an embarassing last post. I'm sorry about that, beloved readers, and thank you, really, to those who left comments. It feels nice to be understood.
Aah well then, even the sunny Rainbeau can be a wash-out sometimes, eh?
Let us be happy once again, and when I'm online next, let me write a less accurate and much exaggerated post about how Bab'ly and I accomplished the fated submission of the accursed term paper.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Term Paper Trauma- Of Late Submissions & Phallus Fetish.

Hair all dishevelled, sallow skin, a perpetual hunted look on my face - i'm a term paper writing freak show. I mean, don't they know i'm incapable of tasks daunting?! I'm a woman of trivial pursuits, so help me Coco Chanel and Choco Shakes! Oh, evil, evil! :-[

Now I've created a monster. Sexually explicit and never-ending.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Slugabed, Spineless Too

Got the back ache from hell. It's as if a tenacious mechanic of Damnation is trying his new screwdriver [the device, NOT the drink ... although That would be nice right now, something to wash down the painkillers with] on my spine, and boy does it work. I'm not very sure that I'm even coherent right now .. it's difficult to be, when one is on a diet of spasmo this-n-that.
So there goes another day at the Film Festival - wasted.
There goes my term paper.
And my favorite soft toy - the hot water bag.
Let me go lie down then.

Omniscience or an Ominous Science?

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Thursday, November 10, 2005

Of Opportunities Missed

Spotted the penultimate ex, Daddy's Lil Rich Kid, driving a sleek new metallic silver Skoda Octavia, while speaking on his Nokia Communicator, and adjusting the deck of his Pioneer Car CD woddeva thing.
Woe is me! If I'd held on, I might have been dripping pearls and pregnancy today, and not weeping over a term paper that goddammit i don't wanna write!
Instead, I almost slipped off the bus, taught my chhana, who once again insisted on not learning, came back home and read D's SOP, which is about the only mail I've got from him in the last 6 months.


Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Stinking Pee(p)

The patchwork of ten years of grease and moss on the walls grumble about it sometimes. But I hardly ever paid attention to that. It was only today that I realised what had been staring me starkly in the face for all these years. It was only during breakfast at the unswept dining-table, which still had stiff remnants of last night's noodles on it, only at the kitchen rack above the sink, where my mother's hairband hung, stray strands of hair still stuck to it, beside the newly purchased coffee mugs, that it hit me like a hard punch on the noggin.

I live in a pigpen.

Now I know why I mechanically take 2 baths on an average, everyday of the year, even when it's quite cold. I've been known to take as many as 5 a day. It's an intuitive, survivor's instinct to sanitize myself.

It's contradictory, really. Or maybe, you could say there's a subtle balance. For if my bathroom is spotless, then my bed is a mound of clothes dusted over with talcum powder that is sprayed liberally on everything around me, following every shower. If the kitchen is spick and span [except for the rack, it genuinely is], then the fridge door is all splotchy with oily fingerprints. If the washing machine is, of all places, in the pujo'r ghor, then the laundry is awlways in the neat little basket. If my mother's room is a melee of clothes, bills, bed linen, hosiery, huge bed, cutlery, computer and crap, then my father's den looks like the smoking room of a cosy English country inn. Minus the fireplace and the smoke. While the interiors have been freshly painted, the exteriors need serious rescue work.

Which is all such a pity, since the house is very tastefully furnished.

Monday, November 07, 2005

The Diet - Day 1

Breakfast @ 8:30: 8 pieces of luchi with alu'r chechki, 1 kalakand, 1 cup of coffee with Sugar Free.

Brunch @ 11:00: 1 salami n cheese samwich.

Tea @ 16:00: Squee's tiffin, which is awlways substantial.

Dinner @ 19:00: At Nafeel's, opposite Zeeshan on Park Circus. For those who are yet to convert, it's a small, squalid eatery bang opposite the Park Circus tram depot. The food is very good, the service, fast and friendly. Men may smoke, if they've run out, they may send a waiter for cigarettes. Women may gape, or, if they're slim enough, may attempt going under the table for a puff. This involves tedious acrobatics, not advisable for women over 63 [kilos]. 1 plate mutton biriyani, 1 plate handi kabab, 1 plate beef bhuna, 1 paratha, 1 cola dwink. Cost of extravagance and over-eating - under Rs.50. Oh oh, firni bought from Zeeshan, for the taxi ride back to college.

I'm doing well, ain't I? :-[

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Just a bunch of memories, tattered and strung along a washing line of bright promise. We find each other's great sadness in all its naked beauty- ghastly and clamouring to be free.

And when I'm at the promontory, flailing my arms for flight, no matter where you are, I shall still hear you drown.

Whenever you breathe out, I breathe in.

Saturday, November 05, 2005

The more money he assumes he will make, the more asinine he gets.

Friday, November 04, 2005

And They Awl Came Tumbling After

I am 5 feet and 2 inches [following a million years of stretch exercises] and I weigh 63 kilos [following months of stuffing my face with ghee er mishti and canteen noodles, and most recently cheesecake, tiramisu and kiwi ice cream]. I have a term paper that I haven't begun researching, leave alone writing. I have a roll of camera film containing my most recent Oz photos that I dare not develop now, following the trip to the weighing machine this morning. I have 2 pairs of jeans that cling to my thighs and refuse to move upward. Oh, I don't have thighs, I have Doric columns. I have a face that is barely visible behind gazillion acne spots - a result of calorie calamity.

There's too much injustice in the world.

Sunday, October 30, 2005

Surfboards & Sand

Am at the Brisbane Airport right now, on my way back from the Gold Coast. The Pacific Ocean is the bluest and at its merriest best here, with surfing, paragliding, and a whole bunch of amusement parks that cease to amuse, really. I mean, try being flung up 130 feet high on a human sling, and then try swinging up and down, hanging mid-air, about 14 storeys above the ground. NOT amusing, not after a heavy buffet breakfast, certainly.
Waking up every morning to a spectacular view of the ocean, drinking coffee in the balcony, the smell of a moroccan black mingling with a salty sea-breeze - they don't call this place Surfer's Paradise for nothing.
I'm off to Singapore for now. Should be back home in some days, sooner if they don't let me in, considering I don't have a Sing Visa.
Will reply to awl comments later, I see I have moe n moe visitors! :-D
As for now, Utey: how air ya, hon? Bab'ly & Cass - Howz the y term paper going? Ur both going to hell for working on em, you know. Kucho - Behave, child, I'm so frightfully much older than ye!
Happy Diwali everybody!

