Friday, December 29, 2006


Ok, I shall play it safe and not comment on the quality of the review. But, Mr. Tathagata Chowdhury, I solemnly declare that I did NOT squeal "I could have cried..." at my own performance. I mean, hullo? Am I fucking Eliza Dolittle? [Yea yea, I know. She sang "I could have danced..." Shutupnow.]
I resent such insinuations.
And the names are Soumitri. And Rockaby.

Anyway, if the lights went out, how does he know who screamed? Unless of course, he would like people to believe I was speaking my thoughts aloud while still on stage.

Oshobhyota egulo.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

The Winter of Our Discontent

For as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings,
Or as tie heresies that men do leave
Are hated most of those they did deceive,
So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,
Of all be hated, but the most of me!
- Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II Scene ii
'Nuff said. Heh.

Monday, December 25, 2006

Because It's Past 4 o' clock on A Christmas Morning And My Feet Are Killing Me

Ho! Ho! Ho!

... and a pimp!

Distasteful joke courtesy: The Office

Merry Christmas everybody! :-]

Ok, my head hurts.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Please Don't Think About Sex While Reading This Post

Subject: [breathes heavily behind closed door]
A person, let's say X: Do you need help?
Another person, while we're being imaginative, Y: Open up! Let us in!

Subject opens door. Looks embarassed. Focus on unzipped fly. X and Y go in.
Door closes.

Subject: Uh, oh my God. No, I can't do this. I can't do this!
X, presumably: Yes you can, we're here to help.
Y, without a doubt: Suck it! Just suck it in!
Subject: Hochheee naaaaaaa!

Heavy giggling ensues.

Y, as it would seem: Look, I'll hold it up from the back. X, try to get it through the hole.
Subj: Oh! Aaaa! Oh! Oh! Oh mummy!

Noise of communal panting.

X: Ok, almost there. I got it.
Y: Suck in, goddammit!
Sub: Yes! Yes! It's going in!
Y: Lean against the door, it'll be easier!

Crescendo of unmentionable sounds.

X and Subj: YES!!!!! We did IT!!!!!!
Y (wiping the sweat of toil, as the case may be): Wooh! There there. You're not a virgin any more.

Dramatis Personae:
Subject - Our beloved lil numb.
X - The inimitable Bobby G., otherwise known as Bob/Vuv/The Starlet.
Y - The Rainbeau in all your collective consciences.

The Setting:
Inside a fitting-room at the Park Street Levi's store.

The Action:
Trying to get Numb to fit into the pair of jeans that had fit snugly the evening before, but stubbornly refused to acknowledge her presence the morning after. [So like men, do I hear you say?] The 'it' in the first instance thereby, as all substantially endowed women will recognise, meaning her stomach; and the 'it' of the second instance and all subsequent instances referring to all several parts that make up a pair of blasted denims.

The Themes/Lessons Learnt:
[1] If you want a pair of jeans to fit perfectly, you must seek the help of friends and proceed to embarass a storeful of customers who just want to shop without distractions that take the shape of seemingly lesbian orgies.
[2] The Peep, should she ever be reckless enough to buy and wear jeans ever after, shall do so alone, in top secrecy. And it shan't be at the Park Street Levi's store. Nope.

To celebrate our success, we lunched at KFC, and vowed to stick by each other in fatness and in belch.
Which makes for a happy ending. Except that I need to buy a pair of jeans.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

And Because You Were All Animation And Tell-Me-More


I did it!

I'd like to thank 3 bowls of rabri, 5 Benarsi peras, 4 nolen gurer kachagollas, and an enormous amount of Irish Cream.


Saturday, December 16, 2006

The Biannual Potty Post/What You've Been Waiting For With Hated Breath

Friends, backslappers and assorted glorybees. Burn the sweetest incense and dance ritualistically round a holy fire, because these times are so very wrong. The Peep, the one abrim with the booze of satanic wildness, is in the teeth of a butt-clenching crisis. She, and her toilet, as it were, have fallen apart. At loggerheads, them both. And if you think people are going to be sympathetic, on this the second day of my bowels not rising to the occasion and shining forth toward the path of duty [or potty, if we're being specific], then you're wrong. It is with a sense of bitter resentment that I have resigned discussion of my ablutionary activity to this my only vent, my beloved blog, as opposed to that which is haunted by unfeeling types whose bowels, presumably have vowed lifelong allegiance to the upkeep of their well-being. I will not name names, but the pimple on my left cheek and I are feeling grossly misunderstood.
I've tried eating bananas, drunk warm water, pots of coffee. I even put on trackpants and took a long, long walk. Still nothing. I'm telling you people, this is war. And stop trying to tell me about Isabgol. My system works in wondrous ways, which are least affected by the onslaught of guzzling glasses of tasteless fleaseed husk.
Ok, I'm tired of this now. Bottomline, Peepie needs to poopoo. Khyak, I just really wanted to use that line and chuckle while you squirmed.
But seriously, it's my only weightloss programme - this relieving myself business. If I keep stuffing myself anymore with no hint of release, it's going to be a really really long time till I can buy a pair of jeans that I'm not going to be embarassed about when people suddenly come up from behind me and lift the backside of my shirt just that little bit to expose what is not the shapeliest bottom in the world (panu, thank you for the comment you shall now proceed to write), all the better to see what brand denim i'm wearing. Seriously, why the fuck would someone do that? You can just ask, yea, and I'll tell you? It's not a secret that I've got to keep or else the evil Mr. Strauss is going to monkeywash the world and put it into his slimfit pocket? And what is the DEAL with Levi's having the waist size embossed out on that patch for all the world to see, eh? My waist size, now That's an important secret. Notice the caps in the middle of the sentence and the italics, and appreciate the gravity of that statement immediately. And stop lifting my shirt from the backside already!
Uhm, that's a weird phrase. Pretend I didn't just use it twice.

Otherwise, the exams are over. I am done with the outstanding menace that was the Lit Theory paper. I need a 6 in the endsems to pass, which, considering how I unabashedly wrote 2/3rds of the paper based on life's experiences and buttercups, and NOT on any kind of literary theory, is still a tough call. But I mean, come on, I'm going to get a 6 out of 30, no? Touchwood.

And now for the true, the blushful Hippocrene! :-]

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Shoopin' Hour

Listen, I can't think. The voices in my head are having a tea party.

Chew on this.

Minstrel Man

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
And my throat
Is deep with song,
You do not think
I suffer after
I have held my pain
So long?

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter,
You do not hear
My inner cry?
Because my feet
Are gay with dancing,
You do not know
I die?

- Langston Hughes

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Excuse Me, Mr. Derrida

I would like my mind back, please.

Saturday, December 02, 2006

You Know

There's no hope in hell for me, when barely 2 days before my end-sems I'm googling, not 'waste land sparknotes', but 'boots for short fat women'.

And you know I'm not entirely out of tune with academics, when the best site I reckon that suits my requirements, is an article by a Victorian Baroness, published 1893.

Now all I need is to find the "long boot, buttoned or laced at the sides". They're still making those, 113 years on, yea?

Help me. I'm nuts.

No, seriously, someone ram a book on my head and tell me to STUDY at gunpoint.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Study Leave

Don at Inox- check

Casino Royale at Inox (precisely the day before the morning show ticket price was brought down to Rs. 50) - check

Barnarda Alba'r Bari - check

2 parties with moderate amount of alcohol intake - check check

Zinger combo at KFC - check

Cha and egg tarka at Russell Dhaba - check

Endless cups of coffee and chicken bhaja at Milon Da's - check

Two kilo weight gain - check [goddamit]

Early morning ticket booking at Jadavpur station - check

Numerous hours spent online trying to figure out which sikkim treks are death traps (read: which trek routes entail mati khurey potty) - check

Dust allergy extravaganza thanks to two dozen mistiris ramming the house from all several sides and sprinkling debris in the very spots i inhabit - check

Feeble attempt at keema'r chop which, for no fault of mine, ended up becoming alu'r chop - check

Syllabus for endsems commencing Monday - checkmate.

And there's shopping for biye bari, screening test for editing and publishing course, cast party and attending biye bari left before I can figure out exactly which 70% of the syllabus i'm not going to study.

The point of this post is to let you know that the Peep, oh the Peep - she lead glamourohsobusy life. You may discreetly blow your nose, but turn away before you snigger contemptuously. Oaf.

Those professors who are so kind as to defile (which, as we all know, is the khoo' way of saying sanctify, honour, glorify) my comment space will look away and pretend this never happened, should they chance upon my hapless answer script. Let the Peep's academic imbecility be a private joke, to be lightly indulged, eh? :-]



p.s.: Dan, keep out.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

The Psychological Trauma That Is A Masters Degree

Example Un:

Me(18 hours before the Modernism Core internal, for which i have neither the texts nor the notes- hanging from the ledge, as I am prone to, before a test): Fish!!! Do you have notes!!!
Fish ( visibly perturbed, as she is prone to being, every single day of her life. Hullo, Fish, I know there's a thin chance you're reading this. But you do always look hassled, love): Vulva! Labia!
Me (nonchalant, as if that's just the sort of reply any normal human being would expect): Yes, that's alright. But NOTES?!?! for tomorrow's TEST?!?!
Fish (being cat on a hot tin roof): 85 rupees! For print outs! Bloody gender studies paper! Labia clitoris! Majora minora!

Kind readers, please note that Fish is not to be confused with our friendly, neighbourhood Babelfish, who has always been endearingly referred to as Bab'ly on this peace-love-n-harmony promoting blog. Inquisitive readers must therefore not assail Bab'ly with questions about female body parts and suchlike. Leave Fish alone too, of course.

