Friday, April 28, 2006

Dhyat!

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.