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

This has got to be a hurried post. Am in Sydney right now, writing this from a friend's hostel computer [not being the frivolous spending sort, I enjoy services that may be obtained for free, even if it means trespassing, which is precisely what I'm doing right now].
The weather was brilliant so far, but it's raining a bit right now. Went to Coogee Beach today, saw 3 topless women with nice breasts, and 1 with sagging ones [Kucho, are you listening?].
Shopping is ridiculous, considering that Indian motifs seem to be in fashion here. Frightful skirts that they sell outside New Market are haute couture [pronounced: oh, kutu] here. I think I have a new business plan.
Have been wandering around town by myself, except today, when I met up with aforementioned old friend from desh. So then, this chinky guy with a mohawk catches me in the middle of the road, and smiles and whoops for joy and demands to know whether I remember him. I say I've never seen him before. I'm a stickler for the truth. Appreciating my honesty, he falls in love [if I SAY he falls in love, he does. It's MY word against nobody's.] and asks me to dinner. Asks me where I study, tells me he's an automobile engineer, was born in Korea, and christened Ryan. Insists on buying me coffee, when I tell him I'm only here on vacation. I smile nervously, consider running, and then decide to tell him about the father who is here with me, and who I'm supposed to be meeting. Ryan understands fathers are a dangerous species, not to be messed with. He lets me go after a peck on my hand.
His parting shot is, "You're the most beautiful Korean I've ever seen."
KOREAN?!?!?!?! You could put an engine in my belly and call me DAEWOO and I still wouldn't look KOREAN!!!!!
But what I'm trying to impress upon you, dear reader, is that, I may not find a date in desh, but Here, I'm gooood!

*blows last smoke ring, stubs out lipstick-smeared cigarette and struts out. fade sound: slutty stilletos [stilletoes?]*

p.s.:- I actually panicked and called D long distance.

Saturday, October 22, 2005


The visas aren't here yet, the hotel accomodations aren't done, the tickets haven't been confirmed, there's no foreign exchange, and packing is impossible, what with everything wet and no undergarments to be found.

But I think I'm going to be on a plane to Australia via Singapore in less than 24 hours. :-]

Friday, October 21, 2005


Tumne mujhe dekha, ho kar meherbaan,
Ruk gayi yeh zameen, thham gaya aasmaan,
Jaaneman, Jaanejaan,
Tumne mujhe dekha!
Kahin dard ke sehra mein, rukte chalte hotey,
In hoton ki hasrat mein, tapte jalte hotey,
Meherbaan, ho gayi, zulf ki badliyan,
Jaaneman, Jaanejaan,
Tumne mujhe dekha, ho kar meherbaan,
Ruk gayi yeh zameen, thham gaya aasmaan,
Jaaneman, Jaanejaan,
Tumne mujhe dekha!
Lekar yeh haseen jalwe, tum bhi na kahaan pohchen,
Aakhir ko mere dil tak, kadmon ke nishaan pohchen,
Khatam se, ho gaye, raastein sab yahaan,
Jaaneman, Jaanejaan,
Tumne mujhe dekha, ho kar meherbaan,
Ruk gayi yeh zameen, thham gaya aasmaan,
Jaaneman, Jaanejaan,
Tumne mujhe dekha!
One of those songs you can depend on for a smile.
Turns out D's read this blog. Shyte. Having been thoroughly scandalised by a certain post where I appear to have likened him to a truck-driver, and another where He thinks I've referred to him as FoolishFace, he has politely declined to ever come within viewing distance of this place. Thank the Lord.

I feel particularly embarassed. Worse, I miss him yet again. Fuckit.

Being For The Benefit of Litil UI~~

Only difference is, I sleep in something less extravagant. I'm frightfully cute, by the way, what with the rosy cheeks and the comely pout. :-]

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Caught In The Crossfire

Militants, suspected to be of the Dimasa tribe, stopped two buses in Assam, lined the passengers on the road, and slit the throats of passengers of the rival Karbi clan. They burned down the vehicles and proceeded to set fire to the neighbouring village. A 3-month old baby was flung into the fire. Read about it here. Or don't.
What revolting form of hatred prompts such violence? Which man can set alight a child and then live guiltlessly without a thought to the heinous nature of his crime? What is territorial supremacy good for, if the people of the territory are dead?
I hope they killed the child's parents before him.
It's most frightening when you know this is happening all over the world.

There's no joy in the morning.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Have you ever dreamt of being a kite untethered, flying in a squiggly wind-path, light as a paper and fine-boned? Soar beyond the land of faeries, only to end up scratched and torn and dying on a tree branch.
That should be a nice journey.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

! ! @ ! !

Holy shyte.
Was browsing through the Tiffany's website, and I came across the pendant I was gifted. It IS EFFING EXPENSIVE!!!!!! I have seriously generous relatives. I can't believe something so tiny could be so dear. Now I really need to do something about my neck. Quick, people, tell me how does one get a slender neck?!

Coinage & Acquisition

Conversation with a friend went like this :-

Friend: I think it adds a certain zing to the flavour, don't you?
I: Really? Would you say that? I thought it was more of a tang.
F(vehemently tut-tutting): Oh NO! It was more than a tang for sure! My vote lies with zing.
I(cold): I don't agree.

{stolid, uncomfortable silence}

F(conciliatory): Well, maybe a certain zang?
I(not the one to give up): A ting, then?
F(outraged): A TING? There's no TING?!?! Noone ever heard of a TINGY taste!!!

.... and the argument continues, as they say in that toffee advt.
We were discussing the benefits of adding juice of a slice of lemon to grilled fish, before putting it in the oven.
Really, with this level of intellect, I'm surprised I don't get lost in my own room, or drown myself in the shower or somesuch. Moreover, all this, when neither of the two of us can cook.

In other news, don't you love it when relatives from bilet come visiting? I do, it means that I'm either getting a lot of chocolate, or a lot of shampoo, OR a lot of expensive gifts. This time I got a sexy Gucci watch and a lovely, delicate sterling silver pendant from Tiffany's [entirely lost on my bullneck]. I am therefore, elite for the day! [That is, before my Mother whacks both gifts from my closet and insists she's only 'borrowing', which is absolute crap because thereafter I get smouldering glares everytime I express meek claims to ownership of said articles.]

