Friday, December 28, 2007

Year-ender

It's been a year of big changes. There was the job, of course - huge change. Imagine waking up and feeling like shit - because you never were much of a ray of sunshine, now, were you? - and not being able to go awl, "Fuckit, I couldn't give a damn about a lecture on Samuel Pepys when my life is falling apart." Which is pretty much the theatre that played all 4 shows right through my college life. Now I go to work because that is what one does. It's been a year or doing what one ought - since July, at least. I'm not complaining, but funny though, how there still isn't much by way of order or discipline. Must be the exuberant company I keep.
Perhaps, it's all the growing up (and out) that I've been doing. Despite all the tumult there's been a certain numbness of thought. Things have happened, as they are wont to. But I find I take things in my stride more easily now. Something that would affect me deeply some months ago, ceases to now. Maybe it's the kind of training my job gives me. In the face of despair, file a copy.
I'd call it cynicism, but it isn't. Because I feel so liberated by it. It is a very unforced detachment from things. I would be worried if I'd stopped being able to love. That hasn't happened. Sometimes though, I wish it would. It must be the growing older that makes one appreciate beautiful paradoxes.
Around me, people wager their hearts this holiday season while mine beats just like yesterday, hole n all. An ordinary miracle, I don't ask for much.

I've had an eventful year. Gimme another one of those, please. With a dash of lime and some dancing. Have a great year ahead, all of you.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

[Cat]ching up

Leave the past in its permanent home. Do not make that reality so strong that it tears down this one.
- Jeanette Winterson

It's amazing how you'll remember things that you hadn't held so very dear to you when they were in the present. I finished school a few months before I turned 18. Seven years down the line, when I think of school, the first two images that come to mind are of Kanchi didi, the Nepalese ayah at kindergarten, with her "lal dawai" - a mysterious bloodred concoction of Lord knows what devilspawn that worked wonders on cuts and sores - and Johnny, the ice cream man. Kanchi didi never tended to me, I spent most of nursery and KG being bitten by my friend T, who was quite the bully then, and has since metamorphosed into the picture of grace and comeliness. 20 years ago she was running riot, making boys and nursery teachers alike howl in pain. Now she frowns upon my decadent lifestyle and is often to be found shaking her head in disapproval at the world at large. She's getting married soon, to Gullu Mian, who adores her and looks suspiciously like her ex-crush/my ex-boyfriend. It's complicated. On the upside, he's nicer than ex-crush. By far.
Johnny had a white cart and sold Kwality ice cream. I'm sure he must've switched to Walls, but that's not worth a memory. I reckon his name wasn't really Johnny. In all the time I was at school, which is all the time one can possibly be at school, I hadn't once spoken to Johnny. T used to climb up one of the wheels of the cart and peep inside the freezer. There was something other-worldly, positively magical about the way the brown, skinny man in shorts would let screaming children harangue him, would chide them good-naturedly and sell his ices all the while - with artful precision. Like a juggler, really.
It could be that I remember more of him than was. The past will do that to you, because when you know it isn't coming back, you'd like to remember the best parts. What amazes me, though, is that I would ever consider Johnny and Kanchi didi to be so much a part of that past that makes up my childhood.

Not that any of this discounts the severe sense of loss I'm feeling at having donated my favourite bookmark to one of those spoilt little mutts I frequently travel with on the Metro. They're the same lot that picks on smaller kids and thinks passengers are waterbeds, all the better to headbutt, jump and stamp their feet on. Bloody kids, with bloody puppy eyes. But there's only so much you can do when you're trying to catch up on a good book and this tiny little thing keeps poking her head in and playing with your bookmark. It's kind of sweet, all said and done. I just wished this bunch had more manners. But my poor pretty bookmark with lemony cats and cat's ear edges. It was a gift from my UK mashi too and had silly puns made with cats and literature - like "Cats 22". Crazy cute. I heart pretty bookmarks. It's the only one I had too. :-[ It's not even like I gave the thing to her. I only handed it over to her to keep her busy while I got on with my reading. But then she started showing off to the others that I'd given her this "thing". And then she showed her mother, who said, "Uff, abar koththeke ekta aborjona tuley enechhe!" and everyone else laughed, and I glared at the mum and asked the kid with as much dignity as I could muster, "Nebey?" She nodded vigorously, the little demon.
You think I may have got bullied into parting with a favourite possession by a 6-yar-old who has no use for it?
I'm never having a screaming kid, I promise. I'm never having anything that isn't well-behaved.

Friday, December 07, 2007

Perchance to dream

Dudes, sleep. It is the luxury of those who keep sane company. What with one lot of people with real relationships that are in shambles, and the other lot who keep having relationships that are all in their heads – my life is pretty full right now.

Excuse me, large women of the world. Please come together in a round table meet where we discuss the prospects of my ever walking into a shop all tralala and walking out of it, still tralala, but with a pair of ossum jeans that make my ass look nice and my thighs look notgross. Because what is the point of being large if you can’t tell the whole world about it, and discuss and analyse it yet never once consider going to the gym for it. Correct. So anyway, I’ve needed a pair of jeans ever since this blog was born. Children, that is not good. On Saturday then, I shall set out, sagging belly in one hand, and brand new plastic card in the other, and shop for jeans. I cannot even begin to explain how momentous this event is.
The trouble with winter is, what with all the moisturising, you can’t quite ignore issues like surface area. Ok wotever. Seriously, I want recommendations for jeans that look nice on fat people. I need brands, and don't say Levi's. Levi's jeans are too thick. Me no like. You wouldn’t either if you kept scraping the skin off your fingers every time you had to pull your thick jeans on, which, even though you bought them 3 months ago, are now so tight you have to lie on your back and do a complicated wiggle, because your ass? It grows exponentially. So Levi’s is out. Don’t say Guess, because I have seen those mannequins, and they could do with some fried chicken. I am ethically against entering a shop that has irrationally skinny mannequins. Tell me other brands. Quick now.

In other news, I will never get a tattoo. Or go bungee jumping. And there is absolutely no way for you to prove that I’ve been blogging from work.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Head of umbrella

Finding is the first Act
The second, loss,
Third, Expedition for
The "Golden Fleece"

Fourth, no Discovery—
Fifth, no Crew—
Finally, no Golden Fleece—
Jason—sham—too.

*********************************************************************************
Crumbling is not an instant's Act
A fundamental pause
Dilapidation's processes
Are organized Decays.

'Tis first a Cobweb on the Soul
A Cuticle of Dust
A Borer in the Axis
An Elemental Rust—

Ruin is formal—Devil's work
Consecutive and slow—
Fail in an instant, no man did
Slipping—is Crash's law.

- Emily Dickinson


In the gutters our stars decay.
- a line from a poem by Vasko Popa, Serbian poet, in trans.

Boddo discontent and heavy bleeding.

On the bright side, my lil niece was born on the very day that my other niece was getting married!
Oh wait. This means I'm growing old. Okso, Not a very bright side.
But my lil niece, doods, she will kick some serious ass with her blooming gorgeousity. and I could not get more shitty amreekan hipstery if I tried. Yo &c.
Honest, she is incredible looking. With haughty eyes. I mean, which 2-day old kid do you know with haughty eyes? I am in awe. I will cause grievous harm to boys who try to mess with her fifteen years later. Mind it.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Memory's children

Whoever the homeland may belong to, it is not merely a piece of geography. It is also not just history. Nor is it the rivers of the region, or the mountains. It is all those things that keep getting absorbed in your very being whether you want it or not. It constantly nurtures your mind, heart and soul. Keeps it alive... It is our land that gives us a vision. Gives us strength to see our country and see beyond it. To connect with our place and times.

- Krishna Sobti, Memory's Daughter, trans.

The state government would have us believe that normalcy has been restored in Nandigram. A "new sunrise", they're saying. I wonder what that means. All those women who were raped. Is the government going to dictate to them what normal is? Is 'normal' handing a red flag to you after your women have been raped and murdered, your men beaten up and burnt alive and your houses razed to the ground?
The burden of the past, it is a great one. Will anyone forget?

There is no activism in me. Just a lot of rage. And severe, numbing shock. I look at photographs we spare our readership. Photographs of rape victims, of men with faces so badly smashed all you can see is coagulated flesh, not even the eyes can be made out. No, these will never be published, there is only so much intrusive journalism - we try not to cross the line. But I see the pain, I see the blood, I see a torn sari and mauled limbs and stains.
There must be a way out. Please, God, let there be a way out.

p.s.: Please, spare me the inquisition. The last and penultimate paragraphs are not necessarily related.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Children of a lesser god

Sometimes, the thought of going home becomes an intrusion. Like when you're driving down the expressway, happy to have lost the road back to the city. The thing with happiness, though, is that it has an evil twin.
Tonight, I will go home and be thankful, for the big house, my two rooms, for my middle-class birth, for every material comfort that I so often scoff at in the name of humility. Because we live in a world where these things matter enough to save your life. Because my parents have two cars, their own house, and comfortable bank accounts, our lives are worthy of being saved. It sounds insane, doesn't it? But when I read about all those lives that are so dispensable because they have no other defence than their tears of anguish and helplessness, whose cries and appeals go unheard - this is all I can come up with to explain how this sort of continuing terror can be perpetrated on the people who have put the present government in power. The people whom the government purports to protect. Instead, children are dying, men and women lie wounded in hospitals, each reduced to a name and number plastered across their forehead with duct tape. The language of diplomatic communication has always been maddening; annoyingly passive. The prime minister has been kind enough to say that Delhi is "concerned". When your child falls down and hurts his knee, you show concern. When your house is full of termites, you're entitled to be concerned. But when the women of your polity get raped and murdered, when you can look at the fear on the faces of the men and children, and still shoot them to death to make a sham of all your promises, a mockery of the democracy you claim to ensure - I'm thinking there needs to be more than a show of "concern" and "direct interest".
Nandigram embarasses me. On the way to work, when I see a group of foreign tourists wandering aimlessly near Raj Bhavan, looking appalled at the empty streets of a city whose charm lies in its people, its overwhelming crowds, I am ashamed for the anxious alertness in their body language. When the police crack down on artists raising their voice against the atrocities, the complete disregard for the democratic rights of the people in my state embarasses me.
My city's silence, and my own, embarasses me. My 'education', the 'awareness' and 'exposure' that has cultivated for me and for those like me an ostensible 'voice', embarasses me because of the way in which it is being threatened and systematically quashed by my government.
And when I go back home, and think of all those people who have been rendered homeless, landless, and, in so many cases, without a family, I will be embarassed for the comfort I was born into and for the inability to do much else than to wallow in it.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Picture hit hai

The sole purpose of this post, written at quarter past 3 in the morning, is to inform you that I am just back from watching the late night show of Om Shanti Om at City Centre, and doods, lets face it, I've totally seen it before you have. :-D

Also, it's an amazingly intelligent, beautiful film. I wouldn't go so far as to say that it's a tribute to Bollywood, but it captures the essence of Bombay cinema in a way that's never been done before. Go watch it, quick.