Example Deux:

J (emerging from a classroom with glassy eyes, a grey-green pallor to her skin, and laughing like the devil): HAHAHAHAHA! Humanism porikkha!!! HAHAHAHA!!! I used the word 'madness' in every sentence of every answer!!!! HAHAHAHA!!!!
(proceeds to make some particularly distasteful jokes, till I lure her into Milon Da's and guzzle coffee down her throat)

Example Trois:

Squee(on the day of one of the 21 thousand tests we've taken in the last couple of days, grinning like a pleased peach, following a very loud and very public confession that she knows nothing): Don ko pakarna mushkil nahi, namumkin hai
Me (poring over notes and occasionally looking in the direction of Gate No. 4, for Knight in shining armani to arrive with a halo of smart perfume and an entourage of Mercedeses): Shutki, shutup.
Squee elocutes the entire plot of Vivaah, which she has watched and is very excited about.
Me: Look, I'm going to bury you under my mound of xeroxes.
(she claims this is a song from some film starring Abhay Deol. Yes, she's seen it. Yes, it has the potential to become the next pre-exam Departmental anthem, following in the footsteps of such masterpieces as "gaand mein danda" and "mujhe sutta na mila")

The times they are a loopy, my friends. The department is full of raving lunatics, overstressed, underslept, scuttling about with term papers in their hands and murderprofs in their eyes.

Me, I shouldn't be writing this at all. I have yet another test and yet another paper to submit on monday. Right now, I am supposed to be writing things about Shakespeare. And then reading some about how a conniving *cock-a-doodle-doo* named Jacques Derrida, wrote a million pages of theory because he wasn't man enough to admit he didn't know the spelling of 'difference'. Bloody hell. No, really. Man wrote an essay about a spelling error and called it his theory of deconstruction. Or at least I think that's what happened. I am so not passing that paper. I mean, what else do you expect, when the classes for the course entail your professor wanting to know in all seriousness, the answer to his query:-
If the Mona Lisa is in the Louvre, then where is Hamlet?

I mean, really. Wot the fuck. First "wherein lies the bedness of the bed?" and now this.
Excuse me while I bang my head against a stonecold wall.

Anyway, this post is in honour of my friend Rahul, who has just informed me that he reads my blog! Hey ya, Rahul. :-] Stand up and take a bow, will ya? And don't forget - only 12 years to D-Day. :-p

Friday, November 03, 2006

Women On Top. Are You Interested?

I have been asked to promote a play on this blog. A play that I am a part of. I have been told to promote it with the catchphrase "women on top". But then I came across this news article.
Thanks to Greatbong.

We're doing a play called Top Girls, while there are girls in our villages being paraded naked and raped in public. We're rehearsing the roles of successful women Popes and famous warrior queens, and coming back home to read of how a girl younger than we are, a topper at her school was found dead in a canal with rods sticking out of her genitalia.

There was a brainstorming session to come up with promotional ideas for our play. Our Jude production, 2006 - Caryl Churchill's Top Girls. Someone came up with "who are the top girls? where are they?"
Indeed. Look for them, dead in a ditch.

Or, I suppose, find them at Gyan Manch on the 14th of November.

My apologies to the drama team. Of which I am honoured to be a part. Marketing was never my strong point.Perhaps I will have another go at this. Not now, though. I don't want to be a top girl, not right now.

By the way, the blog header is not original. I've lifted it from a poem by Anne Sexton.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

PMS Peep

Listen, I'll tell you something. You know what's wrong with women's emancipation today? And reading goddamn blogs? Hah.
So I once read something a blogger called Vulturo [I think] had written - it's the only post I've ever read of his. He talked about how he'd got on a bus and sat himself down next to a lady, and she squirmed and edged towards the window. That's the basic gist - he felt violated. Insulted, even. Because apparently the woman had assumed he'd try to harass her - something of the sort. Now, that's his idea, of course. I'll tell you what, the woman wasn't doing nothing of the damn sort. But that goddamned post ruined my life, didn't it? Ever since then, when a man sits next to me on the bus, and mind, no slim man has ever sat next to me, it's always the big hulking ones. And a big, hulking man + a big, hulking Peep on 1 minibus seat = hell, someone's falling off. Which could have been avoided if, on finding that I could no longer be queen of my domain, I'd have shifted towards the window and made some space, for the goodly co-passenger. But I can't, can I? Because now, suddenly, I'm considering his feelings. I'm wondering if he'll think I see him as a potential groper if I move away to make space for him! So I spend the rest of the journey clenching my bottom and trying to shift millimetre by millimetre, so as not to offend anybody, instead of just simply sliding to the side. Bloody hell, I tell you.
Oh, and by the way, Sagnik, women love shoe-shopping more than men, presumably, because we've got variety, we've got colours and cuts and beautiful beautiful desgins to choose from. Unlike men's shoes, which can only come in 13 kinds anywhere in the world. In any case, I have male friends who allot a certain amount of money every month for clothes-shopping. Which makes me snigger, seeing as how I only shop before Pujo and my birthday [and no, I don't buy 20 tops and 17 skirts and other things in heaps], and I haven't bought a pair of jeans in 5 years, even though mine are battered in inappropriate places [uff, i'm not making any bleeding fashion statement - it comes with being fat - uh, friction, and ... oh never mind. now i'm embarassed]. And anyway, even if someone's a compulsive shopper - why do you even have to try and understand women's fascination for nice clothes and accessories? Do we ever question your obsession with watching ugly men in skimpy clothes wrestle each other? And don't even get me started on obsessive-compulsive gelling of hair.
Ok, I can't think of anything else to snap about. I need to write a gazillion assignments, and I've caught the 7th bout of cold in the last 2 weeks. Things are *not* [I'm sick of italics] good, and it's pissing me off.
Dear good stuffs, I'm awfully sorry I didn't reply to the comments on the last post. I just don't wanna. I mean .. uh. :-[ No offence, though.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Why The Peep Must Stay Single - Reason #36387

This morning, my mother's speaking over the phone with a socialite aunty, who's called up, absolutely disconsolate that I couldn't make it to her 'Diwali nite card party n dinner-dance, darling. dress sexy! ha ha ha!' and have absolutely dashed all her hopes of making me a match made in heaven with Aunty R's lives-in-london son. [ok, she only almost speaks like that]. So, my mother shakes her head at me, who am reaching out for the ten billionth tissue the better to wipe my nose with, and says to the Nokia:

"Aarey, M, all these nyaka girls! Lying in bed for 6 days with fever. Nothing to do?! And look at you! I mean, JAAST LOOK AT YOU!! Like a good parson, finding a good-boy for this girl. WHICH GIRL, JAAST SEE?!?! Just come and see, lying like moharani on the bed! *the doc had advised bed rest. which, i admit, i don't need. but hey, if i'm not allowed to leave the house, then i'm not quitting the bed either*
ladka dikhne mein achha hone sey kya hoyega? mera ledki ko dekho na abhi, beelkul shoshan ka mora ka maafik dikhne mein hai. goru ka maafik bhNuri hai, aur mukh mein ekdom gaal-tobrano. .. hain hain, aarey .. u know .. the cheeks ... almost inside the face *don't even ask*. And the hair is not there anymore! *wonder where it is* whatever she has, gone completely white. *grey*
anyway, i have given her so many rishtas, M. she only wants poet with jhola-daari! *i certainly don't. anyway, i suspect she meant jhola and daari. not .. uhm .. hanging beard-like* Ekdin uttha ke leyke aayegi mera matha khaane ke liye. .... no, no! jhaaru peetke peetke i will kick out any ghor-jamais!"

sigh. Happy Diwali everyone.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

A Very Meaningless Post

Bed rest? Bed rest?! Do they think i have NOTHING better to do with my life than lie in BED?!?!
Dearly beloveds, pray for the Peep, for she ails.
I have a sore throat, a snotty nose, red eyes, and a splitting headache. And I spend most of my day standing in front of a mirror looking for dengue-symptomatic rashes. It is not a happy time.
I have my own rehearsals, which I am missing. I'm telling you, they can't do without me, there. And I'm missing rehearsals of Squee's play too, where I'm helping out - generally. They can't do without me either. Honest. [Hey, the LEAST you can do is indulge a sick ol' friend, who, for all you know has given her life up to a swarm of mosquitoes with ugly names].

Incidentally, I have ogled at a pair of Biceps with watery eyes, sniffing next to me at the Doc's chamber. As in, the watery eyes belonged to person with biceps - the biceps themselves didn't have eyes on them. I had eyes on the biceps. Oh dear, too much the head aches after excitement.
Of course, this is a good time to work on my litcrit assignment, but tell to me, does any of this make the vaguest sense to you?

1. Theorist as artist
2. Theorist as criminal
3. After theory

I'm not kidding, if you know what these phrases mean, feel free to help. I haven't for the life of me any idea. Shotyi bolchhi, I might not pass the lit theory paper. Oh god, oh dear god. Too much chinta in my life!

Monday, October 09, 2006


Listen. I shan't have it anymore. There's only so much I can stands, i can stands no mores. I mean, it's O.K. to holler for me across the department corridor and come trotting up to jiggle my arms and watch amazed at the 4 and a half 'good vibrations' [stop pretending you didn't know i was cheesy] they will execute for you. And sure, when I'm having my evening coffee at Milon Da's and you're all a-rosy and prepared to play ranna-bati with my arms, making me spill my coffee as you enthusiastically knead like it's time for dinner - I don't mind. I'm even going to smile indulgently, and say a little prayer for the ground to crack open and swallow you up, you little termite, you *notice terribly indulgent tone of voice*. But I'll tell you what I won't stand. I will NOT be disturbed mid-jhaari at a pujo pandal, and I will NOT have crazy women sprinting for my fat, wrists asunder. There is absolutely No point in trying the seductive come-hither when the other-party sees trusty aides massaging your biceps in public, like you were some sort of pehelwan. Girls, i love you, I do, but ... break on through to the other side, as it were.

Very nice. Point number two. I do want to make friendship with you. Oh yes. But I don't need to join Orkut for that. Please cease and desist sending invites, o wellwishers and one and a quarter lovers of the Peep. You may all contact me on Yahoo, and we shall talk of beautiful things like life and it's intricacies. Victoria's Secret. Or yours and mine, even.

I've been a little distracted. A trifle angry. I'm also afraid it probably shows.
Anyway, I've been drinking like a fish, making new friends and doing some other things.
Maybe, another day, I will tell you the story of how my cousin sister punched an aged relative on the nose, and promptly got a bottle of water emptied on her clothes. In the middle of a crowded street. Tiring, this.