I'm Unstoppable


Noiselessly, making its way out into the world – a bit of speckled sunshine peering through a dark valley, whose pear-shaped brilliance was matched with a lingering perfume that smelt of nature.
The splash in the water shook her out of her reverie.
“Turd,” she said, and reached for the toilet paper, “He didn’t deserve me.”


Friday, October 14, 2005

Oh look, another 55-worder

It was a night of passion that had ended in her victory.
The faint rays of the sun trod softly into the room as the bride crept out of her nuptial bed, leaving a trail of blood behind her. She wiped the thick line of vermilion from her forehead, and looked defiantly at the corpse.

This is my 55-word story. I'm going to call it "Marital Rape".

[I'm going to frequently come up with this sort of thing till I either (a) realise fiction is not my forte, or (b) convince myself that i'm getting bloody good at this. Readers of blog: BEWARE].

Wednesday, October 12, 2005


[He not only forgives, he chooses to live in denial. God bless you, D.]

Completely crashed this afternoon, after having had next to no sleep in the past 72 hours.
There's something about Pujo that slinks up from behind you when you're least alert, and then overwhelms you entirely.
Had been so busy binge-drinking and eating out and staying over at friends' places and being generally hedonistic that there was no time for thakur dyakha, although we did catch some part of the shondhi pujo at Bosepukur early Ashtami morning on our way to Park Street for breakfast from Squee's. So we decided to take an early morning walk around South Kolkata pujos today. It happened at Ballygunge Cultural, and then once more at Mudiali.
As one climbs up the steps to the Ballygunge Cultural pandal, the protima gradually makes herself visible, misty in the billowing smoke emanating from the dhunuchi in the thakurmoshai's hand and the dizzying scent of incense sticks and fresh flowers. The dhakis at BC - 4 of them, play a synchronised beat, dancing quaintly all the time. They're not the weary dhakis we found at other pandals, having played the entire night through, even the early morning pujo found them full of zest- and not because they had an audience, there were hardly any people at the time. They were performing not for us, but for Ma, and were enjoying themselves and I think that enthusiasm rubbed off on everybody. The priest swayed to the beat that was being drummed to a crescendo, it was a maddening trance of devotion and we were all engulfed in it. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, Ma smiled indulgently. And that's when it hit me, this is almost over. And it wasn't the late nights and being wayward that would have to stop, it was the not being able to feel the Pujo air on a fresh morning that saddened.
They've recreated an Orissa temple at Mudiali. But they have the most beautiful protima, not anything frightfully creative, or even in keeping with the rest of the theme, like at most pandals. Ma comes alive when she looks at you and you want to be near Her, you want to forget about yourself and pray for peace. And you don't want Her to leave. She draws you to Her, and you can only stand there spell-bound and misty-eyed, and take in all Her beauty. Most pandals feel like pieces of art, Mudiali felt like a mondir.
I'm going to miss the sound of the dhaak, the ritual of the kola-bou snan and the anjali. I'm going to miss those friends I know I shall meet again probably only during next Pujo. I'm going to miss that feeling of gay abandon that makes every moment of Pujo so exciting and memorable.

Shubho Bijoya everybody.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

I've had the most wonderful 24 hours and then I ruined it all by being a complete BITCH. Don't you hate when that happens? I can't seem to be able to stop hurting the very people who matter most to me.
Wanted to blog about Oly and Squee's and Anjali and Kumari Pujo in the wee morning.
Can't now, I've been terrible.
I've hurt D.
And it's worse because I know he'll get over it, but I never will.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Me But Never Asked

In a Past Life...
You Were: A Genius Despot.
Where You Lived: Spain.
How You Died: Consumption.
Who Were You In a Past Life?


You Are 30% Weird
Not enough to scare other people...But sometimes you scare yourself.
How Weird Are You?

If only they knew what I was in a past life . . .

You're an Expert Kisser
You're a kissing pro, but it's all about quality and not quantityYou've perfected your kissing technique and can knock anyone's socks offAnd you're adaptable, giving each partner what they craveWhen it comes down to it, your kisses are truly unforgettable
What Kind of Kisser Are You?

I knoo thees! *giggles* :-p

Your Hidden Talent
You are a great communicator. You have a real way with words.You're never at a loss to explain what you mean or how you feel.People find it easy to empathize with you, no matter what your situation.When you're up, you make everyone happy. But when you're down, everyone suffers.

You Are Mexican Food
Spicy yet dependable. You pull punches, but people still love you.
What Kind of Food Are You?

Your Brain's Pattern
Your mind is a creative hotbed of artistic talent.You're always making pictures in your mind, especially when you're bored.You are easily inspired to think colorful, interesting thoughts.And although it may be hard to express these thoughts, it won't always be.
What Pattern Is Your Brain?

And it's early morning on Shoptomi. I've had 4 hours and 27 minutes of sleep. A long and beautiful day awaits. :-]

Sunday, October 09, 2005

excusez-moi, mais je ne suis aucun histoire-caissier!

Ten years ago they’d first held hands in the dark alley, giggling nervously.

“Today, we become one. Nobody can break this bond, this holy union sanctioned by God. You do want to be with me forever?”
“I love you.”
They held hands once more, and jumped. And were lost forever in the fathomless ravine below.

55 words and gawd'elpme. Everybody I read has already been tagged, I think. oh, and i was tagged by Teleute.

