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.