By the way, does anyone think Nizam's serves its kebabs half-cooked?

And this is frightfully important. I need a topic for my writing in practice assignment. A short story. Please. Anybody. Interesting topics. Quick, before I become an alcoholic.

p.s. : i am NOT becoming an alcoholic.

update : Kindly extend your sympathies to a certain Pom Fretty who has been hurling herself under falling trees with disastrous consequences. May she continue to provide entertainment, albeit minus health hazards to her frail frame.

Friday, September 29, 2006


The Dee has the tagged me. Which would have been tiresome, except that since I'm too exhausted to write a proper post, this works fine.

So I'm to list my 10 "simple pleasures", eh? And they can't just be 10 different kinds of food?
Oh, awrite! Spoilsports.

In no particular order of preference :-

1. The company of old friends I haven't been in touch with for years.

2. Tastes - dark chocolate, mixed fruit jam, australian grapes, absolut vodka, mid-afternoon cigarette when I haven't smoked all day, ... D.

3. Smells - first cup of coffee in the morning; burning incense, camphor and sandalwood at the pujo pandal; wet earth during heavy rains, my Lux shower gel, ... uhm, y'know.

4. Flowers. Unpicked flowers. White or violet. Also, watching the shrubbery outside my house tremble in the wind.

5. Waking up to the cooing of the friendly neighbourhood kokil.

6. Meeting someone for the first time and realising you're going to be friends forev - .. for a very long time, at the very least.

7. Standing on the weighing machine and whooping for joy because I weigh 20 grams less than yesterday, which means I'm closer by 0.00023% to not being overweight any more.

8. Whole-night, all-girls parties. There's booze, there's food, there's conversation, and you don't have to wear a bra. [we're having one tonight, yabba-dabba-dooo!]

9. Tears.

10. Coming back home - to my computer and YM, to Monday comedies on Star World, to Radio Mirchi, to the reassurance that my parents are only a floor and two away.

I will continue this chain of evil by tagging utey, Laura, "sen"sational, sandman and MadameSosostris.

Friday, September 15, 2006


One number husband. In less than 11 hours. Ceremony must be completed by noon.

I mean, what the FUCK is the bedness of a bloody bed?! Fucking Plato. Idiotic Aristotle.

Porikkha devo naaaaaaaaaaaa. :-[

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Let's Play ...

My initiation into theatre began in my Third year of college. That pretty much makes it around two years now and I can count the number of productions I have been a part of on the fingers of one hand. I've never discussed with any of my co-actors why they took to theatre - it should make for very interesting conversation. But I can say why I did. To deal with break-ups. uh huh, uh huh.
I'm not even sure what has prompted this post. Somewhere in the middle of last night's drunken spree at Athena's, Shahana [renowned on this blog for being one of those bonker-babies of this our holy JUDE] asked me why I could never be real in real life. It's worth a thought - I haven't been myself for so long, that I can't seem to be able to tell who I really am anymore. All I could think of when she put this question to me, was Lisa Ray sitting atop a barstool and telling Rahul Khanna, "I can be anyone you want me to be." Hollywood Bollywood, I think. Yes, we have remarkably cerebral taste, thank you for bypassing.
I remember rehearsing for 3 different plays at the same time and doing classes and writing term papers, simultaneously, in January this year - when D packed his bags, stubbed his cigarette [I really really want to say "on my bleeding heart" right now, but notice how I shan't], and left swiftly on a jetplane.
I act, not for a love of the stage. Heck, I'm shit scared of the stage. I act for the love of the characters I play, and for the range of possibilities they offer me of finding myself. Of letting go. So when I'm killing people softly with a 24-minute long Beckettian monologue, and I have tears in my eyes because the 24 minutes span the entire lifetime of an old woman - an entire lifetime spent standing at the same fruitless juncture, no hope of redemption, yet tranquil despite it all- I can weep tears that I would hold back in my own life. Sometimes, I can run away from myself - but it is a space within my control, always. The emotions are mine to play with. And there's a tremendous sense of security in knowing that at the end of it all, you can wash off the pancake, and go home, because your life is still where it was before the show. Those with more experience, have told me this is a wrong approach to theatre. I should try to be the character, not look for myself in who i'm playing. That is possible, and I'm not making any more excuses. That guard - it's up again.
To try and give shape to the purpose of this post - the show's over. It went well, I think. Except for the part where I went delirious and started screeching like a crazed hyena, for no particular reason other than the fact that the spirit of one such accursed creature had miraculously possessed me halfway through the progress of the play. I can't for the life of me figure what went wrong. I've managed to boil it down to the idea that I may not be cut out for such things. Let us briskly skirt this issue, before I crawl to the floor and get into a foetal position to nurse my angst.
Since the birth of this blog, I have acted in 4 productions. Not once has there been any form of publicity here for any of the other plays I've been a part of. I've always shied away from publicising plays that I do, because, like I said, I'm shit scared of the stage, I'm scared of the audience. I don't like being judged by people who matter to me and so my parents have been banned from attending any of my plays. Again, wrong, very wrong.
But Lokkhoner Shoktishel was different. I have never felt so close to a production before. I'm not very sure what it is I want to say - it must be something very simple, really. I'm heartbroken that it's over. I'm heartbroken that I couldn't give the performance my very best, because I owed it to the team. This was not just the director, Joy's baby. This was all of us together - we made a play. I've never made a play before this - acted in one, yes. This production has given me memories. Stories to tell. Unforgettable moments.
There will be reviews, those who came and watched last evening, will have things to say - favourable or otherwise. I should probably be bothered, but I'm not. How do I put it - it's like how you're proud of your child no matter how s/he fares at school? Ok, somebody burn me down NOW.
I will not forget doubling up with laughter at my dismal attempts at a kalaripayattu roll-on-floor-n-upsy-daisy [there's a sophisticated name for this, but damned if I can recall], I will remember sitting dazed at the tiny balcony of our rehearsal space, all of us in a huddle, talking about who knows what - but deliriously happy - who knows why. Every tiny detail, from exhausting possibilities of things that you can possibly do with a large green umbrella in a very public area, to singing unfettered, and the walk back home in one large group every evening. J, coming in at the very last moment and dazzling us all with how stage-free she was. Uttappam staring languidly at Shugrib's breasts. Utey being sizzling eyetum numbur.
The whole-night stage rehearsal - smoking up one joint after the other in a fit of unconsumed insanity at 5 in the morning, and then ... heh, it's all plastic now. Trippy G, the resident rockstar-cum-set designer-cum-poster designer-cum-actor extraordinaire - singing nursery rhymes to a psychedelic-rock rhythm early in the morning, while people lay sprawled across the greenroom floor, after an exhausting 6 and a half hours of midnight-to-morning rehearsal. Babon da, the lights man and his wife Morjina Di, who has the sweetest voice. The musicians - I know them all - we've been in it all together.
Friendships have been forged, I'll be honest, I don't know if I belong. But these two months, it's been about not stopping to think about whether you belong - I have disagreed, but I have also respected other viewpoints and had my opinion given respect to. I have felt closer to people whom I have known over only a handful of weeks, a couple of drinks and several joints; than I have felt to friends I have been meeting almost every single day for the last 4 years.
Laura, I have been directed by her before, and this time it was Joy.... it's hard to put a name to what he means to her. I have seen how powerful love can be, through these two people. I have seen Laura frantic, always looking out for Joy, worried for him - she has, in my opinion, put more effort into Lokkhoner Shoktishel, than she did for her own productions. They are, if I may quote from a conversation at Oly a few days back - two forces that combine to form a larger, impenetrable force - a burst of energy, that drove us to improve our own act.
Joy - he holds high ground in the list of people I have tremendous respect for. I can't say I know him well, because I've been too afraid of him to actually try. But in his own quiet way, he urges you to find yourself- to get the best out of yourself. I have learnt some things from him that I will always hold very valuable. I will always be grateful to him for helping me understand theatre and its nuances just that little bit better, and for leading me to figure out for myself exactly how potently it has taken over my life these last several months, since D left.
Midnight conversations about the fate of Shoktishel, panic on the day before, utter chaos, and in the midst of it all, long chats about life and what it might hold for each one of us. And oh, the horror stories! Uhm .. you know you're not going to be quitting smoking anytime soon, when you're willing to relinquish 23 years of socially conditioned homophobia, and kiss 2 individuals of the same sex, for the sake of a cigarette. And yes, we're leaving it at that. I don't kiss-n-tell. :-[ I have, in the span of one minute of shocking debauchery last night, had my arm repeatedly bitten and my butt slapped, while my foot was being gnawed at. All, by women in various stages of intoxication, trying obviously to replicate some sort of depraved Dionysian ritual.
Cups of tea and toy guns. All come back like snapshots. I don't know how much I have given to this play - but I've sure got back a tremendous lot. I've been rambling endlessly about things that theatre persons have perhaps experienced already, and that those not particularly keen on theatre will not be very interested in. But this was a first for me.
I needed to get this out - I will soon cease to be a part of the stage and I am glad and grateful for having been given the opportunity to take with me the experience of these last 2 months.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

One Last Time

Onstage peeing?

Intellectual monkeys?

Pretty boys in the semi-nude?

Pretty girls in tight skirts?

Prohareno dhononjoy and maar dala?

Seduction? Deception? Waltzing to war?

Read the second preview

Get it all at Gyan Manch, September 11.
7 p.m.

Don't cancel dinner plans. You'll be out in an hour or so.

Hurry! Offer valid till stocks last!

Wednesday, September 06, 2006


I have just come back from a party and dropped my toothbrush in the toilet. I have subsequently orchestrated a manic wardance of aggravation around the pot, for about a quarter of an hour, because it would not flush. I am being unnecessarily prosaic.

I think I might be high.

Invitees to the party are forbidden to comment.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

The sad courtesan
On her sad satin ankles,
Flashes her leg-irons of diamond.
The manacles on her wrists a-glitter
Under the moonlight as she dances
(Like a crumpled paper ball
Like dead leaves in the wind)

Her hair is whispering its dark secrets
Indisciminately (quietly)
Under the candelabra, the frozen water fountain,
Across the iced courtyard
She spins.