Pujo'r Shubhechha Shokolke

This is Shoshti. And I have jwor. And tummy cramps. I have the chums. I am sitting at home, when I should have been out touring Ballygunge Cultural, Samaj Sebi, Shib Mondir and Mudiali. Or binge-drinking.
Instead, I am reading The Da Vinci Code. I am enjoying it, though. I am reading my blog, where lovely comments have been left by pretty people. I am eating every 15 minutes - whoever said anything about starving fevers was an anorexic supermodel, [later caught doping]. or sumsuch.
My father is home too. He's moping about, having lost his red-gemstone ring which was given to him by his mother when he was 11. He claims to have been wearing it ever since, which would mean that my father has had stubby, hairy fingers from the time he was a pre-teen. He's slouching all over the house looking ill and is intermittently muttering to himself things like, "The umbilical cord has been cut." I've tried telling him maybe the ring had served it's time, and he should let go now, but he's inconsolable. He wasn't very attached to my grandmother ever, so this is very strange to me. He hasn't been anywhere near Tolkien, so it can't be influence. All this is very worrying.
On the brighter side, tomorrow is a good day. Pandals in the morning, Olypub in the afternoon, thakur and big dinner in the evening, and spending the night at Squee's with the Starlet and the Starry-eyed. Booze n jay. With Bosepukur nearby.
Have a good Pujo, everyone! :-]

Saturday, October 08, 2005

The world's a bloody stage. Even at home.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005


Pishi came. I made bhaat for her. I almost ruined it, but not quite. Pishi ate in silence. Pishi gave me Rs.1000 for efforts and for Pujo. The domestic politics that goes on between my mother and pishi [paternal aunt] is pathetic, and amusing. Both scourge the city to find the ugliest saris to gift each other. Pishi is quite considerably dark - Ma gifts her a sari in light-but-bright blue ["tuutey rong"]. Ma wears crepes or salwars when she's not bursting at the seams in MY clothes- Pishi gives her a brown sari with yellow border. Different colours of crap, looks like it was dyed in the toilet. Pishi come. Pishi go.
Went to college to bunk classes, in honour of J's leaving for the jungle. She's on the train now. Near Jalpaiguri is her lair. We shall all miss J during Pujo, like we have been doing all these years. Complacent Bitch.
Got on a crammed BUS. Tried to do the trapeze act for a while. Nice Man Sitting took pity and offered to hold on to my bag while I still performed. I politely declined. NMS then offered me a seat next to him on the "Jyants sit" once one was available. I sat, grateful. Nice man stared at my breasts and kept at it. Nice man commenced playing scales on my thighs and proceeded to play footsie with my floaters.
Came home and had half a kilo of mishti doi.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Balloons, Streamers, and the Mafia

Nobody wants to lose a lesbian lover and a sole-reader-of-blog at the same time. This entry was written post-haste to win back the waning passion of my cross-dressing Mistress[ref:TagBoard~ "i veel not laabh oo" etc.] whose hairs are no more wires, following a 300-buck haircut- the cause for much controversy and pouting. I'm only human. Hence thus and therefore, I am back to blog. In full Sapphic intensity. [Here you go, Tele, u .. blackmailing ... vulture ... FEED].

So, I went to a budday party last evening. At a junior's place in faraway and remote Hastings. [Taxi fare: Rs.102 from Jadavpur University.] It was one of those propah parties with parents and polite chitchat. It's been ages since I'd been to one of those. No alcohol, no dope. Nobody throws up, nobody passes out. Quite honestly, we were all dreading it, initially. Imagine having to spend at least 4 hours without cigarettes! But we ended up having quite a bit of fun, actually! Better yet, we actually REMEMBERED what the fun was all about, nobody being hungover, for a change.
We played a game called Mafia - which is complicated but imaginative. Fun. I had gone through the trouble of explaining how it was played in great details, but the World Wide Web chewed up my earlier post even before I could save it. Just click on the link, and you'll have a fair enough idea, although our game was slightly modified. There were no cards, for instance - the Mafia and the Sheriff were being slapped on the head, instead.
The last round was especially fun. I got to be one of the Killers and I fooled everyone for quite a while, until the Sheriff GUESSED correctly who I was, and then insisted that I be voted out, because I had killed him. Die hard with a vengeance and awl that. The other Killer decided to kill herself - a Mafia suicide, and the townspeople were left wondering who Killer 2 was, oblivious to the fact that she was already dead. Everybody kept accusing each other and dying simultaneously, till it got very late and was time to go home, when the Moderator disclosed that he had turned Himself into Killer THREE! Clearly not part of the rules, but good stuff nonetheless.
I'm doing potty again. Three helpings of spicy garlic chicken is not the sort of thing you subject a person with irritable bowel syndrome to. What can I say, I was born on the year of the pig. :-[
Bought a purty kurti and australian grapes. Both frightfully expensive. That Gariahat Mall is brimming with mashimonis, crashing into racks, falling on heaps of clothes, mock-swooning over price tags, quarelling with hapless shop assistants, screeching to their Tumpas and Jhimlis, and their Tublus, Tuklus and Tokais. The entrance to fitting rooms seems to be their favourite haunt, glaring at me as I try to edge past an obese Pompa to make a beeline for an empty changing room their favourite pastime. Long Live Kuti Mashi and Mishti Pishi. Without you, Kolkata just wouldn't be the same. :-]

p.s.: For the record, Rainbeau_Peep is merrily heterosexual in reality and Teleute, last heard, was having an affair with her computer.
p.p.s.:- Rainbeau_Peep will accept discreet, non-sexual advances from vehicle-owning gentlemen, especially during Pujo week, now that she has shunned buses, having realised that only sweaty boudis who want to use her as refreshing tissue and smelly perverts who mistake her for the pie in American Pie, use aforementioned mode of transportation. Taxis have become impossible, the meter starts at Rs.20, which is equivalent to the cost of EIGHT silk cuts.
Interested candidates must be willing to spend Pujo week with a bevy of R_P's good-looking, gossipy, occasionally intolerable, and often wasted,friends [including Males]. Incentives *as if there weren't enough awready!*: Fun times [non-sexual, non-violent] and a treat at Barista.
Interested candidates must be willing to shove off after Pujo week. Unless they're wildly witty, knowledgeable and humourous. Or unless one of said friends of R_P falls in love with them [including Males].
It should be kept in mind that chosen candidate will NOT be expected to spend ANY money on R_P or friends. He shall only pay for himself and his gas. uhm.

