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.