(Like a broken top like a dancing doll)

Every note in her step is anguish

All the watching men shift uncomfortably in their seats
Even as her whirling form stirs life
Between their clenched legs. She whirls
(Like a crazed dervish,
like an eddy in the bath) they want her
But are stonewalled by her sorrow.

It bleeds out of her with every
Laugh, in every soft spoken note.

In her they understand the meaning of
Loneliness. They have felt alone
At times, (who hasn't?)
But the sad courtesan has been alone,
All by herself her whole life.

It is this they shrink from,
The thought that it might be catching
And that they might catch it from her
(Like lovers do with kisses in the wind
Like terror spreading from eye to eye)

And so they offer their excuses and slip away
Before the night is done
Before her dance ends.

Must she dance alone, the sad courtesan?
More alone all by herself than before?

She has been learning every evening
Since her dance of days began
To let men leave as they choose
wary of the soul that weeps
through her (through them all)

... like a stain on brocade like a
pennant in the wind like the moon in a lake
like a foghorn in the fog like the glow of the
stars like a shadow at night like the smell
of the tide like the thunder in clouds
like summer lightning in the sky like
blood under skin like fever in the blood
like the wings of birds like the lost pages
of books like the fissures in stone like
knowing what darkness is.
(a way to see light)

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Friday, August 25, 2006

Aashbi Na Ki Rey Byata? Jutiye Lal Korey Debo!

Design and Copyright: Abhijay Gupta, 2006.
dyance[!] drama[!] acsun[!] reacsun[!] passun[!] emosun[!]

Do come and watch, not because by doing so you’d be sponsoring our cast party [I wish] but because it really promises to be fun.
And if that isn’t incentive enough, you can come and watch me in all my facial-haired glory. :-[

Design and Copyright: Abhijay Gupta, 2006.

Don't let the timings bother you, by the way. It's quite a short play.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Bride & Prejudice

Ok, ok, I've had it with people offering me fake money and others chasing me down the department corridor begging for a new post.
So, while I was being "stalked" at the club by Utey's boyfriend [entirely her claim, mind, entirely hers. Me, if I could notice an eligible bachelor when I saw one .. well, I don't know what I would've done, really], who should chance to drop by, but my alleged future husband. This particular personage's hand had been offered to me in marriage a few months ago, but having drowned myself already in the love of an individual at last count being hunted down by hot mexican women and hunting down hotter spanish waitresses, I had politely declined. At this point, it would be pertinent, I suppose, to bring to your notice, that my sentences are interminably long.
Moving on, said personage is a former national-level tennis player, very shy, very sweet and very hirsute. I don't yet know whether he was aware that higher powers had contemplated tying my pallu to his dhoti [isn't that how you get married?] at a blessed time in the future. He is known to my mashi, my mother's aunt, an intrepid matchmaker if there ever was one. So there he was, hovering about the shamiana, sweating profusely. And then [this is going to be in bangla. Dee, go away, I'm not translating :-p ] :-

Alleged Future Husband : Hello, Aunty, how are you?
Mashi: O ma! _________ jey! Hello hello!! [she uses his full name, even though she obviously knows him well, just so I can understand this is the famous AFH]
*wink 1 to me*
AFH and Mashi engage in some small talk. AFH also addresses my brat of a young cousin, showing what looked like very genuine interest in her sporting progress. He even offers to teach her to improve her backhand.
My mother gazes, amazed.
My mother (notice how she dominates most of my posts): Aei, are you married?
AFH is decidedly befuddled. Smiles shyly.
Mashi: Koi, na to! His mother has been searching for a suitable bride for so long! *wink 2 to mother. wink 3 to me*
My mother (eyes lit up, ready with bait): MEET MY DAUGHTER, NAME ROHINI, AGE 23!!
Mashi: *wink 4 to anyone who will care to look*
AFH (in a state of shock): Oh, achha! I mean ...
Me (meaning to be angry, but breaking into chuckles at AFH's facial expression. He really is cute): Hullo. Don't mind my mother, she's doing her Pujo shopping.
Mashi: *wink 5 to me*
AFH (whimpering, like he's in an alternate reality soaked in evil): Oh. Achha.
Mother (a trifle impatient): You have a girlfriend, at least?
AFH (these are words he has finally understood): Eh heh heh .. ki jey bolen, aunty!
Mashi: Aare, girlfriends?! I have seen women falling over him at the tennis club! But our _______, does he care?! No no! Very good boy, our _____. [the exercise of proprietory rights over eligible AFH has begun].
AFH (blushing) : I think I have to leave now.
Mother: Where do you have to go? No no, no going, you sit and chat with us!
AFH: No, aunty, I'm very sorry, but I'm here to organise a golfing event my company is sponsoring. I'll come another time, ok?
Mother: Oho! You're working! *dazzling smile* Good pay?
Mashi: Everyday he buys a new car!
[Have I mentioned she's been winking incontrollably all this while?]
AFH (realising he's fighting a losing battle, smiles in defeat): Aunty, please! Ebar thhamun apni!

Anyway, this is just the gist. In the meantime, my mother has obtained from him the name of his company, his designation, the number of clubs he is a member of, the number of matches he has played, and undoubtedly, when I wasn't looking, the number of his bank account.
Uhm, incidentally, the way I've falsely dramatised the conversation, it would appear he was desperate to leave. Truth be told, he wasn't, he seemed pleased in fact, when I told him how my friends had been a huge fan (used the word "heartthrob" for the first time in my life. It was fun to see him wince) of his when we were pimply teenagers in school. I've never seen a person, male or female, blush so deeply and so frequently in such a short span of time. Then again, he was being extremely polite, beaming benevolently at one and all, and not showing any sort of interest in me. Aah well.
The important thing is, and now I have to leave to do my bratty cousin's homework for her, the important thing is, the moment he left, my mother demanded of my aunt why this masterpiece of God had not been made available to me. When she pleaded innocent and said he had been rudely dismissed as a marital prospective, my mother raised such a hue and cry that, June Maliah, who was sitting at the next table with a bunch of kids, turned around and looked at her questioningly. Decisions were made to get in touch with the boy's parents that very evening, based solely on the fact that they were very rich. And no, this was getting to be serious, because my tech-illiterate aunt was actually fiddling with her cellphone to retrieve AFH's home number.
It was no good explaining that I was not interested in marriage (uhm, don't let this discourage you. You may continue your search for a suitable boy for me, or even present your own glorious self), there was absolutely no way she was listening to the fact that I was still in love with ... uhm ... who I was in love with.
So ... and I'm really late now - I need to present, in december, an IIT graduated green card holder, obviously doing something in the software sector, earning hundreds of thousands of dollars, and tall. Because, I have declared undying, and ardently reciprocated, love for said fictitious individual - a man of sparkling wit, and doubtless reliability. Believe it or not, my mother and my mashi are so pleased with my valuable, if inordinately lucky, find, that I have actually been offered money to get a boob job done, before aforementioned non-existent individual makes his false presence felt in Kolkata. In December. I have time till then to be free of further harassments and threats on the pre-marital front.
Hmm. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that they will forget all about this with time.

[Anyway, since we're at it. Any takers?]
*wink wink*

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Weightist Slur

Dan: Hello moto.

BV(Sean): Hey, Jumbo!

J n Squee: Oye Motaaaaaa!

And this takes the cake. Or bakes it :-

Shahana, a pretty junior [please keep in mind that every single JUDE junior is completely off her head. Bonkers, to put it mildly] takes time off from some intense romancing to spot me, trots up, pokes prods and squeezes my arm as if to test the authenticity of her new toy, and ultimately declares with unparalleled glee: Tumi kiii moidaa !!

Aami jaante chai jey, WTF?!?!

[Yes, yes. The blog is dying. Either pay me a million so I can spill the beans on my hot romance with the President of the Togolese Republic or just shut up and read whatever crap I can come up with on a hungover Sunday morning].

Saturday, August 12, 2006


Call me bitter and prophesy for me a loveless future of grey hair and 17 cats, but I don't get certain couples. You know, lovers.
There's the sort that will go out together, coochie-coo on couches and dance the hubba-hubba with a red rose 'tween their teeth, but they will also have separate lives. Separate friends, whom they will concede to meet. Alone. That's the sort I'm rooting for.
I can just see you invoking the Curse of the Catfur on the red velvet sofa I shall be purchasing in a burst of orgasmic passion and optimism when I'm 25, only to realise that, hello? wherefore the passyon? whozza gonna do da jiggy-wiggy wid me? Yo, Nobody. [Stopit. I don't do the ... uhm ... vagina monologue.. to put it subtly]. And then I shall spend my lonesome nights brushing illusory fur off my raggedy lilac sweater and nursing my gout and my grief.
It's this other sort - the joined at the hips, the ones who can't breathe a blooming second without each other, that I can't get. I have a friend, I've known her for 20 years now, we're all about the ya-ya sisterhood and these days she can't meet old friends without the boyfriend freaking tagging fucking along EVERY bleeding where. Uhm, ok, so, he's alright. Not bad at all, loves her and seems like a good person. I mean, I have nothing against him. But this is the girl who used to bite me in lower nursery when she was peeved. We had a warrior dance. We grew up together, we cried together [she did. me, i'm a clown. ahem.], we fell in love with the same boy [ok, yea, that was bad] and spent endless nights talking. Just talking. And now, I can't meet her unless her boyfriend is free. Anyway.
On a more festive note, please congratulate J and Kneo, who are at this moment wallowing in love over good wine and pepper devilled crabs at Mocambo, in celebration of their third anniversary. Those two, they're incredible. They've squabbled and fought their way through love like I've never seen before. I'd raise a toast to them, but the bastards didn't invite me.

In other news, my mother and my aunt have taken it upon themselves to get me a life. Much in the manner of Opal Mehta, I suspect. Topmost on their agenda is to drag me kicking and screaming to the Tolly Monsoon Bash, next Saturday. Turns out, men will think I'm really hot and oh-so-cool, if I'm seen at a place of debauchery and forbidden fruit with aged family members.
I need company - anybody I know going?