And, hullo? It is IMPOSSIBLE to get transport from City Centre at 2:30 in the morning. And no, even crazed women running after cabs in stilletoes doesn't work.

Of course, this post wasn't meant to be either a review of the film or a chronicle of my day.

Frankly my dears, I'm only gloating about how my Diwali was pretty darn ossum. How was yours?

*tomorrow, Saawariya*

Oho, Happy Diwali kintu! Have a blast! :-]

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Jodhpur heaven fetish

Those, my pretties, are apparently search words that will bring you to this blog. Not that I've ever been to Jodhpur or heaven, and I don't remember discussing my fetish here either. What does it even mean, Jodhpur heaven fetish? Some kind of strange desert-spirituality-gone-perverse thingy, I suspect. Leave me out of it, is awl I'm saying.

I made my first plastic purchase on the 19th of this month. This is not something you need to know, of course, but then, most of what I write here isn't either.

Like my chocolate cravings, I suddenly have this intense, inexplicable, paralysing desire to be fabulously rich. It's different from the garden-variety desire for wealth, which, I usually don't have anyway. Suddenly I want a weekend getaway chateau in .. oh, I dunno ... Belgravia (am I making up this place? I don't know, but I sure as hell know exactly what it looks like) and want to be able to afford every fucking spa treatment at Ananda.

I also want to live on tuna and truffle cake for the rest of my life.

Yes, that is correct, I am burning up with fever.

I thought Pujos would be miserable this year, what with the job and everything, but I had an enjoyable Pujo. I didn't sleep, worked from afternoon to evening, then festive-cheered all night till late morning, then back to work in the afternoon, till I was ready to collapse. But it was great.
It bothers me a little bit that I spend every fucking Pujo with a new set of friends. Every single year. I'm a drifter, aren't I? Bob, I apologise. There is in me, a very screwy something that I do not care to share. I hope that excuse was cute enough for forgiveness. Ish, that was not sarcasm, promise. Just defensiveness. Promise. Please don't leave a comment.

Ok, what else. My friends. They're great. I just wish they wouldn't try to deconstruct me. Or, assault me physically [I'd say rape, but that wouldn't be politically correct. I'm a fucking journo now. p.s.: They did try to spread my legs, though]. Panu and Pablo, I'm looking at you.
My other friend thinks I'm an idiot. Plenty of people, I suspect, think I'm an idiot. But I think I'm smarter than many of them. Emphatically. Look at these last statements. Q.E.D.

Gawd. It's the bleedy paracetamol combined with some other fecking pills. I swear I'm quite nice. Haha, plenty of people think I'm a "good person". Thank you, brothers and sisters.

Doods, if I don't quit smoking I will seriously die. It's a struggle, this breathing. Honest bolchhi. Ma go ma, I am so never going near a cigarette again. Of course, it may also be that I'm so FAT now that my lungs are clogged up with all the cheese and the 24/7 thoughts of crispy chicken and Valrhona.
Deep, deep inside somewhere, I think I'm Britney Spears.

I can't fucking believe I'm writing this shit. Who is reading this, I wanna know.

Ok, I'll stop. Forgive me, gentle reader, for the liberal use of fuck. You will now please to fornicate fiendishly elsewhere.

[holy crap, I must be very ill]

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Bhulbo Na

Most of you are familiar with the Rizwanur Rahman incident that's been getting national coverage.
For those of you who aren't, I'm going to copy paste the facts that someone has very helpfully put up on the 'Get Justice for Rizwanur' group page on Facebook.
On September 21, Rizwanur Rahman was found dead on the tracks near Patipukur. The 30-year-old computer graphics teacher had been about to send a complaint to the Human Rights Commission about the police harassment he and his wife Priyanka Todi were facing over their marriage. The source of the harassment was rumoured to be Ashok Todi, Priyanka's father and the proprietor of Lux Hosiery. Within the space of a few weeks, Priyanka and her husband were summoned three times to Lalbazar on very flimsy grounds, and they were threatened, intimidated and abused. Priyanka was then induced to leave the family home in Tiljala by rumours that her father was ill; her uncle Anil Saraogi signed a bond promising to return her to Rizwanur in seven days. That never happened, instead Rizwanur's body was found, lying face up on the railway tracks with the back of his head blown off. The Police Commissioner stated that it was suicide, in advance of the evidence, and moreover justified the Todis' 'outrage' at Priyanka's marriage and the police interference that had ensued. A probe was announced but none of the concerned officers were suspended.


The chief minister met Rizwanur's mother today, and asked her for time. In the past three weeks not a damn thing has happened. There have only been meetings and defensives issued by the government and the police. No ostensible efforts are being made to investigate the nature and cause of the death at all. The police commissioner, entrusted with the security of citizens, was quick to decide that the death was a suicide even before the post mortem report was out. For a man more concerned with offices in cricketing associations, he should have known that statement was, well, not quite cricket. Ashok Todi, the father-in-law of the deceased owns a company with a 200-crore turnover. They're the ones with the tagline "yeh andar ki baat hai". Ironic, that. Priyanka Todi, Rizwan's wife, has been systematically silenced, with only the State-run Women's Commission, paying her a visit, only, apparently to see how she was doing and to, in effect, give the impression that she was alright and essentially, didn't want to be involved in the fight for justice that would invariably implicate her family, her father being considered to have masterminded the whole "mysterious" death. Again, it is important to read between the lines. We only know what transpired from what the representatives of a state-run body are telling us. Already, police officers who have admitted to having acted on orders from seniors and interfered in the marriage have not had any action taken upon them. The police, today, are marriage counsellors, protectors, and, it appears co-conspirators in the plot to terminate innocent lives and ruin families. A devastating talent pool of multi-taskers.

The problem is very basic, if you want to get to the root of it, really. When a government is given absolute power for over thirty years, units of its state machinery are likely to think they are god, given that there is nobody to challenge their stake as guardians and keepers of the welfare of citizens. They tend to find it convenient to forget that they are responsible for millions who have put their trust in them.
The purpose of democracy is to ensure that this kind of complacency is not allowed to afflict the larger State. In India, the idea of democracy has never quite been uniform, I think. But the present government in West Bengal would like to believe that they can make an utter sham of democracy and rest easy. They did it in Singur and Nandigram, they're doing it again now. Question is, are we, as educated and aware citizens, going to let them get away with it?
Those of you who have been following the case, are aware of the 24-hour vigil that has been on outside the main gate at St. Xavier's. The response to the vigil has been overwhelming. People from all over the city,across socio-economic *insert correct word that I can't remember. What I mean is, the rich and the poor alike* have come to Xavier's to light a candle for Rizwanur. I don't know how I've come across with what I've written so far, but I need you to know that the protest to get justice for Rizwanur has taken on dimensions of a mass movement that is not political. It is a demand for justice, a demand for the truth to be told like it happened, and without fabrications to save the asses of people in high office. Most of you already know what I'm talking about. I don't know if you've gone to the vigil, but even if you've just passed through Park Street lately, you couldn't have missed the spectacle of people, sitting on the footpath, in the midst of thousands of candles. It's a beautiful, touching sight. The Telegraph has been covering the case and this movement pretty extensively, and there are accounts of how senior citizens have travelled from the other end of the city to come and express their solidarity, and how, people who never knew Rizwan have sat at the vigil and shed tears for him. The facts of the case, and the way its investigation is being handled, are gory and polluted, but the public reaction has been inspiring, and is taking on historic proportions.
This is the part you actually need to read
Ok, enough. You don't need me to go yapping on about things you already know, and it's amazing how everyone has been reacting to this in their own personal way. So I'm going to cut to the chase now. The government and police authorities have been silent all this while, possibly in the hopes that the Pujo craze will push attention away from this issue. But we're not going to let that happen, are we? I know the Pujos are a festive time for us, it's about meeting relatives and friends and having a great time. Which is fine. But somebody lost a relative and a friend for no better reason than that our system does not treat all its people equally, and is favourable to those with money and power. There is an unhealthy lack of concern for the value of human life that must not be allowed to persist. A bunch of us are trying to organise events through the Pujos that will keep the protest going strong even at this time when the city takes on a different life altogether. We are not an organisation, just a bunch of individuals trying to do our bit, and we need as many people as possible to join in and help out. I'm going to list what we have planned for the Pujos, and this is where you all come in:

