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.