As I had always known, applying mehndi on the hands of an unmarried woman proves lucky for her marital prospects. I have been proposed marriage by 3 individuals on the same day. So what if two were women? I am most pleased with the progress.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

College Chronicles

And because I have painstakingly wasted precious Lord-Jim-reading time on painting this blog in different hues of prettiness and must oblige it with some text [however irrelevant to all our lives] in celebration of the sidebar's miraculous dhei-dhei naach to it's rightful place from the depths of oblivion wherein it hath resided these many sunsets, to the right side of this exuberant piece of literature, I shall tell you of the things that excite the Peep's edgy nerves these days. To make matters relatively easier, I shall shorten my sentences. And tabulate.

  • Don't blame the media and Hollywood for this fascination for stick-insectitude and a propensity towards complete drainage of bodily fluids in order to wear that size supersmall nanoskirt. I have been taught that, Aristotle, and may he be reborn as an anorexic grasshopper [positively illiterate. this is of the utmost importance.] declared that beauty is a matter of size and order, and that, goddamit, a whole can be seen only in terms of its parts to be called beautiful. Hence, thus and therefore, what he's pretty much trying to say is, that a very large person will be beyond our aesthetic perception. Uhm, something like that, anyway.
  • I have been flung about and hurt my knee and danced like I had a lizard doing cartwheels about my spine and thoroughly enjoyed it all, during rehearsals. Don't even ask what we're putting up. I'm not quite sure myself. All I know so far is that it involves bangla, bamboo poles, oil and jazz. Yes, I'm keeping the suspense. It makes for good publicity.
  • I have received my 2nd semester marks. Predictably, queer studies has fucked me straight. Which would have been fine, if I hadn't been so completely convinced I'm not going to pass Literary Theory this semester. Don't get me wrong, I don't harbour any delusions of grandeur about my Intelligence Quotient. I've been made to feel stupid before - like the time back in school when my friends dared me to summon a waiter by screaming,"Squeeze Me!" across the room and I did, because, hey i'm the too-coolz. It led to a series of unfortunate events, and we shall leave it at that. But nothing, nothing absolutely, has induced that unnerving feeling of sandstorms inside my brains as much as every single Lit. Theory class is doing. I Do Not Understand A Damn Thing. Refer to unintelligible Point 1 above. And no, do NOT recommend tearing hair and gnawing knuckles. They don't work.
  • I have watched Omkara and simultaneously fallen in love with Ajay Devgan, Saif Ali Khan and a little bit of Kareena. I love Ajay Devgan more, and I don't care that Saif was brilliant as Iago. He was, though. But Ajay was leytaal Omi. I will watch it again. It is fabuloso. Strongly recommend it.
  • I have come to the conclusion that our juniors, collectively, are hopping mad. Each and every one of them. And I mean cuh-razy. Nuts. Screwdhila. Sadly though, their insanity is spreading like an epidemic and now we, who are the old-n-wise have started suddenly speaking in broken hindi, even though we're all bangali, and saying things like "heads mein no brains only you have" and giggling hysterically for no particular reason like we were pony-tailed pubescents. Most unbecoming, wottotell only. dammit.
  • I have begun completely, utterly, totally forgetting things. Like what other points I had in mind. This makes for a fabulous conclusion, then.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Raja Ko Rani Se Pyar Ho Gaya

Because the house wakes up in spurts, between 4 and 5:30 in the morning everyday, the house sleeps between 10 and 11 every night. So the other night was no different. Lights out at 11 and I'm lying in bed thinking of the day when I'll be allowed to sleep on my bed in my room, and not have to hear my mother snoring or waking up and watching CNBC in the middle of the night to check what price stock markets all over the world have opened at. If no man wants to marry me because all that's left of my face are a pair of dark circles around the eyes, you know whose fault it is.
Anyway, I'm quite the thinker. I can lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and draw concentric circles in my head. Sheep float in and out of them, and on some days zinger burgers on wings. I can wonder for hours whether 1 is a prime or a composite number. I can rue not having been able to figure out permutations and combinations. Or calculus. I'll turn on my side and fret over whether I'll wake up with dengue in the morning. On days I'm feeling optimistic, I think of waking up with Johnny Depp.
Continuing thus with my philosophical musings and thoughts that will change the world, I heard the sound of a motorcycle. I haven't been a fan of the motorcycle since it started being owned by men with shrunken penises and big egoes. Something was happening to this motorcycle, though - here, in front of my house, at the ungodliest hour of the night. It appeared to be growling in crescendo and pacing about in a flurry of activity. Of course, behind all devilish activities, there is a man. I held my patience for a while and lay waiting for the bike to go away. But it didn't. And then I heard a man slur and yell for a particular 'Rani'.
Now, I'm not Rani. Never was. And if your going to be a man slurring his speech in front of my house at a quarter past 12 in the night, you're pretty much trying to do the mambo on my nerves. So I got up. Giving this illustrious individual benefit of the doubt, I figured maybe he wasn't screeching at my house and calling it Rani. Maybe he wanted a neighbour. In which case I'd be happy to provide directions to the edge of eternity.
I look out the window and there he is. Going round and round in circles on the bike - like a dog looking for a good spot to poop in. By this time, I'm very very angry. He's not even bloody pretty-looking.
I'm assuming anyone who deigns to read this blog understands hindi and bangla. So I'm not going to bother to translate.

Me: Erom majhraate chNyachachhen kyano bolun to?
Drunk Dude: Raniiii-eh! Raniiii-eh ko bulaooooooo! Abhi bulaoooooo!

My Hindi. It's dynamite.

Me: Kaun Rani? Aare bhai, iNha pey koi Rani-bani nahin rehti!
DD: Raniiiiiiii-eh! Aaj mein tujhe ley ke jaooonga nahin to yehi pey jaan dey doonga Rani!!
Me: Aare ki mushkil! Hum aapko bolta hai ki iye Rani ka ghar nehi hai, aapko bishshaash kiu nehi hota?!
DD (ok, he's very very agitated now): Raniiii ko bulaooo! Abhi bulaooooo! Maar daloonga! Rani Ko BULaoooooo! Bulao bulao!

By this time, the caretaker of the building next door is up. He's not only up, he comes out with, 1. A torch [even though the street is sufficiently lit up in orange], 2. A whistle [ I haven't a clue why], 3. A stick [honest].

Old caretaker (most suspicious): Didi, apnar bondhu?
Me: Aare na rey baba! Kotha theke eshe tokhon theke Rani Rani kore chNyechiye cholechhe! Ektu dekhoon to!

The stick appears to have elicited a favourable reaction from our friendly easyrider. He's cooled down drastically, and is eyeing the caretaker warily.

Caretaker: Ui chhokra! Idhar sey jao nahin to hum poolish ko bula dega!
DD (reasonably): Mujhe sirf Rani sey milna hai.

Suddenly, it dawns upon me. My mother, pleasantly snoring at that moment, goes by the name Indrani.
Egad! Was some ugly twit half her age harbouring romantic feelings for my MOTHER?!?!?! Seething with rage, all non-violent thoughts vanished from my mind. I wanted to tear his well-oiled hair into tiny shrivels and scoop his brains out and mash them with my stilletoes.
Nudging my mother awake, I told her some crazy boy was screaming out her name.

My mother: Baaje bokish na. Ghum bhangiye dili! Thhash kore maarbo!
DD: Raniiii!
Me: Shunle?!
Ma: Uff. Choti khule maarbo, jei hok na kyano.

She sprang out of bed. When my mother is angry, she can take a hundred Saddams out of ratholes and make them pee in their pants.

Ma: Aei, ke rey tui? Bhaag ekhan theke nahole Police ke phone korbo! Darwanji aapni okhaane dNariye dNariye moja dekhchhen kyano? Maarun na dhorey!
Caretaker: Madam, maarbo?
DD: Aunty! Rani kahaan hai?
Ma (she's up in smoke. she's about to rip apart the window grill, jump out of the window and pounce on DD down below): RANI?!?! KONO RANI NEI EKHAANE! DARWANJI OR BIKE TAAKE DHORE RAKHUN TO, AMI POLICE KE KHOBOR DICHHI!
DD: No no, please! Galti ho gayi aunty. Mein shayad galat gali mein aa gaya phir.
He revs up his bike again and is gone in a flash.

Don't drink and drive. If you wake up my mother, there'll be a vision of hell you don't want to see.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Can't Hardly Weight