1. On Saptami, there are going to be groups of performers - musicians, theatre performers and the like, coming together at the vigil in front of Xavier's, who will gather around and perform. Span and Nevermind have confirmed. There will be others. Any of you interested in performing .. anything at all ... a play, a song, reading poetry .. absolutely anything you would like that will commemorate the cause will do. This is NOT a concert, timings are flexible. Anyone can come up and speak or perform, basically lend support in any way possible. Even if you don't want to, you could come and sit in, light a candle, sign the register and posters. Every little gesture counts. I cannot reiterate enough that those who have volunteered have done so from the goodness of their hearts. There is no money involved in this. When I say generate support, I mean your presence, your signature, your ideas on how we can take this forward.
2. We're trying to meet Pujo committees of pandals across the city, including residential pujos and ask them if they will allow us to just keep a register and a poster with Rizwanur's photo maybe, and a compelling slogan. When people come to visit the pandal, all they need to do, if they want to, is sign in to register their support. The problem here is, when I said we're a bunch of people, I really meant just a handful, most of whom will have to work through the Pujos. We need more people. Whoever reads this, if you know someone or are yourself involved in your para pujo, would you try and see if this is a doable option? Pujo committees need to be reassured that there is no political colour to this, and their pujo will in no way be hampered for a register being placed in its precincts. The point is to remind those who need to act on the matter, that Calcutta is not so easily distracted. We have not forgotten. We demand immediate action.
3. Again, we're trying to gather people who will be willing to generate interest on the issue by performing even at the small pujos, the residential complex pujos are more personalised spaces. Reaching out there, through the same means as I've mentioned [albeit sketchily. Sorry, but dude, it's the fucking middle of the night] will give favourable results, no? Anyway there are usually functions in the evenings at all these places, so why not have something that is exactly on those lines, but has ... oh I dunno .. a mention of Rizwanur in it? For this also, volunteers are required. If you can do nothing else, just spread the word. Ask around for people who are willing to do this. I mean, maane, please and all that.
4. Because The Telegraph has been covering this issue and the public response extensively, I'm confident that it will cover whatever happens, in whatever scale. And so, if we can reach a complex of 200, or even 100 people, and then that is covered, another several thousands can get to read about it, so support builds exponentially.
5. Leaving this blank. Insert Whatever ideas you guys have. We could meet, you could leave a comment. Anything man. Call me. Anything. Lets ACT. [Please don't call me or leave a comment saying, "Lets blow up Writer's Building, or lets kill the police commissioner." etc etc. Primarily, because hullo, lets not go to jail? And more importantly because the beauty of this movement so far has been in the way it has been so united in a very personalised, emotional, peaceful way. Ok, that sounds corny, but you know what I mean, yea?]

The nameless, faceless individuals who have been sitting in at the vigil, some for 8 hours every day - for days on end, are not doing it for any sort of gain. Neither am I or those with me, and those all over the city, who have, in their own way lent support to this cause. The government needs to know that it hasn't been elected so it can get away with murder, as it has been, repeatedly. This is a mass movement.

We Will NOT Forget.

Lets show 'em what we're made of? Spread the word.

Friday, October 05, 2007

Shadows, signs and wonders

There's a lot of chocolate in the story of my life.

I paid the tana-rickshawalla extra because I told him, "Dada, ojon [only, I said 'ozun' because I couldn't remember 'wazan' or whatever the Hindi for weight is] jasti hai?" and he laughed,"aarey .. heh heh heh," and I was glad for the evasion. Also, he was very old, and didn't drop me once, like he promised he wouldn't.
New Market in this pre-pujo rush? NO. DON'T. Except that molesting shoe-shop person is too busy for his tricks, which is a good thing. While a million people crammed Shreeram Arcade looking for just the popular sort of tacky, I hid in a bookshop. Oh, and some Hindi, wouldn't you say?
I heart Anokhi. Hideously expensive clothes, but they play to the large woman's sentiments. I bought pants that were a size medium. I am NOT a size medium. Any more. Ah, pity.
I was told I'm "touchy" about my weight. I am not "touchy" about my weight. Merely aware.
This blogpost? It's called commitment. Because there are plenty of things I have given up on, and every other day I'm this close to giving up on this, but then I tell myself, no. I can do this. Look at me, such willpower. Such fucking strength of character. It's easy to forget something you have no use for any more. I will fucking prove that theory wrong.
Not that I'm stubborn or anything. Nono.
Look, I'm not whining, OK? Go away.
The mirror is such a cliche. I look into the mirror and the woman who stares back at me has no mouth and red eyes. Ok sofine, that's the conjunctivitis.
Wot ev ver, bad joke. Bad cliche. Boo.
Walking bothers me these days. I'm always afraid I'm going to fall. It's not a weight thing at all.
Khub exasperating, Ma Kali bolchhi.
I'd love to tell the story like it happened, but you never can, can you? Reality is just so .. very ... layered? Mottled? Both.
I'm going through that phase - the wotthefuck-wherethefuck-howthefuck.
I'm so glad for fuck. Releases me.
Lissen you pervs, that wasn't a sexual innuendo.

In college they're playing a corridor cricket series. And I wake up dreaming of jstor. Disconcerting, that.

There is an imagined future. Do you have one? What do you do when you know it shan't come true?
Look away. Sweep it under the carpet. Search for alternatives.
I will. It's been too long. I will.

OH!!! Listen!!!! Haleem at Aliyah! Dudes. Come eat with me. It is sexual satisfaction.
Now pretend I scratched out that last sentence because, my life? Totally not so lame.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Om Shanti Om

Is "dard-e-disco" that inscrutable condition wherein one's limbs remain paralysed and one sees in one's head missiles being shot from a thousand splendid guns the morning after a night of heavy drinking and dancing? That Shah Rukh had better watch out.

I'm beginning to miss being able to be funny without five shots of vodka down my throat. I've become a weekend alcoholic, or have I said this like, seven hundred and nine times before? My sense of humour is ablaze with a glass in hand. And only then. Dear Lord, give me fodder for funny in my life. [Lily, c'mere. :-p]

In Behrampore, young Inayat settled for five rupees to show us around the tomb of his forefathers, the nawabs of Murshidabad. Like this one. His ancestors left such testaments to opulence and technological foresight as the Hazar Duari Palace, whose marvellously progressive architecture has to be seen to be appreciated. Inayat's brother ferries tourists across town in his rickshaw, while Inayat sells his unlived glorious past with rehearsed precision as a guide at the burial ground of his famous forefathers.

In a macabre way, there's always a lot to laugh about. In a macabre way.

Friday, September 14, 2007

The lawless

Every day, she paces up and down the platform, crossing the red line - the forbidden. Staring at the tracks, till the train comes, and she stands frozen, like a deer caught in the headlights.
Every day, I say a little prayer, begging her not to jump.

Fighting for meaning, that's us.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Conversations

At a seedy nightclub

Shaggy: Hullo! I'm gay now!
Me *whoa? this is the first time we're speaking. Also, you were so screwing some women I know*: Oh? Heh. Uh...heh. How does that feel? *for lack of much else to say*
Shaggy: Oh, I don't know.
Me: Uh, but .. I mean ... aren't you supposed to know? I mean, you know, with the shift in perspective .. and all.
Shaggy: I've realised that the greatest love is self-love. So I just love myself. Say, can I have your number?
Me: Ok, waitaminit. You think you're gay because you love yourself? Dude, I hate to break this to you, but in the heterosexual world that's called masturbation, and straight men totally do it too.
Shaggy: *breaks into incomprehensible poetry*

I keep stupendous company these days.

At the gym, a place in distant memory

Lady who smiles in greeting every time we meet: Are you almost done?
Me *getting off crosstrainer* : Yea. *in a hushed whisper* Be careful though, the man on the treadmill has terrible gas!
Lady *stony stare* : That's my husband.
Me: Oh? Uhm! Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. *fake apologetic grin* Well, maybe it's the boy on the left, then?
Lady: *looking fearsome, as though she will slap me long and hard with not a moment to lose*
Me *catching on after an uncomfortable silence*: Uh. Your son?
Lady *goggle-eyed and spitting fire*: My brother! *stomps off. understandably*

I am never going back there. Never. Ever. I'd rather be fat and socially acceptable than fit and socially handicapped.

In other news

I need slippers. Posh, but cheap.
" " pretty clothes that make me look less-fat. "Slim" - no can do no mo.
" " my sense of humour back.
" " to do something about the fucking exhaustion and my bloody eyes.
" " " figure out the conundrum that makes 30-something single men with very broad shoulders think I'm 35 years old while 20-something DJs dedicate "Sexy back" (and a song that goes "if i lick your ice cream will you lick my lollipop?" but we're not talking about that any more. kids these days) to me.
I need to bring sexy back, mairi. Starting tomorrow, I eat only cream crackers. My double chin now extends upto my effing ears. Everytime I tilt my head I feel this great wave of fat waddling to the side. I mean, I've always had that in the hip area, but this is new. And not nice at all. Crackers, I tell you.

Explain to me why I just spent five hundred bucks on chocolate, though.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Feel it on my fingertips

Some questions just don't have straight answers.

"Why do you like the rains?"

I look away, out of the taxi window. Lets see now. That time it cleansed. All those times. Then there were the drives across the bridge, leaving the city behind, that boy, those friends. That time it was ... youth? Love? Settle for a bit of both. You'd think they'd all be hazy by now.
The simplest questions can surprise you with how clear certain associations still are in your mind.

Often these days, I find myself quietly observant, unable to participate.
It is a quiet one, my nature.

"So? Why do you like the rains?"

"Just," I said.

Monday, August 06, 2007

Life in a Metro / The Case of the Predictable Post-title

Listen. Boo.
I am DONE with the voices in my bloody head. I have NO bloody time for them.