Music of the moment: "Wishful thinking" by Duncan Sheik.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Chut-zpah & Chicken Pao

Squee and the Starling stayed over at my place on Saturday night and we got drunk and gossipy. I rolled THREE perfect joints in Regent cigawets. My debut. Everyone clapped. I was born to do this thing, I'm telling ya. The Starling gets particularly chatty when she's drunk, which was fabulous, because now I know all about the Nymphomaniac, the Bisexual, and the "Chuts" in college. So watch out, all you sinners and saints. Look over your shoulder when you walk by. I might be smirking behind your back. I know all your secrets.
Squee can't light a cigawet when she's drunk (dwunk, I means). I light the wrong side of a cigawet when I'm drunk(dwunk, again). But that's because I can hardly ever see things. I'm short-sighted. After six p.m. on any evening you'll find me walking hunch-backed on Kolkata streets, squinting my eyes for potholes and potato peels.
We decided to take a break from bitching, when we realised it was 4 in the morning, and there was no point sleeping THEN, because we were supposed to wake up at 4:30 anyways, and meet J and the rest for Chinese Breakfast at Poddar Court. So I was made to sway my jiggly torso to the kitchen and make their Highnesses Gossipa and Gosserpina coffee [I, er .. NEVER gossip. Oh no.] I make the most fantastic cafe latte. THEY may or may not agree, but I do.
The Chinese Bfast was fabulous, the taxi ride was even better. The city looks its best early in the morning. Reminds me of that old Horlicks advt. Too exhausted right now to go into details about the whole thing. Suffice to say, I'm willing to go again. If anybody wants to know where exactly it is, and how to get there, how much money it takes etc.. just tell me, and I'll post 'em here.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

O Sheeet, I Minz To Say

Macabre Discoveries Of The Day:-

1. Bathroom sink clogged. Have to wash mouth in the shower. Consequently, getting drenched every time.
2. Faerie Queene doesn't really contain as much pornography as imagined. Hence, bloody boring. Test in less than 12 hours. Fuckit.
3. D's birthday in a week. Don't know what to get him yet. Don't know if I should personally give him gift, or courier it, since we're both oh-so busy. Meeting him would mean having to get arms waxed. Bad idea, severe financial crunch.
4. Have crow's feet. At age 22. Must remember NOT to laugh coquettishly in presence of eligible bachelors- ever again. May never GET an eligible bachelor, now that I'm fat AND grim. [will not entertain comments from WOMEN claiming I am "hot babe" and not fatso. girls, i love you all, but beyond the platonic, you do nothing for me.]
5. Have loose motion. Again. Must be stress-potty. This intellectual mediocrity is bad for my bowels.
6. Can't study for test. Have tried. Impossible. Shakespeare's homo-eroticism gives me tummy ache.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

And then one day you're brushing your hair, and you find yourself in his arms. And he's stroking your hair, and you smell that warmth you thought you'd lost forever. You shut out the world till all you see is his face. He smells of waterfalls and musk.
And then you look up, and it's just you in front of the mirror. You wonder why it had to dissolve. You wonder if he feels the same way.

And on other days, you wish he wouldn't call.

Maybe you'll see me in another time,
Walk past me, not knowing who we were to each other once.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Sex And The Mummy

Will somebody PLEASE tell Aroon Purie to stop doing surveys on the single Indian woman and her sexuality?!?! NOT while I still live with my Barmy Marmy, please please!!! This is the conversation we had this morning at the breakfast table. She was reading the latest edition of India Today, eyes agog with wonder, when :-

BM(looking over her bifocals at me, trying to be nonchalant): This survey says that 42% of Indian women first have sex between the ages of 19 and 21. So?
I(saying to myself,"ugh, here we go"): What?
BM: Had sex? SEX?! (she's unstoppable now, and is rapidly flipping the pages of the magazine that is determined to make my life difficult) What about EROTIC LITERATURE?
I(deciding this conversation must be terminated): I'm a virgin, if you must know.
BM(unconvinced): Are you telling me that you're 22 and you haven't had SEX yet? (somehow she's screaming out the word "sex" - either for added emphasis, or because she's anxious, but doesn't want to show it)
BM(she should've been paparazzi): Not with that BoyWithBadTeeth? Not even with FoolishFace? WHAT ABOUT ORAL SEX?!?!?!
I(choking over toast): gngh?!
BM(arched eyebrows): Yes?
I(through gritted teeth): I don't wish to discuss my sex life with you. And I will NOT have you speaking disparagingly about my ex-boyfriends.
BM(agitatedly leap-frogging all over the place): AHA! So you Have had SEX!!! Guilty! Geeeeeeelteeeeee! Chi Chi, loke ki bolbe?! Shaawwwmaaaaaaj! AIDS! AIDS! AIDS! Biye debo ki kore? I'm going to tell Baba about all your doings, it will KILL him!!!
I(carpe diem-ly): Is THAT what U want?
BM(grimacing): Hmph.

Thankfully, I have a really cool and liberal mother, she was just trying to act maternal, for a change. She doesn't really mind if I do or don't have sex. I know that for a fact because she went on to ask me if I had ever masturbated, if I had ever considered doing it with a woman, and whether BBT and FF had had a problem with my weight or the size of my breasts, which for some reason she likes to believe, are miniscule. They are NOT. I'm no Jordan, but I'm a very good Plain Jane. They call us "real" women, nowadays. Being the person she is, Ma skipped important issues like contraception, of course. My mother really thinks she's 16. THAT's her midlife crisis.
I forego blogging starting NOW.

What's the story, morning glory?

There is something gravely wrong when you wake up at 5:30 a.m., decline to be dragged screaming to the gym by a fanatic mother who will go to all lengths to make you marriage-worthy, plop yourself confortably in a singularly most uncomfortable crooked chair, ignore backpain, and settle down to read the personal lives of other people, id est their blogs.
It becomes disconcerting moreover when you do an academic update of your position on the upcoming test prep.

Academic Update:-
1. Shakespeare's Sonnets - read 4. out of 154, was it?
2. Spenser's Faerie Queene - eh, what?
3. Bleak House, Dickens - only 60 more chapters to go. I've done myself proud, here.

Ergo, I shall rehabilitate myself. With my supreme willpower, I shall walk right around the blogosphere, without looking once at it, and go straight to Project Gutenberg for intellectual advancement and such like. See if I can't.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

D called. We spoke about mundane things like speed-reading and CAT maths. Not for long either. Obviously I hadn't anything to contribute to the conversation. When he hung up, I cried. Must be the bloody weather. It's raining prettily and the whole world is a sombre grey and green. Beauty can be depressing when you have nobody to share it with. I miss you, D. I wish I could tell you, but I'm afraid you might not care.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Testy Times

1. Sonnets of Shakespeare - all 154 of them.
2. Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser - Book VI, approximately 600 stanzas of allegory, which includes everything, from knight in shining armour to distressed damsel, lascivious cannibals and other interesting titbits of fantasy. The underlying meaning has something to do with Queen Elizabeth, Ireland and Protestantism. I'm not sure I give a damn about the underlying meaning.
3. Bleak House by Charles Dickens - 1000 pages.

