A Quest

Once upon a time, when I was around fourteen and literally gobbled up stories about little girls who lived happily ever after, I came across one such book in the school library. It was about this ten year old city girl called Elizabeth who shifts to the country after the aunt who looked after her, gets a job someplace else. The book is mostly about how she deals with the country life. She lives there with her two aunts and uncles who insist on calling her Betty, and I also remember a scene where her uncle asks her to describe how roads are laid. Subplots include adventure in a fair with a little girl on her (Betty's) birthday, making butter, and incidents in school. At the end, of course, she decides to live in the country rather than move with her aunt to the big city.

What I am looking for is the book's name. As a 14 year old, I remember crying copious tears over it. Its purely meant for little girls who have nothing better to do than read stories about happily ever afters and ruin their concept of real life. But right now, that is exactly the sort of literature I need. Any help would be much appreciated.

Yet another tag

Which is the best way to fill up some space, come back to blogging and announce that one is sick of Economics and has decided to get married.
Onnesha tagged me a very long time back. I was saving it up for a special occasion as this and so here goes the alphabet soup. In keeping with tradition, I have tried to keep it spontaneous.

A for Ashvin, the first character I ever created.
B for Binomial, the bane of my life.
C for catch, as in bowling and out.
D for desperate, which is what I am feeling now.
E for Emma, and I do not know why.
F for I-usually-try-to-avoid-that-word-here.
G for a friend's name which is the only thing occurring to me right now. We became friends over a porn movie and now he thinks he is my father. Star Wars, I tell you.
H for hila, the only contribution to my vocabulary from high school.
I for illai, the only Tamil word I know.
J for jata, a very frequently used word.
K for Kalua, and this was not supposed to come out.
L for lessee, the only response to every favour asked for.
M for Mimoh. Period.
N for N*Sync, I am trying to bring them back (no comments on my musical taste please)
O for oligopoly, which sounds extremely pornographic to me (what is with examinations that my mind automatically seeks solace in porn?)
P for pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar. Indian love songs. Just read Galahad warn Clarence against them.
Q for Quriosity. My mind is warped. I do not play fair.
R for roddur. Its killing me.
S for Slutsky. I still can not get over the fact that someone was called this and was actually alice through high school.
T for Tao, which is what I have tattooed on my hand along with Latin Square design of experiment and Johnny Depp.
U for unassuming. Which sort of defines me during exam times.
V for Venom. At 18, we could not afford it. At 19, we did not have the time. At 20, we are old women and too mature for discotheques.
W for Wridhiman Saha. I find his name too cute for words.
X for Xerox. I have spent the family fortunes on it.
Y for Yello, the new (cliched?) hello.
Z for Zach Braff. I love him.

What? You actually have not done this tag yet? You are tagged.

Since all I seem to be doing nowadays is thinking and obsessing about new posts to write and I really, really, really have to do well in the pass papers this year or wave that Ph.D. goodbye, have decided to take a sabbatical. Blog remains henceforth shut down till further notice.

It is extremely necessary to write all your answers in POINT FORM

1. There is supposed to be a blogmeet. Where, no clue. When, no clue. Why, because all our kids will be intermating someday. More on this topic here. If you will be present in Kolkata during May end- June beginning session and connected somehow to the Calcuttan blog world (that, my dear friend, is a necessity) you are pleej to note that you are invited. There are talks of freely flowing booze, and a chance its going to end up being one of those Babylonian orgies Wodehouse used to love talking about. There are also rumours of moo-lah being taken to task for his atrocious behavior towards the next generation bloggers and unfounded comments regarding their sexuality, career prospects and societal status.
2. I have completely forgotten what the second point was supposed to be. Righteous anger directed against moo-lah makes me forget everything all the time. Oh, yes, now I remember. Chennai is apparently leading. Yay :D Being a staunch Bengali, the first and foremost task of mine is to pretend I am a Tamil changeling and that Chennai is Mecca. Anyway, go Chennai, whatever your name and whoever your IPL owner is.
3. I realize I should devote a new post to the third topic. It should not be clubbed along with booze, orgies and moo-lah. So please remain all agog and twiddle your thumbs in anguished expectation till the next installment.
4. I have decided to be the next Pablo Neruda. Considering the fact that I have never written, understood or willingly read a poem, this decision is a brave and commendable one, even if I say so myself. My poetry is supposed to inspire rebellion against suppression which I thought I should mention on early in case everyone fails to understand it. The first poem in question goes

Dear blog world
Why will not you comment on my comment space
Why? Why? Why?
If you are reading this and yet fail to comment
I will poke you in the eye.