* Anyway, I've been taking the Metro to work nearly every day, and there's a lot to learn from those trips. For instance, to avoid being teased or having your boobies elbowed, it's important to really observe potential teaser/molestor, and - ok, this is a timing thing - just at the right moment, when you can see they're edging towards you, ready with filthy tongue, (or hand, as the case may be) you ask them a question. Anything at all. Like, bhaiya coffee house walla gate kis taraf hai? or something. Takes them completely by surprise, and all they can do is answer and go their way. Cuz these people? Cowards, all of em. Of course, the method is far from foolproof, because most of the time we're aware of the harassment only AFTER it's been done to us. But you know, on the rare occasions that you Can tell that a man is walking directly into your path because he does want to ram straight into you, yea? You get the timing right with practice.
Ok, explain to me, someone, why I canNOT say breasts.

* Little children can be horrifically nasty to each other. Seriously mean. Just the other day I made a child nearly cry and got glared at by her doting mum.
There was this bunch of tiny girls and one of them, presumably the ringleader, was literally heckling this other girl, who was from the same school but was standing slightly apart. Why? Because the poor kid was drinking from a small water bottle, as opposed to the gigantic ugly ones, which, now I know, are the latest fad. So the bully got her cronies to make up a tuneless song about how only stupid girls drank from small water bottles. So, ever the supporter of the underdog, I caught the bully by her hand, made space for her to sit next to me and then went on to make up a story about the Evil Water Monster of Bigbottlia who took the shape of water and entered the tummies of naughty children and caused the 100-day tummy upset. Uhm, and some other things.
Ok fine, I feel just slightly bad now. I swear I was NEVER a bully in school. Honest.

* When the train stops at Kalighat station, from Rabindra Sarobar? You need to sit still and watch how the women run to get a seat. Their faces light up with purpose and determination and they pounce on the nearest empty space. Straight out of Animal Planet. It's a beautiful metaphor for life. Not good that it's all I can do to keep myself from laughing out loud. I've always mixed up my metaphors.
No, but really, and it's amazing how there are so many women who think they're half the size they actually are. They're going to squeeze in for a sitdown, have one thigh on mine, rest their perspiring arm on my shoulder, and sit hunched and crooked and almost out of the seat, like there is no discomfort in the world. So, YOU, who are reading my blog from work right now, instead of subbing tomorrow's top piece, if I ever come in all sweaty and stinky, that isn't me. That's Jolly Boudi's left underarm.
So really, what is the deal with magazines and men complaining about how we're always thinking we're fat? Dude, get on the Metro.

* This has nothing to do with the Metro, but if I ever write a play or a story about this city, it will have an old man in a white baniyaan and lungi, smoking a brass pipe by the window. I see him every day. Sometimes even when he's not there.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Ctrl D

I don't understand when people say "move on". Move on to? To whom? Funny thing, this love. Funny, how it's always the same story. You never move on, unless to move on to the same expression, the same emotions, those same three words exchanged like a cliched quotation, but a different body. Funny. Frightening. I sit in the auto and next to me I hear a man speaking the same words that have been said to me. Four times over. Love as duplication.
We love like it's for ever. Every time. Is that moving on? It's never forever, because there you are with your watch in your hand and you're thinking, this is not it. I've been here before, and it's been better. Time to move on. I've done it myself, too often. And now, when I hear at one place that marriage is about retaliation and at another that love is mystique, I sit back and wonder at the smarminess of it all, while I'm sipping my coffee and writing this, thinking about you, and how, right now, you are saying to someone else those things you once said, and claimed to feel, for me. I don't blame you. I've done it myself.
So, while you repeat, unrepentant, excuse me for repenting and refusing to repeat.

And you, if I cannot tell you I love you, know that it is because I don't.

'I want you to come to me without a past. Those lines you've learned, forget them. Forget that you've been here before in other bedrooms in other places. Come to me new. Never say you love me until that day when you have proved it.' - Jeanette Winterson.

Don't tell me to move on. Don't tell me to get over it, because 'it' was a person I loved, 'it' was the way I changed my life just so I could fit snugly into yours.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Parents

They're such an intriguing subspecies. I've been coming home late since I was fifteen years old- often after 10, alone in a cab, and in my school uniform. They didn't bat an eyelid, quite positively spared the rod. I've spent most of college leaving the house at 11 or 12 in the day, and coming back never before 8 in the evening, or sometimes, not coming back at all. They took it all in. Barring of course the occasional phone call enquiring when (as opposed to if) the police needed to be informed. [As in, "Hullo, will you let us know when to call the police, or shall we just go ahead and do it past eleven?"]
So, now that I'm 24 years old, have more grey hair than my mother (who has none - gray hair, that is) and my father (who has none - hair, I mean); and am two weeks into my job, why is it that I am sent frantic and frequent SMSes every hour, on the hour, from 8 PM onwards? I mean, really, I reach office only at 1, it's only respectable to put in at least 8 hours.
Ever since I can remember, I've never been coaxed into eating. The routine is to quietly sidle all edibles away from my gluttonous eyes and obese mind, which, my mother believes are the two most defining characteristics of my otherwise charming disposition. Ok, so the "charming disposition" was my inclusion. But now I get text messages that go, >you last ate 3 hours and 46 minutes ago. Please eat a sandwich.< and then, >it's been 5 hours since your last meal. Time to grab a bite!< Yes, like an automaton. (I wanted to say 'like an rss feed' and go, 'get the pun? get the pun?', but then I'd be tech-illiterate and in all probability wrong.)
Thankfully, none of this newfound, oppressive attention comes from my mother, who remains ubercool and unconcerned, confident in the assumption that hers is the singular life worthy of debate and deliberation. But what is more surprising is this sudden, disquieting interest that my father has begun to take in my life. He was always the first to say,"I'm not worried, my daughter can take care of herself." And now, he needs to know if I'm carrying water, if I've eaten, if I'm coming home in fifteen minutes and thirty-five seconds or seventeen minutes and twenty-seven seconds like I'd come 2 days earlier.
And what is the point of scolding me for eating in my room and not at the table with you , when you're the one who set the precedent all those years ago, whereby the 3 of us always eat at separate times and separate rooms. What is this sudden hankering for conversation, when in the 24 years of my life, you have maybe interacted with me for a total of 500 hours, and this includes vacations?
Yea, so I'm a little pissed and it shows. Boo.
My point is, they've been awfully liberal all along.
My point is, is this an outcome of old age - this almost debilitating need to hold on, to establish connection through ruthlessly monitoring a life that has been allowed such complete freedom and independence all along? It's a frightening, mortifying thought. I've known my father as ... debonair ... devil-may-care. This new sign of weakness is ... well, it's new. And it's hard to come to terms with. Am I being unreasonable? Is the onus of repairing over two decades of complete disregard for any notion of 'family' really on me, because now I'm an "earning member"? Pah.
Of course, it could be a sudden realisation that he is, after all, a modhyobitto bangali. Hmm. I'm going to pretend the problem's solved.
Oh look, turns out it's past my bedtime now.

Fascinating, these parentpeoples.

Sunday, July 08, 2007

This happened several years ago, when I must've been around seven or eight. A relative had started a chinese restaurant 'neath her unnecessarily large house and we were all invited for the grand opening. It wasn't very grand, though - the sort of opening a patio-turned-chilli chicken fried rice place should have - tacky tuni bulbs hanging from a large tree in front of the house, decorator-hired white chairs with the plastic weave ripping off from the backrests, unreasonably overdressed women in their best kanjeevarams and the finest jewellery they own all the better to show whose husband earned the most for. And plenty of free food that was, and presumably remains to this day, unpalatable and unhygienic in equal measure.
I remember feeling tortured like I always did at these gala familial rendezvous, where gossip flew about in hushed whispers and rolled eyes - when a little boy in brown shorts came up the street, holding his father's hand. He stood, mesmerised, looking at the restaurant's cheap chinese lamps and the celebrations- it was as if he'd never seen something so marvellous before. They were the archetypal bangali middle-class. You meet so many of them during the Pujos, the fathers looking disinterested but happy (proud), the tiny boys with bright eyes, wearing silly paper hats and clutching onto a party whistle or a plastic toy, constantly being scolded or fussed over by their mothers who walked two paces behind the husbands.
As is the wont of all children, the boy was abrim with questions. "Ki hochhe ekhaane, baba? Eto shajano kyano?"
I remember the boy tugging at his father's hand and begging to be fed at the restaurant. He was very hungry, he said. The father gave in, after some coaxing, and they sat down. For an interminably long time nobody attended to them. The boy and his father sat on two rickety decorator-decrepit chairs in the middle of a footpath on a Kolkata residential alley, feeling underdressed and unwanted. They waited patiently without hollering for a waiter. Finally, the father got up and managed to get hold of a menu card. He pondered thoughtfully over it and furrowed his brow just a little bit while the little boy could hardly contain his excitement and wanted to know immediately what they were eating. While the boy rattled off "chicken chow mien" and "mixed fried rice", the father kept shaking his head but keeping quiet. Muted in his discomfort, while some gaudily made up eyes looked questioningly at him and turned away, disinterested. Eventually, a waiter went up to them, and I heard the man ordering a half-bowl of chicken soup, much to the son's dismay. When the child protested, the father simply said, "Na baba, eibarta otai khao." The boy's face fell, but he said nothing. When the soup arrived, he ate quietly, while his father watched and wiped the sweat off his son's forehead, refusing to share his meal. I took a look at the menu, it was the cheapest item on it. When the bill arrived, the man took out a note from his shirt pocket and didn't tip. They went on their way and I haven't seen them since. That's all.
I can't remember the last time I met my extended family, but I do remember, sixteen years ago, while I was stuffing my face with food I could have in plenty and didn't want, there was a young boy sitting across from me, understanding lack with dignity and silent endurance.