I have a day to begin, complete and research 1. and 2., and 4 days to begin, read and research 3.

This is not the life I bargained for.


With her shopper-human ability to spot the most expensive and least substantial clothes, Shopperwoman Paris Hilton swings from one designer boutique to another, saving shopping malls with her able sidekick Citibank Platinum credit card. Seen here is Shopperwoman spearheading the Retail Revolution, having saved several harried Valentinos and Manolo Blahniks from inevitable ruin at the hands of her arch-enemy, The Frumpy Foes of Fashion also known as The Middle Class. [Shopperwoman costume designed by Versace, of dressing-liz hurley-in-safety pins fame.]

I want her life. And her legs.

Is it very obvious that I have nothing to say?

Sunday, September 11, 2005

The Other Erotica

I went for lunch and got sinful dark chocolate, what did Ewe get, hey? :-]

Saturday, September 10, 2005


I've been on a manic blog-reading spree to determine what it is about other people's blogs that makes them get encouraging comments and ovations and appreciative word-of-mouth publicity, while I have people asking me if I want to own an online casino, with no references whatsoever to the interesting anecdotes I've put in about my superbly colourful life. I've compared notes, and come to the conclusion that my blog, at best, is mildly amusing, but only just so. It has nothing of "the morbid musings of the existentialist nihilist" or the insightful observations of "the post-modernist weeping philosopher". No intellectual capacity, nothing cerebral about it. I'm a yapping Lindsay Lohan who wants to discuss spots and mo-biking men.

So, in a last ditch effort to boost readership, I'm turning my blog into a tabloid.

Here, Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you "The Life Of Rainbeau Peep: Most Embarassing Moments" :-

1. Year 1995- I am 12 years old, not very bright, rotund with acne. I need tuitions in mathematics, and a private tutor comes to explain to me the intricacies of vulgar fractions. I am only concerned with sexual innuendoes and find mathematics amusing, until I realise the terror that is my tutor. He wreaks havoc on one and all when I make careless mistakes and exhales dangerously toxic breath [obviously never used mouthwash] when I don't [I mean I can't] do my homework.
On one fateful evening, I am being taught decimals, and am making an effort to listen attentively, having just previously been admonished for undone homework. The man is jabbering away when I feel a leaky bladder issue arising. I'm petrified of him, so I let him keep talking without interrupting. Until it gets unbearable...
I say: Sir, may I...
Motor-mouth [no need for respect, he was only a young engineering student]: No, no breaks, you didn't do your homework. To continue, 6.66 + 66.6 would make ... etc.
I [writhing like a flummoxed serpent]: I need to be excused. [I can barely talk by now]
M-m: I know all your tricks, young lady. You're always looking for excuses to slack it.
I [swaying in my chair,as if to a tribal chant in my head]: You're not getting it ...
M-m [roaring in exasperation]: CONCENTRATE!!!!!!
The weak of heart should stop here. I tried my best, dear readers. I couldn't hold it in any longer. There and then, I went, drip drip trickle trickle and then splash splatter, until my dining room was a pool of my own urine. It didn't help that I pretended nothing had happened. What followed is hardly important, suffice it to know that my Father gifted him an expensive fountain pen on the next day of class. I was 12, and well developed. He was only about 8-10 years older than I.

2. Year 1999 - I am 16 now. Still fat, with acne. But quite the sprightly little devil, with a sizeable friend circle, and in the process of discovering new creative potential in myself everyday. I participate actively in several extra-curriculars, convinced I can do anything. The sort of thing all teenagers go through. Boys have begun to notice me. Not the best boys, though. I'm a happy, prancing elephant.
Double period English in school. There's a silly class test that Debo, Mahe and I are just too good to take. We decide to bunk, and hide in the Home Science Lab., because the girls have made roso malai in the last period. We're the gastronomes who will partake of the roso malai and subsequently make our opinions about other people's culinary skills be known.
So we're in the Lab, chomping down all sorts of roso malai, when this cleaning-guy suddenly comes in. Engrossed eaters, we had forgotten to lock the door. Cleaning-guy sees us, turns around, rushes out, locking the door behind him. We're trapped in the Home Science Lab, with nothing to defend ourselves but round balls of cottage cheese dipped in sweetly flavoured milk. Clearly, some teacher would be summoned. We lose our mind and decide the best course to adopt would be to hide. Even though we'd already been spotted, we hide. Debo and Mahe are both unnaturally thin, they squeeze themselves behind a large cupboard. I hide under the table.
After what seems like an eternity, the door opens and we hear the voice of the Department Head asking where we were. I close my eyes. I'm so dizzy with fear, I can't gauge what's being said. When I open my eyes I see the DH crouching down and gesturing to me to come out from under the table. I crawl out, tasseled with years of accumulated dust.
We were actually let off without suspension or even detention, because we were all three of us good students with clean records. Maybe DH was slightly amused by the whole incident. Or perhaps Mahe's relentless weeping had an impact.
When she found out, my English teacher held me and her eyes were misty. I'm not lying, I swear, she was very fond of me. We were in Class XI, the second-most senior students in the whole school.

3. Year 2001- Do the math. I've just appeared for my school-leaving examinations. Got through a law school, everybody elated. We need a holiday. My acne is under control, somewhat. I am full of angst, I listen to psychedelic rock, and have known love. We decide to explore Australia and New Zealand - my family and I.
On a touristy train to gape at the natural marvel that is a Kiwi glacier, we sit behind a young American mother with her delightfully pink, bouncy baby. She has wicked blue eyes and a tuft of golden hair all curled up on a tiny head. Everything excites her, she hops from her mummy's lap onto the seat next to her, and then clambers up and down anything worth clambering. I catch her eye and wink my admiration, and she flashes me her best mono-toothed smile. Her mother turns her head to find out what delights her so, which is when she points towards me and gurgles happily, "Oi piggy!" She wasn't talking about my pigtails. I had short hair like a boy's.
I look out the window, pretending it wasn't me. My mother snorts, my father looks worried.

So there you are, you trivia hounds. Now you know everything about me.

p.s.: Still battling the bulge, the cellulite, the avoirdupois.