Notes From Early Mornings

After having harried me since time immemorial to stop making her feel as if she gave birth to a blob, my mother has finally succeeded in making me agree to early morning walks. This fact should do no credit to her, since the only reason I do go for walks is that I do not feel like Mathematics after 5 a.m. in the morning and I never can go to sleep until the rest of the world sharing my timezone has awoken and arisen.

Morning walks, though a rage among most health advisers, is an extremely lonely undertaking. A person resorts to it only after he is past his first, second and sometimes third youth. And they all seem to severely disapprove if a person boasting of less mature years, wisdom and looks invades their territory. An ensemble of eyebrows raise themselves to frown upon walking attire, headbanging ( Any sort of rock is a thing of awful beauty during early hours, specially when accompanied by chirping birds, against whom I have a special dislike) and random trippings along any sort of uneven roads, stones, rocks and invisible barriers. Icy looks are all a part of the thinning process in this part of the world.

Morning walks are also devoid of any sort of guys. I do not even ask for cute. But anyone who is remotely dateable seem to while away their entire mornings sleeping, unmindful of the fact that their probable soulmate is taking headbanging morning walks along one of the most beautiful and romantic settings possible, happily wondering what is for breakfast.

The best thing about early mornings are yellow flowers. They are present everywhere. They dot most trees, they lay strewn about on every path and you often end up sweeping them away from the bathroom floor after the mandatory shower. They freshen up the warmest of mornings and brighten the dreariest of streets. Not that streets look dreary. An young sun, dew bathed roads, a dimmed moon somewhere out there in the skies, and sometimes, while changing music in the player, the drunken calm of day create a vivid, joyous, exhilarating world, challenged, perhaps, only by the magic of midnights.

There is also the joys of the inebriate's walk, as I have named it. All it involves is finding the oddest and the narrowest of by lanes, and taking random turns whenever possible, making the way home more circuitous, more adventurous and more beautiful. The prettiest of homes, the oddest of colours, the brightest of gardens, all seem to be tucked away in hidden corners, unseen by people who come looking for them, awaiting to surprise walkers in search of a reason to keep on walking, and desired by the very people who plan to move to Antartica given a chance (Onnesha, take a bow).

The bare truth is, I have fallen in love with these walks of mine. They do not harrow my soul any more. They do not seem to do my blobness any good, but they soothe the frayed nerves of mine after an intense mathematical session. My soul is a walker's soul now, and I will never be able to find delight in the joys of driving. Then again, a walker never killed a stag. Walkers just remain walkers at bay.

BTW

If you are into soaps and other stuff which involves lots of babies and lots of marriages between the same people, please take a look at what is going on at coffee stain's comment section. Any queries regarding the plotline can be answered at any of the blogs of the people involved in it.

If you consider yourself to be above sublime tales of marriages and babies, skip over to the previous post or please visit again for the elusive update.

The Last of the Tags

I promise this to be the last tag for a long, long time. After this post, its all going to be erudite, verbose, introspective writings on my views. But first, let us go on with the present. Macadamia the nut has tagged me and thus is born another post. Though this looks less of a tag and more like a guide for a prospective boyfriend.

1. LAST MOVIE YOU SAW IN A THEATER:

Taare Zameen Par.

I am more into pirated stuff and no good movies are out yet.

2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING?

Gun seller by Hugh Laurie

3. FAVORITE BOARD GAME?

Monopoly.

Practically obsessed about it. I play it on my cellphone, bully my friends into playing it, throw monopoly parties and form monopoly study groups.

This has nothing to do with Economics.