Friday, June 29, 2007

Dujon

"Aamake khNojo na tumi bohudin - kotodin amio tomaake
khNuji nako - ek nokkhotrer neeche tobu - eki aalo prithhibir paare
aamra dujone aachhi; prithhibir purono pothher rekha hoye jaaye kshoy,
prem dheerey muchhe jaaye, nokkhotror'o ekdin morey jetey hoye,
hoye naki?"

Banalata Sen

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Seinfeld Moments

Oh look. Another post about absolutely nothing at all. Couldn't have done it without you, by which I mean you, and your constant hankering.
Although, remember that interview I wrote of, where I was asked about my reading of Bangla literature and I said, "Oh bangla literature? Sure thing. Tenida."? Yea, well, I got the job. I'm minutely freaking out right now, because I don't know how I'm going to pull it off, but yay me!
So I went out and bought myself some shoes. Green shoes. The kind of shoes elves in green tights and hats with bells on them might wear. Or even, while we're on a manic linking spree, the wicked witch of the west. I did look in my wardrobe once I came back home, and all I could find was blue. Blue, everywhere. If you just muttered "manic depressive" under your breath then be rest assured I'm not sharing my herbal happy-making pills with you.
Anyway, green shoes, but no green clothes. Other than the one I wore when I was shopping, which clearly influenced my decision. So goddammit I'm a thoughtless shopper, but hullo? Try shopping while you're being molested and then you come and tell me if you're overparticular about colours. There's this commune of shoe-shops at the New Market basement, around 5 of them huddled together, all with the same owner. So I went, because my nice stilletoes from Singapore are dying slowly and painfully, their leathery tentacles giving away one at a time. And a girl needs heels. If she's short and fat, she needs to swear by heels, while cursing them when they aren't looking. Very much like a workplace sitch. Ok, who said that? I didn't say that. Anyway, these days I only wear flat slippers and go around looking like a pasty ball of sourdough.
So I spent an hour having my thighs felt up while trying on shoes, which were mostly delightful (the shoes, not the feelings up), but because I have the feet of a mangled penguin, they looked horrible on me. Then, since that didn't seem like thanking the good people over at sexual harrassment inc. enough, I parted with all my money, down to the last twenty rupees. And after having warded off repeated demands from molesting shopkeeper to drop me home on his "naya A-1 bike", and having reluctantly accepted a bottle of Maazaa practically shoved into my face (only after I sniffed it suspiciously and asked him, "Drugs toh nehi milaya, na?" Because I am upfront like that.), I was on my way. I didn't protest, other than shoving his filthy hands off each time they slid up my thighs. It was closing-time, I was more or less the only customer in those five shops, and I don't know why, but it just didn't seem worth it. That shop has lovely shoes at cheap prices, and though it won't be in a very long time, I'll probably go back there, unless I find a different place as good. I know, it's very lame, and I have protested in the past. But it felt wiser to just leave - you get a gut feeling sometimes.
So between arbit shoe-shop molestors who insist on having my number and dropping me home, and Ottoman, my stalker auto-lover who also boasts of his bike and his large house and knows exactly where I live, as also the number of days ago I last rode his auto, but is otherwise very polite and has never made any offensive advances - my love life is abuzz with activity. Yup.

At least I have a new watch to go with the shoes. Surprise gifts can be nice sometimes. Maddening, at others.

While looking for career alternatives during the past couple of weeks, which, I have to say, have been very trying, I came across this - behold the Whore of Mensa - the dark and comical underbelly of scholastic learning (with special ref. to the study of Eng. Lit.). I wouldn't have made the grade myself.

Finally, words of wisdom. Gandhiji said that for the seeker of pure and true goodness, there must be no close friends and no exclusive loves. I'm just saying.

Oh, and don't expect me to post again for a very long time. This blog is becoming increasingly despicable to me.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

How I Got B!@tch$l@pped by Life and a Little Green Man Called REGURGITATE

Riiight. So I must be evil or Jesus Christ or something. Because nothing explains this suffering, and I don't bloody care who I'm redeeming, 'cuz this sucks. Do you know where I'm supposed to be right now? In Sikkim, on my honeymoon, 8000 ft above ground, in a little hamlet called Ravangla, dancing with the clouds and my one true love. Instead, where am I? At home with viral fever, coughing blood and arrrrrghhhhhhh. Writing a blogpost. *aaaaaaaaaaaargggh*
Oh yea, while we're doing updates, I'm married. It's a surprisingly short story. Don't congratulate me yet. I've clearly not taken well to the change in social circumstances. Anyway, our parents don't know yet. Likely never will. Not mine, at least. [Trust me, it's not a very big deal. Hey P, uhm ... lover bunchie wunchie ... type. Don't fall off a cliff!].
I've had a headache ever since I can remember, so I'll probably just do this in tabular form. If none of this makes sense, you'll know I'm still same ol' me.
First off, it's raining and you know the regular smell of rain-fresh earth? Yea, what I'm smelling is freshly-baked pizza bread, complete with toppings - herbs, the oregano, the anchovies. What the hell? My ..... ok, I want to say nosebuds, but I know that's wrong .. the smelling things .. are all haywire. I'm on too much medication. Fruit juice tastes like water, water tastes like the sea. I'm not making any of this up. Ok, i'm not making most of this up.
Right, in point form. My life and how regally it sucks.

* I caught the viral fever the day before we were scheduled to leave for Sikkim. My aunt said I got it from her mother-in-law, who passed away on Friday night, having lived 82 glorious years, partying wildly and praying fanatically in equal measure. She was very generous too and much of what I insist is my puppy fat is all that chocolate and cheese she fed me as a child. God bless her soul. So, here I was,shivering me timbers and wondering why the rum was gone, and my beloved mother was on the phone with my aunt, taking instructions as to the shape and design of just the right sort of leaden key that keeps recently belated grandmotherly types from having you join them in their heavenly abode.
And you know what's spooky? Everytime I had the key under my pillow, the fever was slightly under control, if you call veering between 101 and 103 under control. This one time the key slid away without any of us noticing, and the fever shot up to 105! I realised later that the key wasn't under the pillow, but for that period of time I really thought I was a goner.
And clearly there were forces conspiring against letting me go on vacation, because at 10:20 last night? Which was about 20 minutes past the train had left Sealdah station with half of my honeymoon and many of my friends? What do you know, the fever was gone! I mean, 99 is nothing. NOTHING i tell ya.
This sucks. They're sending me weepy smses and calling me pissdrunk from the hills. But that doesn't help. Primarily cause the network's a bitch. (:-[)

* Ok, what else has been happening, now that I don't want to talk about my stupid fever, and this stupid jinx that I have on me, which will never ever let me go to Sikkim, like, twice in a row. Oh, I fell asleep in the gym the other day. Was woken up by the instructor barely 10 minutes into it. Pity.
So yea, I'm bringing sexy back, alright.

* Why am I on a mad linking spree? Because my friend Joy, and I swear to God I want to link his webpage and a thousand other things that googling him has brought up, but I know he'd blow my brains out if he ever found out, or at the very least make my computer grow wings and do the birdie dance -so anyway, my friend Joy, taking into consideration my abject state of unemployment, suggests I should blog on topics that will bring more people to my blog. And then I could approach corporates to place their ads here and make money while I teach you a thing or two about Justin Timberlake or Raspberry Lip Balm.
So am I going about this the right way? Is this just the beginning of a million bucks and a private island? You bet not.

* Speaking of jobs, I had a job interview some days ago, and when asked about the kinds of books I enjoy reading in Bangla, I meantioned, not a Mahasweta Debi, or even a Sarat Chandra or a Bankim or most commonly, a Tagore, but, Teni Da.
No they haven't called yet and you needn't rub it in.

I will now pop pills with not a care in the world, and then proceed to watch some good ol' Monty Python. Screw the links.

Friday, May 25, 2007

My Friends / Why I am Nucking Futs

Written in the hand of a four-year old. *For no better reason than that it makes poor grammar and shabby writing so much more excusable.*

Bob : Does illegal things to underwear. Takes off with mine. [Both statements are true, Bob, and you know it. Nyeh heh heh.]

Kaichu : Recites perverse limericks at 5 in the morning, in a careworn and spiritual manner, following an entirely sleepless 48 hours of examprep and post-exam debauchery respectively, much like you would do the surjo nomoshkar, or listen to Anuradha Paudwal as you sit for morning prayers. [I wouldn't either. But, you know, in a manner of speaking]. Also thinks masked men with mouthfuls of spiked and yellowing teeth are hot.

Panu : Undoubtedly evil. Knows things about me my closest friends have no clue about, just by taking one dismissive look at my palm. Predicts a shockingly sparse sex life but an incredibly fulfilling love life for me. Go figure. Or, To a nunnery, go?
Is under the mistaken notion that Kaichu belongs to her, when it is as it were, famously known across the land that Kaichu, as we know and love her, is entirely mine.

Dhruva : Has a shocking taste in house pets. Used to possess, nurture, and call his own the reptile-that-must-not-be-named. Not on this blog, no. Now every time I see him, I think he looks just that little bit more like the r-that-m-n-b-n'ed. But he doesn't know I think that. Ok, now he does. [Hi Dhruva! You're funny! *waves*] Tells ghost stories that cause light amusement, much to his chagrin.

Deep : Provides a soundtrack for and graphically describes the act of taking a crap in the buff while cussing cockroaches losing their way through the labyrinthine enclosures that are the individual curls of his leg hair.
Haha, I actually wrote that. Haha.

