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.
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.