4. FAVORITE MAGAZINE?

My mum made me try The Economist and Competition Success. Did not last a month. Reader's Digest comes close I guess.

5. FAVORITE SMELLS?

Rain drenched earth.
Cakes being baked.
The stuffy smell of my room when I return to it after a long, long time.

6. FAVORITE SOUNDS?

The sound of my ipod in my ears.
The sound of a car speeding by and I realize it just missed killing me.
The sound of my phone ringing and it turning out not be the Airtel customer care people.

7. WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD?

Waking up.
Realizing the argument just turned serious.
My HoD mentioning abysmal attendances and looking at me reproachfully.

8. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE?

Another day. More aging. I am so not getting any younger.

9. FAVORITE FAST FOOD PLACE?

The vada pao place at Exide. Also, for coffee, Caffeine.

10. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME?

Poltu and Potla.

(Dear future husband, if you are reading this, darling, we can have two more kids and you can name them according to your choice. Please do not take Poltu and Potla away from me).

11. FINISH THIS STATEMENT. "IF I HAD A LOT OF MONEY I'D...?

Spend it. Buy shoes.

12. DO YOU DRIVE FAST?

Do not drive at all. My drivers can drive fast however. Driving fast is wonderful.

13. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL?

No. Books have taken over my bed and I usually end up sleeping on the floor. A stuffed animal would not last in such an atmosphere.

14. STORMS-COOL OR SCARY?

Lovely for walks. Rains, thunder, gales- oh cool it definitely is.

15. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR?

Was more of a barbie person. Used to own 13 of them. Parents were more of the gender specific toy buyers. No cars thus.

16. FAVORITE DRINK?

Anything but apple juice.

17. FINISH THIS STATEMENT, "IF I HAD THE TIME I WOULD

know the question is talking about my current lifestyle.

18. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS ON BROCCOLI?

Broccolis look evil. Would not dare to.

19. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR, WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHOICE?

I love my hair colour. Its what I would have wanted it to be if it had not been it. I would just dye it back to the original colour if it starts greying.

20. NAME ALL THE DIFFERENT CITIES/TOWNS YOU HAVE LIVED IN.

Bangalore, Gwalior, Bongaigaon, Kolkata.

Only the west remains to be conquered.

21. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?

Desperate housewives.

(What? You do not call what goes on there a sport?)

22. ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU.

She handled this tag better than I did.

23. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED?

The boogey man.

24. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE BORN AS YOURSELF AGAIN?

Sure. But with smaller feet please.

25. MORNING PERSON, OR NIGHT OWL?

Night owl. I am typing this at 3 30 in the morning.

26. OVER EASY, OR SUNNY SIDE UP?

Never talk to people if I can avoid it. So no idea.

27. FAVORITE PLACE TO RELAX?

My bedroom floor.

28. FAVORITE PIE?

Lemon.

29. FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR?

Dark chocolate.

30. OF ALL THE PEOPLE YOU TAGGED THIS TO, WHO'S MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND FIRST?

No one. Everyone seems to be on a hibernation.

I tag everyone as usual. If you like this tag well enough, please take it up.

Rants, Birds, More Rants and Stuff

Once upon a time, I used to dabble with the idea of taking to crime. It was the same age during when any man over 21 was supposed be called an uncle (At 20, everyone under 30 is hot). The idea did not really last. Possibly it had to do something with my abject inability to shoot balloons. As a four year old, I would get agitated at my inevitable failure to pop even one of them and would have to be forcibly restrained from beating up all those balloons with the same rifle I was holding. 16 years later, I wish my father would be around to restrain me again.

I have never really known why my father would take me to shoot balloons at an young, impressionable age. It has been proved in time that he never harboured dreams of raising a sharpshooter as a daughter. Common sense tells me it was probably because he had no idea what to do with me when babysitting. Paranoia tells me it was the best way to quell any homicidal tendencies I might otherwise visit on delicate furniture. He is a smart man, my father.