Prepostopoulos : Creates alternate sitcom universes. Has covered Seinfeld with me. Once thought he was escorting a girl to the dance floor, only to turn around and find her in a brawl and subsequently on the floor with an injured foot. Yes, he Did still dance with her. My friends have grit. They have determination. What? They do!

There are the others, of course. But they're seriously messed up. It wouldn't be funny talking about them. Really. That other lot is in Trouble.
*or I'm too tired to narrate those funny stories just yet. Wait for it. 'Twill come.*

So you see, dear reader, whom I love like a lost puppy - it really isn't my fault.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Stupid, Stupid Tag.

Tagged by Dhruva.

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it:
Can't remember if it was 7+2=9 or 9+2=11 stitches, but, on the right knee - a deep one. I was jogging by the Lake, and there was this idiotic couple, and the man was yanking the girl's hair and pulling her toward himself, and she was trying to break free, and here I am, jogging, and I'm thinking OK, sexual harassment, I will go rescue, and in this cerebral tumult the next thing I know is I'm going down down down and then sliding on stone chips and my knee's split wide open and bleeding. I tripped on a piece of broken brick, or it could've been a pothole, of which there were several then. I fell on all fours and couldn't get up from the pain and the embarassmen. So, I'm on all fours and people are gaping and I look up, and I look right, and those fucking lovebirds are fucking kissing passionately. So it wasn't harassment at all, it was nyakami. Stop laughing. It was all very painful for me, and now I have no drive to do anything about my flabby ugly thighs, cuz I'll never be able to wear short things anyway.
Also, I hadn't gone back since. Well, since yesterday. Anyway, I lost interest in exercise from that day on. That's my alibi and I'm sticking to it.

2. What is on the walls in your room?
There's a copy of one of those Renaissance era milkmaid-in-torn-clothed-innocence-holding-goat type painting. A gift from a distant cousin. And a lizard with tummy upset. Runs in the family.

3. What does your phone look like?
Huh? It used to be white and khoo. Now it's scratched and old and comfortable-looking. Not snazzy like when I bought it. Also, the 'Panasonic' rubbed off slowly, leaving, first 'Panic' and now just 'ic'. Which is kewt. I like my phone. It's dying, though.

4. What music do you listen to?
Oh, not much. Anything. Nothing much. Ok, anything that doesn't screech incoherently. I
dislike those Black Eyed Peas.

5. What is your current desktop picture?
A lonely snow-capped mountain in bluetone.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
My period. No no, to lose weight quickly without effort. It's too hot for exercise.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Certainly not. Also, I don't 'believe' in condoms and vote Pope for President.
Uff. El stupido.

8. What time were you born?
Either 12:56, or 1:46. Can't remember exactly right now. Both AM.

9.Are your parents still together?
Aare?!

10. What are you listening to?
My mum screaming at some stock market broker or other.

12. The last person to make you cry?
It's a secret.

13. What is your favourite perfume/cologne?
I don't know of too many. I'd treasure a bottle of Chanel No 5, and I like my Davidoff Cool Water, but I'm sure there are other nice perfumes. There's one by Givenchy, one by Jean-Paul Gaultier and one by Elizabeth Arden that my mum wears/used to wear - all were/are lovely, but perfume is not important enough for me to remember names of. I mean, it's always more fun to go and try on new smells and choose each time, rather than stick to the same bottle always.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
Uuuufff. Cherry pink and apple blossom white.

15. Do you like pain killers?
Do I wha? Do I like ...?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
statutory warning: Pain killers can screw you up for life.

16. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Yes. Always.

17. Fave pizza topping?
Uhm. Pepperoni, anchovies, gorgonzola. Smoked chicken is good too.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Pizza, goddammit. Also, chocolate mud cake. Cherry tart. Dark chocolate.
Wait, there's frooti and chhana pora in the fridge. Yay!

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
I dunno man, I'm doing it all the time. Was it you? Or You? Or You or You or You?
Like a musical.

20. Is anyone in love with you?
What's the deal with this tag? Are you done embarassing me already?!
Ishtupid.

I tag fancy schmancy, DD, b'bot [which, you must admit, is a welcome change from the usual atrocities done to her name] and panu.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Being Unemployed

is good stuff, as it turns out. I've eaten all meals outside the house since the exams got over on Thursday, had a rather enjoyable sleep-in with beeyootiful company that made me go all sappy-canape [or sappy ka nappy] and write long mails that would do Adrienne Rich and her lesbian continuum proud. I have also been caught prancing around with lit cigarette by friends of parents whom I meet regularly in an atmosphere where they think I am a role model for youth with my *dumdedumdedah* [read: prudishness]. I have also boozed moderately and been told that I say the most preposterous things when I'm drunk. Which means absolutely nothing because I say the most preposterous things when I'm not drunk. And I forget each and every preposterous thing I've ever said, honest. In my head, I'm a picture of sobriety and propah. Meh.
I am also intensely disliking writing this post because I'd much rather lie down and hold my aching tummy and will my head to keep off exploding and my nose to keep off dripping for ONCE. I grow old, I grow old.
Ok, so anyway, we're at Princeton, and I'm on all fours trying to reach for my drink - because it's precariously positioned, and not because I generally like embarassing myself, as you'd imagine- and we're on that familiar and much-loved topic of the greenhorn - My School Kicks Your School's Ass. [Mine does, honest]. This time we're debating the superiority of my tNyash "convent school background" over .. uhm ... this other school that could just have been a city by itself. A mini-Gotham City brimming over with hooligans and mad monkeys. [hyuk hyuk. i think i will disable comments for this one]*. So.

Me (unfairly outnumbered, with a feeble attempt at tossing of hair and sneer of condescension) :We have class!
Dhruva (taking a relaxed sip of beer and oozing nonchalant coolth) : We have classes.

Seriously, you can't top that! I been snubbed, Pointedly. *snicker* [note to self: stop snickering. you're no good with subtlety]. Always good to know people who can swipe the carpet from under you. And if you're here to point out to me that that last line is awl wrong, then you may quickly proceed to drown yourself in mucous. My mucous.

I have billions of good books to read. Yay!
I have a tag to do. Yay.


* So ok, fine. They've produced a handful of brains in a couple of lightyears and they do alright by way of HS results, and some important people in my life studied there. Pah.

Friday, May 11, 2007

It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last.
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast.
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun,
Crying like a fire in the sun.
Look out the saints are comin' through
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense.
Take what you have gathered from coincidence.
The empty-handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets.
This sky, too, is folding under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home.
Your empty-handed army is all going home.
The lover who just walked out the door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor.
The carpet too, is moving under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you.
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.
- Bob Dylan

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Thursday, April 26, 2007

At the street corner, my past walks stridently up in pinstripes and a snazzy phone, offering to take me anywhere I'd rather go. And all I was doing was waiting for my bus.

When I'm done chewing my head bit by bit, savouring the remnants of my sanity before it all goes down the toilet, I might write a post that means something to either of us. Till then, just walk away.

Amused.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Friday the 13th.

Every day for the past five years I've taken the Jadavpur-Taratala auto from my house to University, and then back again at all hours of the evening. I didn't wait at Bengal Lamp for the auto today like I usually do, I walked up to 8B, because I wanted the journey to last longer. I'm not good with goodbyes. Usually, I like pretending it hasn't happened.

Today was the last day of class. For us PG IIs that means no more semesters, no more assignments, no more running about the corridors dodging lit cigarettes and professors whose classes you just bunked. And as Bob so insightfully pointed out, no more bunking classes. When a junior told me to write something for a yearbook they're going to make for us, I sniggered at the impossibility of the task. How do you sum up a coming of age, how do you sum up five years of .. and I can't even finish this sentence. I sat in an empty classroom for a long time today, just because. I can't say why, maybe because it's a privilege I shall be deprived of, and no, it didn't take the final day for me to figure that out. So I sat in class while students walked by to the departmental library, and I thought- lucky bastards. And I can count the number of times I've been to the library on the fingers of one hand. But I swear, if you told me today to go and read every damn book in there [even the ones on Lacan and Derrida], I would. Just so I could walk down that corridor again, just so I could enter the computer room or go sit in a class and say, yes, this is where I belong. This is home.

Studying for a test this morning, I suddenly had a panic attack, and randomly messaged friends, because I needed to get it out. When it sinks in, nothing else matters. You just want to go to college and hold on to something. Anything - just a stupid desk or the department ledge will do. I thought I'd go and pick up an MPhil form, but better sense prevailed. You'd say this is the unwillingness to move on, to start with a new phase of life. Where there's going to be no mollycoddling, and certainly not the kind of freedom JU allows. Perhaps it's that. But it's also the cups of coffee at Milon Da's, those three years of ghastly chowmein at Moni Da, the swim at the jheel, playing 29 anywhere possible. The bridge. I walked past the bridge several times today, like we do everyday, and it was difficult. There are memories there. With the same people I meet now and pretend I haven't seen. There's a video being made for us too- these juniors are great - where all of us come on camera and make fools of ourselves, and it's difficult knowing that that video will not have the three of us in the same frame. There's too much of these five years on that bridge. Too many people, too many episodes - the bitch brigade coming to beat us up, the falling in love and the break-ups, the slut, the grass, the cigarettes, the mihidana wala, Cezanne the diva dog, that slippery shortcut from the bridge to Moni's, playing wordgames or charades, or just sitting for hours on end with nothing to say but comfortable in our silence.

And when I was sitting alone in class today, this one junior comes rushing in in a tizzy and demands,"Rohini, tumi choley jachho?!Tumi PhD korbe na ekhaane?!" and I say, "Na" because there's more finality in having to spell out "Hain choley jaachhi" than I can deal with in public, and he goes,"Shit. Aami tomake bhishon miss korbo," and I know he's an incorrigible flirt and he's probably caught each of us girls and said the same thing to them, but I can see he's genuinely sad, and if I didn't know better, I'd sit him down and tell him how unbearable this is and how I will miss every damn thing in this place.