Soooooo, since we all love talking about my weight [oh yes we do! at least, we'd better] let me go ahead and plunge right down to it. I'm not saying I enjoy waking up at 5:30 in the morning and knocking over every article of furniture on my floor to get to the bathroom. To begin with, it bruises. Besides, I can't take a crap under pressure, I just can't. And don't you dare ask what pressure, cuz everybody knows if I don't make it to the gym by 6:25, every treadmill and every cross-trainer in the vicinity will be taken over by musclemen and middle-aged women trying to burn last night's hangover and teriyaki. Which is OK. But if I'm making the effort to gargle with toothpaste before exhaling like an efficient dragon on the treadmill, I expect YOU, and yes I mean you in your orange sleeveless vest panting right next to me on the cross-trainer, to do the same. It's all part of some large scheme to never let me lose any weight, as I've gathered. Now that all else has failed, some greater force is trying to suffocate me with garlicy crap-breath first thing in the morning, the moment I start a slow trudge on an incline. I mean, it's uncanny, this one guy will hang around running his fingers over the weights, and then the moment I'm on the treadmill, he'll hop right on to the c-t next to me, and WHO, i ask you, WHO stuffs his face with garlic first thing in the morning? Well, this dude does. Major conspiracy, I tell you.
And because of this spirited stenchman, every morning I hold my breath till an unhealthy angryish hue overwhelms my entire face, and I'm looking like a perfectly turned out baked tomato. When I can't take it anymore, and I go "AAAAAAAAAHRGH" to fill my lungs with toxic fumes from the neighbourhood, our friendly neighbour will look innocently at me and say,"Good workout, huh?"
Is it any wonder then, that I'm not getting more than 10 minutes of treadmill time? I mean, I'm not a maniac, I'll choose death by obesity over asphyxiation any day, thank you.
Anyway, the other day Page 3 Aunty M and my mother were discussing over ab crunches how they couldn't lose any weight off their stomach because they'd been pregnant. 27, and 23 years ago, respectively. Aunty M whispered conspiratorially that she had once considered joining VLCC. My mother, ever ready to jump the bandwagon, threw her hands in the air and shouted,"Liposuction!" much in the fashion of an elderly person discovering volume in his bathtub in erstwhile Greece.
We're women of action, we are. The next day, my mother and I found ourselves at VLCC. She wanted a tummy tuck because that apparently was the only thing stopping her from being .. yes, you guessed it - Shakira. Me, I just wanted to be able to buy a pair of jeans from the Ladies' section.
So there we were. Polite attendant smiled plasticly and bade me step on a gigantic weighing machine as enormous men in tiny bathrobes passed me by. Measurements and whatnots later, 'twas time for the "Consultation". Here's how it went:
Polite attendant: Hmm. The results of your weigh-in are quite favourable.
Me (starry-eyed): Really? Do I satisfy fatness requirements? Am I really really eligible to pay you tonnes of money to take things off my thighs?
PA: Akchooally, myadam, you are only 4 kilos overweight, according to height-weight ratio.
embarassing silence
My Mother (holding stomach): HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Me: Uhm .. there must be a mistake. According to my calculations, and those of my gym instructor, I'm about 8-10 kilos overweight.
PA (firmly): No madam, only 4 kilos. You will be perfect figure then. I am telling you, no?
Me: Are you telling me I'm 4 kilos away from looking like Heidi Klum?
PA (smiling, she's got the drift): You will look like Priyanka Chopra!
MM (making a dishonest effort to suppress laughter by clutching stomach and looking like Constipation itself): Hnyeh! ...hNyeh hNyeh ... 4 kilos!!!! hNyeh hNyeh... kirom murgi korchhe toke!
PA raises eyebrow delicately.
Me:[Offo! Chup korbe tumi?] Uhm... actually, I have huge thighs, I was looking in terms of doing something about them. I exercise, but nothing seems to come of[f] it.
PA: Please stand and pull up your top so I can observe your thighs. Madam.
Me: Uh ... woah?
PA: I must see your thighs and evaluate them. Madam.
MM: Don't, please. Traumatic experience.
I do as I'm told.

PA (a trifle worried): Hmm. Yes, it is a problem area that requires immediate attention. I will make you a package specially designed for your thigh-type, ok?
Me (aghast): There are thigh-types? What thigh-type am I?
PA (very, very, gravely): Madam. That is confidential company information. I cannot tell you.

AWRITE awrite, so maybe I exaggerated a bit. But most of what I've written is true. Honest.

Anyway, there wasn't any chance my mother was shelling out 11k for an inch and a half off my thighs and buttocks. Like taking a drop out of the ocean, really.
Frightfully disheartened at having missed an opportunity to drain the family finances, I thought up a different plan.

Sunday morning. Breakfast table. Everybody's reading the papers:

Me: I want to pierce my eyebrow.
Mother (not looking up from paper): Hoochie Mama.
Father (not looking up from paper): Tart.


Tuesday, July 11, 2006

My mother has looked me straight in the eye and declared unapologetically that she wishes Shakira were her daughter. Clearly, my hips are not to her taste. She has also mentioned in passing that I look like a "hoochie mama". It is most indiscreet of her, of course. Especially considering that she hasn't the foggiest idea what a hoochie mama means. Not that I do either. She's been quite taken by the term after she found Tyra Banks using it while flipping through portfolios of wannabe models in that reality TV show 'America's Next Top Model'. It was observed that those falling under aforementioned category were promptly rejected.
And now I'm supposed to be a hoochie mama. Ki volvo. Incidentally, kindly desist from commenting on our incredibly cerebral taste in TV programmes.

Moving on, I now love Zizou. I want to hold him to my bosom and nurse his angst. So I'll have to wear a butt-proof vest, wotis there.

Friday, July 07, 2006

This is such a forced post.

Was in Chennai for a couple of hours this weekend - en route to Tirupati and back. I like the city - get to see it for a few hours every year. Nice houses, every area I've been to so far looks like Salt Lake. Came back with dead calves, as in, the ones on my legs, not the cow variety, don't be tiresome now. Traditionally, sinners atone for their misdeeds by climbing up 7 hills - about 10,000 odd steps, from Tirupati to the Lord Venkateshwara temple in Tirumala. My mother, who takes non-conformism to limits of eccentricity, chose to climb down the hills - a 7 km steep downhill path - well, stairs with a bit of path, mostly. Also, she chose to take it more as a substitute for missing the gym than as a pilgrimage, a moment to ponder on God and His greatness, or otherwise, if you've been having a hard life. Don't know what sin she needs to purge, but there was plenty penance for sure, what with swollen feet and sundry ghastlies. Didn't help that we completed what takes 3 to 4 hours in 2 hours and 10 minutes. Me, I went for the spectacular view. Also to ensure that I don't have to meet a battered mother with smashed bones in Tirupati. We're a very clumsy accident-prone pair.
Like I said, this is a forced post and I can't go on. Thought I'd write something to put my mind off something else I'm trying to forget. Isn't working so far! :-]
Yennyhooey, heard this fantastic song on the Chennai Radio Mirchi - it's number 2 on my top of the pops, after Mika's "Tyall me sumthing, sumthing sumthing, tyall me tyall me", which is giving me sleepless nights. Think of absolutely any '80's dance-pop number, say, Modern Talking's "Brother Louie". Now, add the following words to that sort of music:-
"Indeppo, yennammaaaa! *something something*
Kaaaaaalej-uh! Teeeeeeeeenage-uh!
Kannammaaaaa Kannammaaaaaa!"
Mind it, as Rajnikant would say, I've only heard the song once, and I don't know a word of, Tamil, I suppose it was. No offence to any South Indians please, obviously i've messed up the lyrics - but this is how i've been singing myself the song on the potty everyday. Wish I knew what it means, though. I suspect it makes a strong statement about love on campus.

Friday, June 23, 2006


Every year, there comes a time, [precisely between 9 in the morning to about 3 in the afternoon] when the average JUDEan stops and thinks. Muses philosophically, speculates on such profundities as 'aim' and 'purpose', let us say. Of course I specifically mention the 'average' JUDEan because the rest, who emerge either out of psychedelic hazes of smoke, or, alternatively, the Departmental Library, indulge in such speculations on a regular basis.
This year, that frivolity-eclipsing time was today. The Day of The B.A. English Honours Entrance Examination. When you walk into University to find those who would normally break out into Dylan or tapdance to counter-revolution- waving sheets of chart paper with room names and lists and pens and cellotape, you know you've been caught on the wrong foot. And having been thus entrapped, you're more likely to be dragged by said vanquished foot and thrown to the parents. Oh. The Parents. They're hungry and they will pounce. They will fling names and academic boards [the occasional writing board too, if you're not careful] and children at you, it's a wonder Animal Planet doesn't cover them. There you go, philosophical musing #1: Why doesn't Animal Planet do a program on parenting rituals during examinations?
Anyhow, it is precisely when you're done politely swatting away the 137th parent from entering the exam hall to assist their wards and change their diapers and breastfeed their 18 yr-old toddlers, and you see another swarm rushing at you, that you stop. And you think. But then again, there's a very slim chance that you might actually be me. In which case you'd be stopping to think the moment when, 10 minutes before the test is scheduled to commence, you cast a casual glance in the direction of the classroom you're invigilating in, only to find that forms, questions, answer booklets, and such assorted sundries that make up an exam., are not there. Have not arrived. The individual in charge has executed a classic no-show. So you flail your arms about - everyone's doing it today, and you call up professors who tell you to run a circle round the earth, with a stopover at the English department, which is precisely at the opposite end of your [or my] immediate world. Hmm. And then.
Now, don't get me wrong, maybe the entire purpose of my existence really is to jog about the entire campus and deliver that bottle of water to Bulti, or to tell Chompakoli that her mother wants her to wipe her face every time she sweats, but I'm prepared to risk trying a different sort of life, yea? Especially when I have to go hunt for a supervisor for a bunch of hapless kids minutes before they're supposed to start writing the test.
God, however, works in strange ways. Who i get is this tall hotboy - whom, incidentally, I mistake for an examinee. I glare at him and tell him to stop walking about the classroom, only to find that he's long since perfected the glare, and is indeed, distributing question booklets. Of course, under such strained circumstances, there's rarely much else to do but gulp. Following which, he turns out to be a trifle silly - thereby reinforcing my belief that good-looking men are NOT the ones to go for. Somewhere through our meagre interaction, he tries to convince me that I'm a woman named Kohini who lives in Behala and plays cricket. I'm not very sure why, though. Must be the humidity. Nice man, but. Laughed good-naturedly when i tried to nick his cup of coffee off him.
And because I have dinner plans and am frightfully late, let me leave you with some FAQs at the JUDE entrance exam:
* Will my paper be cancelled if I scratch out 'and' in this sentence and replace it with 'if'?
* Can I leave some blank space? can I begin writing from page 2 instead of from the bottom of page 1?
* What is the length of the average essay in JU?
* How do I pin up my sheets with a pin?
* I play cricket with my friends every evening. Do I also have to meet the Head of the Department? [asked by a very scared individual, once the announcement about Sports Quota candidates having to meet the HOD was made]
* Where's the coffee? Why haven't invigilators on this floor got their coffee? Has Pradipta been embezzling the coffee?
* Frooti. Where's my Frooti? Which sorry fart's face do I have to smash to get my Frooti?
* Fuck. More parents. With more questions. Is it time to light a cigarette yet? [Women in JU have always resorted with favourable results to the Cigarette Smoke when alerted by a Code Red Parent Attack].