Friday, September 09, 2005

The Ex-files (contd.)

I love D. I love the way he chortles fruitily into the phone, about his deficiencies, and mine. There's something delightfully boyish and unassuming about him that makes me want to draw him to my bosom and coo maternally. Like a Mother Hen. His impish smile, and that wicked twinkle in his slightly Chinese eyes can be quite disarming. Oh, and arms. Nothing juvenile about 'em, they're truck-driver arms - big and manly, well almost. [Rainbeau Peep suddenly feels like she's attempting a Mills & Boon, which is turning out more situation comedic than anything else. She is right now sighing languorously.]
You wouldn't want to write poetry about him, not very good poetry, at any rate. But that innate strength of character, that sense of responsibility, that exasperating rationality - these were things that endeared me to him. Still do. He'd been a best friend to me, and it's a tragic loss that we don't share as many laughs as we used to. I love him to death. He loves me too, but with hardly an iota of the same intensity, which is why we broke up. His obsession is with clearing the CAT exams, getting through a stellar institute and making potloads of money. I'm too young to compromise and play second fiddle to a 3-section test. But we had good times, he would laugh at my jokes and call me fat and manage to make it sound like it was a compliment. I miss you, D. You showed me sanity.
D's the sort you can't weep copious tears over. You sigh and wish for a man like him, only, one who sees a goddess in you and whisks you away to a chateau in Switzerland to make animal love to you by the fireside, next to the french window overlooking the Alps. Afterwards, you eat a whole lot of Lindt, in every possible variety. But no, my point is, the man is to be exactly like D, with passion and less excruciating talk about the joys of calculus-solving.
I'm not sure why I'm making this entry, we talk everyday - about mundane things, he makes courtesy calls to me, I think he checks on me to see whether i'm a lunatic yet. But today we spoke more than once, and for a longer time, and we actually laughed like old times, and I didn't once feel bitter. So, thanx D, you made my day. :-]

Thursday, September 08, 2005


Wheezed to college. Had to get my marksheet attested and submit it, or else they threatened to kick me out. J n Squee were doing class, so, wandered about the campus aimlessly for a while. Went to the library to return Tennyson's "In Memoriam", which I never read. I have a 90 paise fine!! It's absurd, I can't borrow any books until I drag myself to the Central Library and stand in an unending queue in the heat, to pay 90 PAISE!!!!!! Went to the Head to get my attestation.
Head (looking stern): Attestation? What for? (looking hopeful) Are you planning to leave us?
I (a trifle hurted): No Sir, we were supposed to submit a copy of our marksheet to the office.
H (grim): The last date for that was a fortnight ago.
I (apalled he hadn't noticed): But Sir! Look ! ! !
H (impatient): At what?
I (frantic): Me! ! I've been so ill! Very, gravely, ill. I haven't been attending classes, you know, that's how sick I've been.
H (muttering incoherently under breath, signing xeroxed marksheet helplessly): gngh .. never atten .... etc.
Poor man, he needs to de-stress.
J and Squee came out of class and gave me steely glints, as if to say, "You stayed in the luxury of your cool, cool home, while We had to do classes all week. You're not one of us suffering proletariat anymore." All this after I had condescended to carry a particularly voluminous edition of "Bleak House" for them! Just imagine, in my condition! On top of that, they hadn't got their own marksheets, so now I have to wait till Monday to submit mine, as it is we're so very late. I put it down in writing today: J and Squee will be held responsible if I am denied a Master's degree for late submission of my undergrad marksheet.
Went to the canteen in an attempt at reconciliation, but the three of us glared at the floor, looking very glum, for a long time. I wanted to discuss my lachrymose laryngitis with them, but I don't think they'd understand.
The canteen is teeming with highstrung first years, these days. They yelp and run around, showing their navels and discussing men. Or Bob Dylan. I'm very fond of such things, but they could keep it down, sometimes, you know.
When my late friends decided to snub me, as well as each other, by each taking out a book and reading, I decided I'd had enough of my outing for the day, and proceeded to leave.
Got onto an auto with this boy who was lip-syncing and head-banging, possibly to some form of acid rock. He looked like a ferocious punk, and writhed and contorted his upper torso as we sped on. I snarled in encouragement. Then our nonagenarian autowallah lit a beedi and embarked on some motor madness.
I was glad to get off. As I was plodding towards home, who should I meet, but this old acquaintance, whom I barely know [we used to have a crush on the same neighbourhood loser as pre-adolescents. I think we spent a week walking by the dude's house together - every evening.] She's doing media studies from an obscure college in England, after having crawled somehow out of school. She's big, and pretty, and has the hugest breasts I have ever seen. This is what she had to say:-
Booby von Trapp (chirpily): Hey gal! Long long long! Say, what's with all this? What, huh? Kya yaar, I mean to say?
I (smiling weakly): Hi, are you on vacation? The orange highlights suit you.
BvT: Yeah, but Coo! What's with YOU, gul? What's with the yellow skin, the dead eyes! Where's the shine, gal?!?! Where's the GLAZE??!! I mean, no make--up and awl! Are you going political? Radical? Say!
I (wanting to say): Ailing homo sapiens aren't supposed to look like luxury sedans, with shine and glaze. (actually saying, apologetically): Yes, I know, I've been ill, and haven't had the energy to use papaya scrub on my face.
We gibbered inconsequentially for some time, before I wrung myself off her.
The whole world is becoming inexplicably punk. I think I'm ageing.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Home, sick