We took a lot of photographs. This is probably a very disoriented post, but if you think I give a damn about coherence right now, then you have no idea who I am. I grew up in this place, man. And no, I don't just mean from a waist size 28 to a waist size 30 and some. Humour doesn't help. We've gone through the whole day trying to think this isn't true, I think. I remember the last day in school being about tears and promises to be together always and forever, and to live in each others' basements if all else fails, and all the signing of the uniforms and the general breaking rules. That was 2001. Six years down the line, we're either busy with our jobs, or our studies or our boyfriends. And yes, I'm humongously to blame too.
There were no promises made today. Maybe we don't want to have to break them. Maybe we've grown up.Maybe it's because you don't need to say these things to family. And this was family. And I don't just mean JUDE. I've sat at the Union room- nursing heartbreak, fighting tears- till11 in the night for days on end, with people I didn't know, watching them wrap up after an evening of carrom, and I've felt safe, and it was OK because this is just as much home as sitting in front of the comp typing crap. I've come for a jog here very early in the morning with Shoots and J because there could possibly be no other place as beautiful.
That's what it's been. Beautiful. And saying thank you just doesn't cut it. But I am. I'm thankful for these five years. I'm thankful for the friends I've had, for the friends I don't have any more, for those people, with whom my best memories of JU are inextricably linked. I'm thankful for the professors and the stellar lectures and the impossible boundless unimaginable freedom that we are given by them- of speech, of creativity, of space. I am thankful to every single person in the faculty for being family and not just faculty, for trusting us enough to know that we will not disregard the feeling of oneness you help us create, that we will not direspect you for the leeway you allow us. And I sincerely hope we have not let you down, like you never have.
Even now, at this very end, we're being eased into our future. Heh. Thank you Rimi Di and Tintin Da, for helping us cope with a sense of loss too overwhelming with your kind offer this evening.
Thank you the juniors, without whose relentless insanity I would never have grown up. Or had white hair. Thank you to the friends I have, and the friends I have lost. We've made memories and I'm taking them with me, because looking back on these five years will be incomplete without what we've shared, and I want to tell you in a totally non-lesbian way that I love you, and though you will never read this and though we both don't like having other people's boobies on ours, if I had the guts, I'd go up and hug you. But I don't have the guts. Only the ego.

This is becoming some sort of award acceptance speech. Damn.

With all the stuffy rooms and the dirty benches and the filthy toilets and the decrepit buildings and the moss and the jheel and the long winding paths and the bigger jheel and that kingfisher and those kingfishers and the stairs and the dark and the lamplight and the fireflies and the mosquitoes and tea cups and politics and poetry and madness- you're beautiful. Thank you for letting me belong.

Friday, March 30, 2007

Friday, March 23, 2007

Whose Kubla Is It NOW, huh?

This one's for JUDE. Other readers, bear with me. This might seem like a bit of hijibiji.

At 8 p.m. this evening, a bunch of seven students [and a couple professors] huddled around the Department notice board, and history was made. It's difficult for a non-JUDEan to understand the jubilation that was our results being declared. I've posted before about the harassment and untold emotional distress and humiliation caused upon our English Department, a place whose reputation has been built over the years by students who have excelled in their respective fields, and professors, many of whom are living legends. It took one man to saunter in and try to hack down this solid structure of excellence with his outrageous, unthinkable, impossible allegations. Months of rigorous enquiries, deputations, tackling media circuses, meeting the authorities, meeting representatives of the Government to plead our cause, to vehemently protest this harassment of innocent people, days when we were left despairing at how being in the right was still not enough for justice to take its course - has yielded in victory for us. Victory for the right. Justice for the innocent, the falsely accused.
For those who don't know this yet, following the months of fact-finding done by the Enquiry Committee chaired by our Registrar, all accused students have been exonerated - all charges of sexual harassment filed against them have been dropped due to the failure to provide evidence by the individual who made these charges in the first place. Despite repeated communications sent to him to submit concrete evidence [in the form of the original answer scripts in which he claimed some students had made obscene statements], he failed to, in fact, refused to do so. An Executive Council meeting was also held, the minutes of which the students are not privy to, and the matter of the exam results had been referred to the Examination Control Board as well. All that we know is that the results of all PG students are out, as of 2000 hours today. The marks of the erstwhile "disputed" students have been tabulated on a pro-rata basis, with an average of their 3 remaining papers in the same semester being considered the marks for the 'disputed' optional paper that created the havoc of these past few months. The original answer scripts of these students have been declared 'lost' following a final attempt to procure them [the prof concerned was once again given notice and allowed another 24 hours to submit scripts. He did not]- this is all in keeping with University statute. I know I'd posted about this issue in some detail, but I've been asked to hold my horses because another important step in the legal proceedings will be taken on Monday.
We've spent a good part of the late evening hugging each other and screaming celebratory slogans across the department corridor. Congratulatory phone calls and cha-parties complemented the warm feeling of goodness that comes with a cause well fought. And well won.
On behalf of all JUDEans, I would like to thank our professors for standing up for us; the University authorities for *finally* getting their act together; and very very importantly: our student representatives Babelfish and Thoth *wink wink, I looked it up*, without whom, we'd still be spending our days feeling glum and discontent. And the whole Department deserves a joyous handheld whoopee-jig - which is scheduled for the next time we meet collectively.

For now, All JUDEans come together and say with me

IT EEZ OUR KUBLA!!!

Having said that, you all know that this is still a war half-won. We've got what we wanted - the results and justice for the falsely accused. But the defamation- the maligning of reputations, and the fact that we have to see the cause of it all still walking freely in the Department- we're not going to stand for that, are we? There's a long way to go yet. Our stud reps will bring everyone up to date regarding further actions. In the meantime, all PG students must collect their marksheets on Monday.

We gotta keep this fire burning! Once again, gather around people, and say with me

DON'T MESS WITH MY KUBLA!

:-]

Thursday, March 22, 2007

500 Reasons I Need To Quit Smoking - #651

Having been interrupted mid-sneeze by a 10-year old girl falling on my head from the diving tower far far above me, I was then coaxed into racing her by her apologetic mother who clearly wanted me to win and feel good about myself. I suspect this was her way of checking for concussions too.
Reader, I got beat.

Is it strange that this was probably the seventh or eighth time in the last 5 years that somebody has enquired of me whether I thought I had a concussion?

Bob, you were right, it's impossible to focus on other things when you're keeping the 1,2,3... breathe count. There's a lot of chlorine water circulating my innards from trying to work out world peace on the eleventh lap. What you don't know, though, is that a purple-lipped smoker will find a way out for everything - there's always the 1,breathe,2,breathe for voice-confs in your head. :-D

It feels special to get gifts from people you'd never imagined would ever be thinking about you at all.

Otherwise, I've had one number godawful test, one number godawful test result, one number presentation to work out, one number children's story to write, n number term papers and upcoming tests to not deal with till the last moment and occasional fits of madness to cope with it all.

Peep-tip of the day - Ever tried sneezing under water? Don't.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Keeping in mind the legal issues involved, and in consultation with my fellow students, I think it prudent to temporarily remove my previous post. I hope I will be able to make clarifications once the air gets cleared.

Thank you commenters for your support.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Do It For The Memories