Friday, June 16, 2006

Her Eyeness

Giggles. My eye doctor say that according to my ECG report I have the heart and therefore probably the stamina of a sportsperson! Hee! I can't stop blushing ever since he used stamina and sportsperson in the same sentence. Giggle giggle. Children, tell me you know what a having a good stamina means. Don't tell me all it does is help do the laundry quicker. Tell me you know all corny connotations. Don't make me explain! Not that that's what my eye doctor mean. He good boy, he is. Hihi!
And in a couple of hours my beloved Grinch will jab a needle into my eye and cut and thrash at sundry evil lumps residing in 'em. Oooh, I'm so excited! I'm even gonna wear lip gloss to the Operation Theatre! Was thinking of shaving, but he may be married so why bother really.

Post-Op: THE BASTARD ! ! ! IT HURTS ! ! !

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Who knew, Tell Me Who?

  • That biriyani is not breakfast food. Treating it as a cereal-substitute will do unflattering things to your stomach, and make the toilet your throne for a day.
  • Exercise is murderous. It is ley taal [lethal]. It will kill the Doric columns that are masquerading as your thighs, but will not reduce them to any sort of anatomical normalcy.
  • Eating a meagre 4 times a day can be next to impossible. Not even if those meals include trips to cafes for 'chocolate fantasy' and cappuccino. Incidentally, who knew, tell me who?, that the waiter at Cafe Coffee Day will look at you like you were some sort of hobo scrounging for your next meal when you ask him why you haven't been given the free cookies that they served at the Lake Road outlet. I mean, what's the deal with a "limited period offer" on free cookies, goddamit?!
  • That your old amreekan girlfriend, who has never understood discretion, never had a taste of etiquette, will scream out,"What, girl?! Are you humping the waiter? Are ya, are ya?!?! You're not gettin' no cookies unless you hump the waiter!!" and put a malicious significance to the repeated use of the word 'hump', while other members of your own and neighbouring tables look at you and your hysterical girlfriend like you're .. uhm ... drunk sluts attending church service? Yeah .. that kind of look.
  • A Peep, lying shawtaaan on the floor, thighs suspended in mid-air with a [Swiss] ball between her legs can make the only 2 pleasant-looking young gentlemen in her gym debate the merits and demerits [demerits, mostly. not even a debate, they were pretty much agreeing on everything] of a unisex gymnasium. Last heard, they had drastically altered their workout timings, so as not to come across Rainbeau making weird contortions with her body and groaning for a bit of air, also simultaneously cussing last night's dinner. The bastids. Don't know what they're missing. Cuz I'm gonna be slim some day. Oh yeah, baybeh! yeah, some day.
  • A woman, talking about her weight and body is a turn-off! I don't geddid - it's OK for men to obsess and fantasise about the female body, but not OK for a woman to stop in the middle of the road and whimper sorrowfully because she's just caught her bottom on the shop window and it's HUUGE?! Men! When will we ever understand them?
  • A mildly persistent man will become a positive stalker after you tell him you're a lesbian!
  • Oh, and this is priceless. A certain MMS, whom we know as much for her nyakami as for her underclad celebrity daughters, will come to examine the gym, look snootily at Panting Peep on the cross-trainer and in her trademark lilt, ask, expressing doubt,"Are these machines effective?"

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Look Rimi, A Post!

This is a hurried post, written to soothe the distempered nerves of our resident belle du jour, rimi. I request all citizens of the blogosphere who find place on her hallowed blogtelpiece [it's a very clever portmanteau word - blog + mantelpiece. when will you people ever come up to my standards of intellect. Say When?!] to come forward and express solidarity for a good cause - let us, as it were, join htmls and stage a cyber intervention [a cyntervention, you know] of sorts, so as to prevent the poor girl from drowning technology and crying over lost perfume. Of greater psycho-social import is stopping the girl from scouring the seamy bylanes of Burrabazar and muttering under her breath to pot-bellied perfume-peddlers whose pan-bespittled lips spell words in a language that can only mean Incoherence. I mean, perfume?! In Burrabazar?! Clearly, Rimi chooses to smell like things far far away from a Chanel No. 5, or even a slightly down market Clinique Happy. We (who wear fake "Lomany deospray" and the occasional onion-breath of a devoured egg roll) scoff at her. Thus and therefore, dear bloggers, post post-haste and let us retrieve her bats, her bolts, her nuts and kookies, to put it mildly, for Rimi.

Moving on.

'Tis the time to be merry and to prance in the prairie, for the Peep has finally overcome the avalanche that exams cause to her substantial balding head. On last count, the bygone semester had added a mere 4 strands of grey hair - quite a negligible number compared to the hoary days of the undergrad years when she spent an entire night before her Romantic paper, wondering why opium didn't wipe out the whole lot of 'em godforsaken Romantics. To write a profound poem and make people study it centuries later just because you're peeved at having a bit of hot tea dropped on your pants - it is Devil's work, I tell you.
Anyhow, the important point is that I have a month to do absolutely nothing - which is a very blissful thing to do, when you really put your mind to it.
And I, Rainbeau Peep, hereby declare, that I, shall lose some weight. Of course, don't even for a moment, DD, imagine that I'm going to put myself on a diet! *mark the phlegmatic distaste with which i use the word. Use your imagination, goddamit* Dieting is for people who hate their lives and want to die, and I'm having none of that pansy stuff being done to Me. I shall, however, cut down on the portions that I consume - portions that would make the Empress of Blandings quiver her multiple chins in shame of displacement from her throne of gluttony.
You see, dear reader, there comes a time in a person's life [usually when she's done with her semester and hasn't much to think about] when you look hard into the mirror in a mood of deep philosophical musing, and say to yourself,"" Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure there are people in this world who would consider a daily ritual of writhing on the bed like a dying serpent to pull up your pants, thrilling - but I am not one among them. There may indeed be an element of adventure in it - especially when the bed is strategically positioned in front of a full-length mirror and you can watch yourself in the act - but I do not cater to this brand of masochism. I will, hence thus and therefore, uhm ... you know ... do that thing you do ... er ... EXERCISE. There, I said it. I may even, in a moment of mad derring-do, don my swimsuit, which is a cross between a Tomb-Raider costume and a light, summery frock - and tiptoe into the pool. Diving, in my present condition of bloatedness, would be hazardous to fellow swimmers and people in the vicinity of the pool. So all you heartless people who come bounding up from across the Department corridor to slap my bottom in gay abandon, yelling, "Mota! Mota!", beware, coz I'm just gonna drop to the floor and give you ten, Sarge.
Aah, c'est la vie - you birth them, you delicately nurture them and watch them grow, but one day, you must set them free. The love handles, I mean. :-[
Right after I finish this piece of chocolate nougat cake, that is.

And when I'm not exercising or eating 4 meals a day instead of the staple 6/7, I might even poke and prod nervously at books. For instance, I'm curious to know what this man, Terry Pratchett that everyone goes ga-ga over, is all about.
It's best to maintain safe distance, though, I've always believed.

And elsewhere

Eeeeeeeeee!!! and Wheeeeeeeeeeee!!!! and Yeeeeehaaaaaaaa!!! for good measure. My nooh eye doctor is young and very very inneresting! He's not hawt, per se, but when he smiles his lips curl at the sides, very much like the Christmas grinch, and I think it's delightful! And he uses words like 'deleterious' and 'repercussions' in the same sentence and even pronounces them right which is more than I can say for any doctor I've known so far and he called me in thrice to his chamber on the same day and I think he brings out the natural flirt in me because he can effortlessly make me wink at him and act as if it was all part of procedure and he's going to scoop my left eyeball out and tickle it to perfection so that I don't go blind and so as you can see he's quite my Saviour and I have an appointment with him tomorrow and oooh it sounds sooo like a date even though there'll be that meddlesome nurse and understudy and other patients with dirty eye infections but oh lemme go practice my most alluring lash-flutter now!


With so much activity and the oppression of writing that last Queer Studies exam, is it any irony then that the logo or wotchamacallit on my decrepit Panasonic cellphone now reads 'Pa nic'?

Sunday, May 28, 2006

I'm trading. Lives. And we're having a [grin-n-]bear[-it] run.

Please come back in a week for more exciting adventures.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

And So Long After

When love begins to sicken and decay,
It useth an enforced ceremony.
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith...
- Julius Caesar

Sunday, May 07, 2006

John Woo Peep

Incident I :

Golpark, near Mouchak. Around 6 in the evening, a crowded kerb. Lovers waiting for each other by the weighing machine, biker dudes fielding for bejewelled, nubile women lash-batting on a lipsticky wicket in shapeless Gariahat footpath petticoat skirts and crinkly tissue-paper tops. Rainbeau Peep dragging her oversized bottom and giganormous jhola like the thieves on the Cross. [read: tired]. ARSEhole steps in front of her, elbows the breast she barely even has [maane she Has Two. But Barely. Uff. stick to the story]and smartly skips away. Rainbeau Peep in an astonishing show of strength of mind and body catches him by the scruff of his untucked shirt and marches him to the traffic policeman, uttering such legends as,"Cholun! Cholun! Baar korchhi oshobhyota!" On flashback, she may have clutched on to his arm while crossing the road to get to the cop, but we shall hope such things didn't happen for the sake of maintaining the Peep's superheroineism.

