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.