I've been a part of JUDE since 2002, and it was really, for me, quite momentous, because getting here meant a radical career-change and the loss of a year, the better part of which was spent wanting to jump out the window of an important law school.
These five years have been astounding. College is like a second home, and I remember the bunch of us coming in for adda sessions even on Sundays in the undergrad days. I'm using cliches here, but really, we're a big family - our relationship with the faculty is the cause for envy of students from other colleges, and I know, because I've had too much of "oh my God, your profs are sooo coool!" to hear from my non-JU friends. College has given me memories, stories to share with my kids - like the time the entire city was flooded but an enterprising bunch of us waded through the water to get to college, because of course we wouldn't do classes, and the next thing we know is that Tintin Da, with generous foresight has made elaborate plans for us to watch LOTR: Return of The King - with complicated contraptions like projectors white walls laptops and wotnot. I will not forget Prodosh Da, who does not grudge me exhilarating addas and advice on a possible future on the jatra stage :-, despite my having attended only 3 of his classes in these 5 years [and those because I couldn't escape. I mean, really, I haven't a thing against the jolly man and he really is a delight - but Old English? Declensions? Nominative sumthingortheothers? There's only so much a girl can take]. He does recommend considering leading roles in Kobore Kaadchhe Konkaal, and a namechange to the likes of an Amodini Debi or summat, but I'm convinced he means well.
I will not easily forget The Family. It is hard to not remember being absolutely mesmerised by ADG's lectures on the Theban plays - it is difficult to come across another professor who can so completely take you inside the world of a play, can make you understand the characters, be maddened by the plight of Oedipus - despite being perfectly logical and strictly academic in the way he delivered his lectures. Sukanta Da, easily recognised as a legend in academia, manages somehow to make you think independently despite giving you different points of view and different critiques of a work over various centuries. Supriya Di has the ability to make a man as unbearable and unforgiveable as Derrida worth paying attention to. I really must apologise because this just trivialises the immense value and depth of the lectures of each of these three individuals. I can only perfectly honestly say that you come out of a class taken by any one of The Family members, and you know you're immensely lucky to be a part of JUDE.
We share an amicable relationship with our faculty, almost all of whom are eminently approachable and I can safely speak for myself - will get you out of an awful mess without even telling you it was they that saved your ass.
So when I am interviewed by the media, and I come home and see "JU tey Sex Scandal" all over the bangla news channels, it is no wonder that I feel outraged. I'm not sure that I am yet at liberty to speak freely about this but - a certain, new member of the faculty has gone to press, having made allegations of sexual harassment against ... get this ... SIXTEEN female students in the department ... plus 3 boys. The allegations are absolutely false - I mean, seriously, would you believe that sixteen girls have at once decided to throw caution to the wind and jeopardised their careers by making sexual propositions to the concerned professor in their ... hold your breath .. mid and end semester ANSWER SCRIPTS? This has been simmering for a while - this issue, and we had kept discreetly silent, in the hopes that the University would handle the issue. We have a lot of respect for our department, and we did not wish to go to Press and bring this dirty, ghastly, farcical issue out in the open. But to come home and find the news showing photocopies of answerscripts where students have allegedly written "I want to have sex" and obscenities, all of which are in block letters, mind, so that it's very difficult to match handwriting- well, if now's not the time to talk then I don't know when is.
I want to furnish all the details about this matter, but I need to speak to my Department first to clarify that this is OK. Also, Rimi, who is far more lucid and articulate than I can ever hope to be, has promised to blog about this in detail, so those of you who want to get the full picture, watch out for her post. I shall cross-link it soon as she puts it up. In the meantime, chew on this - a professor hauls up an unfortunate First year student, claiming she has harassed him by making innuendoes in an answer she wrote on William Blake. Sure, happens all the time. :-[
Two, [forgive me, I'm not sure that I'm proceeding in chronological order, but I am listing things that have occurred], this same professor, sent an inappropriate sms to a girl in his course, and then flatly denied having sent it, saying that his phone had been hacked into - and there's a background to this story too, that I may elaborate but not right now, but it's been established that the cellphone number was his.
Three, he put up a notice in October last year, of a list of candidates (all female) whose answer scripts were allegedly "disputed". He refused to explain to the students why this was so, saying only that their answer scripts were with the Registrar. The list that he put up was not countersigned by the Head of the Department, the move to send answerscripts of the JUDE students to the University office was not made in consultation with the Head either, I think- all of which is in violation of protocol.
Come endsems, same rigmarole, more names added to the ominous 'list'. I'm skipping details, but the next thing we know is that our illustrious showman has sent in an appeal to the authorities asking them to conduct a formal enquiry into the actions of 16 students [more to be added as enquiry is under way - list to include 3 boys] who he alleges, have sexually harassed him in their answer scripts. The students involved express utter shock, and why wouldn't they, since they themselves were in the dark about having committed such offences.
Each and every student in the list is interrogated, and although the information was kept confidential for a long time, now that photocopies of their answer scripts are being bandied about on TV, I might as well come out and say that the enquiry yielded 2 bits of information. That almost all the objectionable parts were written in block letters (with a few minor exceptions for, credibility, I suppose. Or variety), often written over those words that the girls had scratched out while writing their papers, and that our - let's call him a dull man, though he's anything but - had not submitted the original answer scripts, even though he was way past the deadline for submission. All this while, he's been not only making false allegations, but he's also been sitting on University property, causing the results of 130 Masters students to be withheld, wreaking havoc on those who want to apply abroad this year, and those others like myself, who shall be out of college and jobhunting before you can say eminem. And about the obscenities? Let's just say they were outrageously obscene, as has been dramatically shown in close-up on TV all of today. Also, this student from the North-East, who can't speak, let alone write, a word of Bangla? Well, she wrote some juicy things too. In Bangla. How fascinatingly believable. The reason for this slight faux pas on the part of the admirable scriptwriter [of this our story] may have been that because the answer scripts don't have the students' names on them, communities may have gotten mixed up, in this bid toward uniformity in madness.
Oh, and did I omit this? He's also suing a bunch of the faculty and the administration on ... oh I don't really know - it could be anything really, with this individual - shall we call him a man-git? And today, he took the cake by going into a TV studio with photocopies of students' answer scripts, the originals of which are we have no idea where. Tra la la. all in a day's work. Students' careers be hanged, I'm just gonna go nuts and screw up everybody I know's lives. And why he refuses to show the originals to anybody at all is a mystery. We're making our own conjectures - feel free to make yours.
It's 1 in the morning now, and I've been stuck in the mire that is this controversy for the last 12 hours. I feel sick. And it isn't just me, we're all in it - the entire English Department. Some of us students have been interviewed by at least 4 TV channels through the day. The man himself was present at one of these TV studios, and there was a live little tete-a-tete with him, where he, among other things, shrieked at me from the sets demanding to know how dare I speak on this issue seeing as how I'm not even a 'disputed' candidate. Perhaps he failed to notice that most of the students speaking on the issue were not 'disputed' students. Because, even if one were to grant the response of 1 viewer who dialled-in to the live programme to voice his/her opinion on this matter - that JU is a den of decadence where *shock!horror!Ye gads!* even the women smoke and really what more can you expect of a place like that - despite it all, we share the common JUDEan spirit [and just this once, I don't mean alcohol] - we're all in this together because of our love for JUDE and because of the tremendous respect we have for the department, the faculty, and all that each one of us has got from it. And I know I speak on behalf of every JUDEan, when I say that the entire department is with the students who are being defamed with these farcical allegations - they have our full support and we fully understand that there is not an iota of truth in the offences that they have been accused of. If you've only seen us lighting a cigarette or discussing the avant-garde, then you've clearly ignored the strong feeling of solidarity that exists between us, and our ability to speak up for and to uphold the source of pride that is our institution. Nobody's going to burst in with a [if I may quote our mono-marvel] "cock-and-bull story" and malign this place that we call home, and get away with it.
We don't know why he's doing this. Some of us have an idea he might be schizophrenic. We really don't know. All that I can say is that his allegations, and the repercussions of what he's doing are all sickening, and all seem to be the work of a mind that is in urgent need of treatment. In the true legacy of Gandhistic thought, I wish him a speedy recovery from whatever dangerous disease it is that he is suffering from.
But to be more to the point and I say this especially to my fellow batchmates and uggs, the issue at hand is to get him to return the original answer scripts and to have our results published, because too many people are being jeopardised by this delay, and also because this breach of service rule is an important allegation against him as this affects the student body at large. I know this is too late in the day for an announcement here, but I've already posted about this on the Blab Forum - we're meeting this morning at 10:30 in college, and going to the VC to ask of the outcome of a letter that has apparently been sent to the mano of all men, asking him to return all original scripts by 11 a.m. today under threat of legal action. Should the scripts not be returned, we need to have a discussion with the VC - I don't want to repeat all this here, go check the forum.
But more importantly, show up. We're going to go through this together, because you know there are innocent people being grievously wronged here, and because it isn't very nice to have reporters and camera crew taking shots of our ledge and our building and going "sex scandal" at the back of their minds. We need to put an end to, as Azeem so succinctly put it - 'this "sex scandal" with no sex in it'.

update: you have got to read rimi's post for a bit-by-bit account of this whole fiasco. it's detailed and articulate. *go rimi!*

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Awakening

arey ruk ja arey thham ja
arey ruk ja re bandeh arey thham ja re bandeh ki kudrat has padegi ho


arey neendein hai zakhmi
arey sapne hai bhookhe
ki karvat phat padegi ho


arey ruk ja re bandeh arey thham ja re bandeh ki kudrat has padegi ho



arey mandir ye chup hai arey masjid ye gumsum
ibadat thhak padegi ho
samay ki lal aandhi kabristan ke raaste
arey latpath chalegi ho


arey ruk ja re bandeh arey thham ja re bandeh ki kudrat has padegi ho



kise kafir kahega kise kayar kahega
teri kab tak chalegi ho
kise kafir kahega kise kayar kahega
teri kab tak chalegi ho


arey ruk ja re bandeh arey thham ja re bandeh ki kudrat has padegi ho


arey mandir ye chup hai arey masjid hai gumsum
ibadat thak padegi ho
samay ki lal aandhi kabristan ke raste
arey latpath chalegi ho


arey ruk ja re bandeh arey thham ja re bandeh ki kudrat has padegi ho
arey neendein hai zakhmi
arey sapne hai bhookhe
ki karvat phat padegi ho


yeh andhi chot teri kabhi ki suukh jaati magar ab pak chalegi


- Indian Ocean. singing my generation.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Today's Special

This post

  • Is a hurried attempt at distracting readership from the last post, which, unfortunately has caused much hilarity and quiet sniggers among my readers, all of whom I still revere. *bleddy @#$%^&$@!s*
  • Is to bring to your notice that I shall gradually draw myself out and become ay sosheeul enemal egen [like in the Happydent advt with the seductive moocow]. [not that I think she's hot. It's the Australian Jersey Bull who does]. [I get the feeling you knew that awready.]
  • Is a cry for help. I have to have to have to stop smoking. I have to have to have to stop eating chocolate biscuits with maniacal fervour.
  • Is to announce that although I was going through another one of those "phases" that actually you know nothing about, yet I was brought out of "the phase" because of a strange man farting loudly and in public and then looking sheepishly around to see if anyone noticed. Now, I'm usually polite with strangers and I swear I didn't mean to but I snorted. I had to snort to cover up for a resounding guffaw.
  • Now that I come to think of it, that was appalling behaviour. I feel awful for the poor old man. I really didn't mean to laugh, promise.
  • Ok, it still is kinda funny. Shoot, I'm going to hell.
  • These days I laugh at the most brutally humourless things.
  • Daaber jol is fabulous.
  • I alternate between loving and dreading sleeping alone.
  • I shall reply to all your comments once that page stops disappearing. I can't explain, but the page disappears. Uff.
  • There is absolutely nothing I can do about the caps. It comes with the tiny sunshine icons. It's either the caps or the sunshine. And I want the sunshine right now. Lights up my life.