Incident II :

Same week. We find our superheroine, Rainbeau in a taxi, hair in a bandanna [mathaye gamchha, if you're going to be a stickler for the truth] to hide the remnants of zinc oxide, left over from a dress rehearsal. On the unwieldy middle of the Dhakuria bridge, the taxi, ignition off due to horrific traffic jam, slides backward and gently makes love to a motorcycle, standing behind. Enraged mobike dudes come up to taxidriver, grab him by the collar, call him names, say he will have to pay - all this time looking Rainbeau Peep in the eye and smiling crookedly. Cars honk, go past. Biker dudes refuse to let Peep's taxi budge [although no damage has been done to their decrepit old mobike], whip out 2 cellphones each, and punch in numbers, by now grinning at Peep and occasionally punching the cabbie. Peep's insistence on taking the matter to the police station fall to wax-blocked ears, as know-it-all [read: no-wit-at-awl] dudes say the matter MUST be solved in the middle of the bridge. Nobody really knows what the matter was, though. Crowds gather, people tell our young anti-heroes to just leave it be and get on with their lives, but they're juggling cell phones like an action sequence gone horribly comedic. A sergeant comes after some 20 minutes of screaming, tells cabbie and bikers to go to the Lake Thhana, and chugs away without a care in the world. Happy with the way things are going, BD 1 takes his bike and sets off for the police station, BD 2, slides into the taxi, next to a fuming Peep.
Our superheroine decides, it is time for ze action [repeat: akseeyown]. As the cab turns around and makes its way back down the bridge towards the Dakshinapan side, Rainbeau finds a whole entourage of police jeeps and policemen waiting outside the mall - clearly a sign from God. Being late for an appointment, Peep carpe diems, in a manner of speaking. Tells the taximan to stop in front of the jeeps - howls to bewildered and now blubbering biker punk to "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" [yes, Peep writes awl her dialogues herself. Pliz to not plagiarise.] jumps out of cab[like jackie chan, mind you] goes to the policemen [a good 30 of them gather around to pay a gamchhaed Peep a whole lotta heed], explains to them how unkaalcharred young men of this generation, maane ki bolbo apnake syar, have been harassing her, daring to sit next to her without permission, creating a ruckus over nothing, not letting an ambulance pass on the bridge [really, they didn't] and sundry such offences.
Lots of interesting things happen, but to cut a long story short, taxi-sliding punk is asked to step into a jeep, taxiwallah is asked to follow the jeep to presumably the Thhana, another taxi is hailed for our heroine by chivalrous policemen, Gotham City is saved, as it were.

Indicent III :

A couple of days back. Elgin Road in the boiling heat of a sweltering afternoon. Having emerged from Forum after some shopping for Aunt, Rainbeau Peep steps into a taxi, seeing as how a sunscreen lotion would cost just about the same amount as the taxi fare to get her back home. Very economical, is our Rainbeau. {Very broke too} Traffic jam. They're always trouble. Taxi stops right across from a paan shop, opposite Big Bazaar or whatever that place is. Henna-haired young man sips his Pepsi and gawks at Snazzy Sunglasses Peep. Aah very well. Peep looks away. Taxi doesn't budge. After a while, having looked in all directions in dehydrating hopelessness, Peep turns back at the direction of the paan shop. This time, Henna Crooknikova winks at Peep. And then, slowly, taking his time, sticks his fat pink tongue out and licks his thick dark lips, eyes still fixed on Peep. Taxi does not move. Man repeats routine of winking, smiling and licking lips. Peep does not find his brand of flirtation quite so very bewitching. That's it, says RB to herself. To the cabbie, she says,"Ek minute". Gets out of the taxi, walks up to the man, standing around 30 feet away, gives him a resounding slap across his sweaty face, [Background sound: Fataaaaaaak] walks back to the taxi and gets in without a word. Taxi does not move for another 20 seconds. Lucky for Peep, the man was too stunned and still holding his Pepsi bottle to react. The last time RB tried the resounding slap- during a theatre workshop- it only ended up in an ugly, unintentional, scarring scratch.
Anyway, there may have been some slight whimpers of "Bitch" and ... never mind - but the turgid male ego went, as Aishwarya Rai says best,"Phoooos!".

The point is, I used to be very scared of reacting. I'd quietly slink away, ignore, look the other way. Most people I've said this to, tell me I should be more careful, because I travel alone so much. But this ... uhm ... emancipation is .. uh ... addictive! [At this point, observe our sylph-like heroine getting attacked by gnarling anti-feminists]. Help!

Friday, April 28, 2006


I'm warning you, people, I'm just going to roll over and die if I don't get something to do very soon now! ! I'm so bored I think I'm gonna relive teenage angst and get a pimple just to put my mind off this unrelenting ennui!
So I finally submitted a ridiculous paper on hijras. Thanx to the Professor and Sogiappam for helpful links. No thanks for refusing to write the paper for me.
There's nothing absolutely to do, all the damn day long. I mean, of course, there's the study leave, so technically there's plenty to do, but whoever studied on a study leave? I mean, DUH!!! [See, italics in every sentence and the use of the word 'duh' - spells teenage angst. i'd like to have written in orange, but i'm gonna spare y'all this time.]
We go to college and what do we do? I gorge myself on jhaal muri. Squee, who is also endearingly called Shootki gapes at my food and looks furtively down to see if her concave belly is still in place. J sniffs around for traces of dope and carriers of the same on campus. So between the 3 of us, we're Eats, Shoots and Leaves. [yea, I added this entire paragraph just so i could make the joke. See how bored I am?!]
Kneo's place is out of bounds because it's teeming with red ants.
Of course, inerestingly enough, Kneo wants me to act in his 5-minute short film, "Dracula". He wants to send it to some festival and make 10 lakhs. or thousand. Either way, the man sees sweetness and light where there is none. Or maybe it's because insider information has it that the movie will actually be called "Bracula" and will have an all-women cast, costumes sponsored by Wireless - your favourite lingerie shop. So next time you're at the Vijay Video Parlour and muttering under your breath to the man behind the counter, you know what movie to name before you break into a hot flush. [To all easily offended, unerringly moral anon commenters - this is an open invitation to my comment box. Feel free, by all means.]
We're considering launching an aestheto-politico-literary group that will champion the cause of world peace. It's going to be called Joint Venture and our main aim shall be to convince the head honchos of this our planet that all you need is to blow a dopey smoke ring and peace shall reign forever. It's been done in the '60s, though. But we're bored outta our minds.
Does anybody have a place [and a jukebox] we could shack up at, in return for a thick spread of joy and glorious well-being? Tell me how to get rid of this, NOW! And don't suggest impossible things like reading books. Or going to City Centre. We're broke for God's sake.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Goodbye To All That

The Office lies in a quiet corner of Jodhpur Park, overlooking the Lake. You get off your rickshaw and holler for either Kneo or J from the streets, and if they're done making out and can be bothered to open the rusted gate with an oddly patterned grill before the popcornwallah looks nastily at you for having spoiled his sleep, then it's your lucky day. You walk up a dark staircase, quietly, so as not to catch Bimba Da the caretaker's disapproving eye, and when you're in through the door, let the debauchery begin.
It's a maze, The Office - numerous cubicles, couches and chairs bumping into you, tiny bathrooms springing out from where you least expected, and a kitchen catching you by surprise. On Sunday evenings it transforms itself into an orange Pandora's box. Catch it emerging out of a marijuana haze.
We have fond memories of the Office, all of us. This was where we were, the night before our B.A. Final Year Paper VIII exam., smoking pot and listening to Dylan and The Who. Occasionally wondering whether we would ever learn. Resolving Never to.
This was where the Sundance Kid told us his exploits with a Nepali prostitute, over a crate of bad Kalyani beer. Where Shoe expressed his political convictions and goggled his eyes at us so we would listen. Murder has been planned at the Office. Revolutions chalked out. Cinema has been argued over, home videos shot. Of, for instance, Tapu taking a self-absorbed drag from a joint, then suddenly leaping into the air, giving the camera a menacing look and screaming,"pNowd maaarbooow!" in his typical Kehsto Mukherjee voice. Al in the same shot looking disinterested and muttering,"Dhar bNara". Gossip has been exchanged at the Office, love affairs disclosed, news of marriages gasped over. My second [and last] unsuccessful attempt at peeing in a men's urinal happened at the Office. Christmas Eve has been celebrated and tests fretted over. Vacuous looks and long silences have been settled comfortably into. Mountains of shingara, kochuri and vegetable chops devoured at the Office after mad pangs of dope-induced hunger.
So it feels awkward to have to go there today and see the place dismantled. The Office is to be no more. Goodbyes are so confusing.

On a pleasanter note, listen to the John Pizzarelli Trio song "I Like Jersey Best". It's hilarious - they do the whole song imitating the styles of, from Dylan to the Beach Boys and Lou Reed.
Terrifyingly enough I have an Augustan Core test in less than 12 hours. None of the texts OR class notes have been read. No reference work done. I feel strangely at peace with knowledge of certain doom.
Woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

We're All Doing Eunuchs

So, my mother's back from Darjeeling. Which means I don't have to keep house and go to fish markets any more. It also means chocolate biscuits, caramel, fudge, cheese straws, alpine cheese, skull cap, humongous umbrella that looks like it was made out of a Scot's kilt, 3 shawls - 2 of which look like they were stolen off a homeless person, and a pair of sneakers which, for some reason my mother bought and wore while she was there, but can't seem to fit into here, in Kolkata. My Mother has a sneaker-fetish. She owns 8 pairs as of now - would've been 9, but she lost a pair in Darj - how you can lose your shoes is inexplicable.
Oh, and horror - a prospective mother-in-law, who went with my mom - has ... bought ... and sent ... outrageous ... UNDERWEAR. .. for me! I've met her twice in my entire life, and she goes and buys these bra-slip type lacey things - 3 of 'em! They're very all-purpose - can fit every sexual fantasy - from seraglio to BDSM - but, but, that's not the point, of course. I can't fit into one of 'em - I mean, I know I'm not particularly well-endowed, but how small does she think I am?! Uhm, this isn't the point either.
The point is, that I'm not marrying her son - never seen him, don't know him, don't care much. And this is a little awkward - but I love the lingerie! :-[ Vexing. I should've guessed there'd be trouble when 13 cackling social butterflies and their husbands, all of whom seem to spend their days making complex calculations as to the bait, date and mate of my marriage, got together for vacation.
Meanwhile, costumes for our show are not ready yet - props are hazardous, or incomplete. My lines are alphabet soup.
Worse yet, I have a paper to write for the Queer Studies course - although I don't know why I should bother - there isn't much hope of my passing the course. Haven't much time to think of a topic, considering last date for submission of abstracts is tomorrow. Thought I'd write on our hijras. [Well, actually, I thought I'd write on Will & Grace, but I doubt I could make that very scholarly.] Turns out everybody's doing eunuchs. I'm doomed.

Nevertheless, let me go nibble on an almond rock.