Friday, June 23, 2006

JUddho

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,"Enough.is.enough." 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!

Phew.

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'?