Decided to extend my sick leave. I'm staying in today, it's too oppressively sunny for my poor aching head. If I have fever tonight, it will be a sure sign that I'm dying of dengue, so I wait in anxious anticipation. Friends have gone over to Keith's place - his mom makes the most fabulous pork vindaloo. I'm going to have to give that a miss, though.
My body is a placid sea-blue in colour. Mother shrieked a lot in the morning about it. For a minute there, I thought I have some very exotic illness and I have to say I was a little pleased with my astounding potential for disease. As it turns out, if you ever need to buy a nighty, keep away from the Gariahat footpath stalls.
I've been harbouring a lunatic desire to visit Istanbul. And Athens. A few idle hours, and I'm sure I can come up with more. I want to lose myself in the gardens of old Byzantine palaces, down narrow alleys and bylanes, in the mazes of the Acropolis. I want to have turkish coffee, and mousakka, want to shop for carpets and read about Greek mythology.
The fever makes me a little delirious.
I need to take a shower.
Just heard this morning that a short film that I'd acted in is an entrant at the Berlin International Film Festival this year. There's even a screening at Nandan this evening. I feel elated, only wish I'd tried harder. It's a film about hypocrisy in the corporate world and all that. Very recondite. My character was called Chief Bitch, she's an office superior who is bossed around by the CEO and takes it out on the poor hero, who is a rebel, as my director insisted. Personally, I think he was an idler. My role was to wear a crisp saree and look menacing. It was complicated, but I pulled it off with elan, or so I have willed myself to believe. The important point is- this puts me in the league of such distinguished women achievers of international acclaim as Ms. Rai and Ms. Sherawat. Aren't you sorry my profile doesn't have a photograph? For all you know I might look like Monica Belluci.
[There are reasons why my profile doesn't have a photograph. Grave, grave reasons. The same reasons why I was chosen for the part of corpo-vamp. The very reasons why I let out startled gasps when I accidentally catch a reflection of myself in the mirror on certain half moon midnights.]

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Full Thro(a)ttle

Frightfully sick. In terms of, hanging between life and death. Being sick in my area, at this point of time, means dengue, but i don't have very high fever. I can't speak, throat's gone, i can barely breathe, so probably have throat cancer too. Excruciating headache completes the picture, and while prodding about on my scalp, in an effort to give me some comfort, my mother discovered that I have a slight swelling at the back of my head. So of course, I'm not ruling out brain tumour. My mother thinks putting me in a flimsy nighty and having the air-conditioner on at full volume is the way to cure me. I think she's trying to kill me. All in all, if I'm unable to write another blog entry, don't be surprised.

p.s.: None of you are getting anything I own.

Friday, September 02, 2005

I just saw 'Love Actually'. How is something so beautiful allowed to be so agonising? My heart aches and my belly's doing absurd twists. I miss D. I miss not being able to tell the world I'm in love. Do we ever stop being in love? What is it about the word that makes you want to keep repeating it? 'I love you' - it's been said before. Yet, the most unoriginal three words are the ones we long to hear the most. What is it about love that makes you think of good things, like sunshine, and green grass, and that old old song they used to play on AIR? I miss love.

But i always had love.
What is it about friends who suddenly come up with fashion designer relatives, right before the pujas, and expect you to shell out big money for unkown pret that just isn't the sort of thing you would normally buy? I hate exhibitions held by bored housewives in dingy, shabbily decorated apartments.

p.s.: I've decided that the blogosphere needs me, so i'm going to be particularly regular with my posts.

Saturday, July 30, 2005

Ex-terminating colossal relationships

So I cleaned my desk today, like I'm sometimes prone to do. In fact, I'd cleaned it just the other day, about ten years ago. A stickler for neatness am I.
Er, so, alright ... I lied a bit, I mean, who cleans a WHOLE table at one go! Or even those innumerable drawers? I managed to sort out just one, drawer, that is. But ah, and this is where it gets increasingly juicy - it was the SECRET DRAWER- the one that everybody pretends not to know about, the one that my mother frequently lurks around, in the hopes of catching me with marijuana, or sleeping pills. [Yes, yes, in subsequent entries readers are bound to be regaled with little snippets of my family's substantial bouts of dementia, which includes my Mother's paranoia about my being suicidal. "You're 22, single and clueless. If these aren't the symptoms of being a suicidal mayhem-maker, what are?" she reasons.]
Nevertheless, this one isn't about my mother, to move swiftly on. Years and years of memories, of school days, in the form of innumerable photographs, elegies written on the slaying of pupils by vicious teachers unleashing weapons of mass destruction in the form of chemical equations and calculus, chits passed about boys [all chits signed by graphic chit-writer "Middle Finger". I recall the sign being very fashionable in my school days], spiteful limmericks about all those who weren't favoured by our self-proclaimed anti-establishment.
More photographs - of Weight Lost & Weight Regained. Love Lost and well, am still at lost. Cigarette packets slyly hidden, from days of yore when i was a naughty girl in school. An empty box that had once contained chocolate pastries. Ten years old, mind you. X-Files postcards, posters, calendar, newspaper articles, a little scrap of paper where i've scribbled Mulder in red, pink and violet ink, and topped it off with a shy 'David' ensconced within a wobbly heart-shaped blurb. I was a fan, I yearned for the truth that was out there, it could happen to the best of us! Birthday cards, New Year cards, Valentine's Day, even Woman's Day.
All buried under ten years of dust and a community of silverfish that I have now rendered homeless.
[Ok, I swear I'd started with a purpose, I wanted to SAY something, other than enlist contents of my drawers. I've lost the thread .. the whole yarn now.]
Not my fault you know, when you've spent 3 sleepless nights staying up waiting for snakes to slither in through windows and from under doors and are in a constant state of panic, you tend to lose things. Your mind, for instance.
There you go, a bit more trivia, I'm morbidly afraid of snakes. I dread them, they repulse me, and horror of horrors, one was spotted in my garage the other day. I could tell you more, only, it's the middle of the night and I'm scared.
So then, in the process of arranging the ex-chronicles, I went back a couple of years. Photographs take you back, and how! He was a good man, sensitive, caring, emotional, stupid and so bloody good in bed! Turns out he knew that too. Well, I'm being a little too harsh, but never mind that. he inspired poetry and spiritualism in me. That is, after we broke up. I become creatively abnormal post break ups. That was ex-penultimate.

NewsFlash: Episode titled "Enquiry Into Secret Drawers of Rainbeau Peep [Non-sexual]" has been prematurely discontinued, as the writer-subject has fainted of morbid boredom upon glancing through her own writing. Rainbeau Peep has, however, threatened to complete and subsequently publish her ex-files at a later date. Cyber-litterati are in frenzied distress, seen to be lurking around blogosphere, looking fervidly behind their shoulders, dreading the moment of despair, when aforementioned files shall be inflicted on their unsuspecting selves.

Friday, July 22, 2005

In the beginning there was...

There was the rainbow.. and little drops of honey sunshine. The raven looked on at the world from a mountain crag. At the periphery of existence and annihilation lies miles and miles of humanity. And still, the sun shone.