The above paragraphs has nothing to do with the theme of this post. In fact, this post does not have a theme. I have absolutely no idea what I am even typing right now. Its early morning, the birds are chirping away, welcoming the world in a trilling, mad, joyful, soulful song and giving me a headache, and I have to leave for my morning walk in half an hour. It will probably be another furiously hot day and I will melt away, sweat droplet by sweat droplet. In fact, if you have not guessed it yet, right now, I am not a very happy blogger.

I spent all my money in buying the Gameworld trilogy and finished them in under a week. This has had very strange developments. Like a spate of re-attendance to college, where I spend hours gazing happily at the seats and wondering if Samit Basu's posterior ever adorned them. (He is an alumni from the same department as me. If you think that motivates me in any manner, think again). There has also been cases of tattooing the name Kirin on my arms during Maths classes and later explaining to questioning parental figures that its just a misspelling of an old Enid Blytonian term.Parents, but obviously, refuse to believe such tripe. But are reassured by the fact that the elder daughter is not the closet lesbian they were fearing her to be. Today, a fictional hero, tomorrow, a living breathing man is the motto they are trying to live by. I am still wording the speech which should be informing them about the celibacy vow.

There was a week spent in un-idleness in Delhi. College packed three of us pseudo-economists off under the hope of keeping the beacon of Presidency Economics high. Siblings sent us off with joyful good byes in the hope of the splendour of gifts brought back. We went there in the hope of meeting some proper guys for a change (Dear Kolkata guys, please do not get offended, we love you all. You are intelligent, stalwart men who will always remain the people our parents hope we will end up getting married to. This is just the rebellious phase every just-left-teenage girl goes through. But we always come back to you. Maybe we leave you again later. But we will discuss that in some other post).

We did meet them. It was a wonderful eight days which we spent falling in love over and over again with every man in sight, not even excluding wonderful looking professors from Pakistan (Pakistan has everything, good looking professors, good looking men, even, for crying out aloud, good looking women, and an actual interest in Economics. Wish to reword those Partition clauses again). We also realized Kolkata is not an undisputed World number one in aantlamo. Very, very curiously, Delhi comes close. Frighteningly close.

However, the trip's main impact laid elsewhere. Not being one to keep people with their breaths held in taut suspense, I will be quick to come to the point. It was the washing of clothes (Cue, quick drawing of breath). It was while we washed clothes, past midnight, with the aid of shampoos the hotel beatifically provided, we realized that we had actually transcended to adulthood. That we were women in the real sense of the word. Also that we would make terrible washerwomen and that washing clothes would also have to be struck off from the list of alternate careers. There were also instances of impromptu dances which involved jumping on a rather bouncy bed and which ended with loadshedding and meeting cute looking guys in the lobby to discuss the electricity problems in Delhi and why that meant the Stock exchange was about to crash(The mating calls of economists are not very attractive. We are reduced to either discussing the Stock Exchange or questions on how to become millionaires while trying to get Ph.D. degrees. The first ends in fistfights, the second in MBAs).

I realize I must have mystified my readers (Gasp, I have readers, it feels good to say that while planning crazy attack on chirping birds). The college sent us off to Delhi to attend a seminar on (held breaths again) Economics (gasps) with a few other South Asian countries. Scores of undergraduate economics students were bunched of in a scenario reminiscent of Goopy Bagha Phire Elo where Bikrams are caught and imprisoned (this is for my non Bengali readers. Bengali readers, skip this section before getting an aneurysm or something by the mind boggling description) by a mad yogi of a sort, whose death had been predicted by a boy named Bikram. The imprisoned Bikrams in the story become his housemaids and washerwomen. We, instead, presented papers and listened to endless babbling by famous people on how to achieve the Indian/Bangladeshi/Pakistani/Nepali/Sri Lankan Dream. Since none of us were even particularly clear about which dreams they were focusing on, we would utilize the time to run away to Connaught Place and visit Nirula's. Or some other equally wonderful, ambrosial joint (Cue: Wipe away nostalgic tears).

Delhi stories might keep on appearing by bits and spurts. So might murderous attempts on birds. The balloon story, however, appears only here. I have no idea how to conclude this piece. So I will inform everyone that I am going to have chocolates for breakfast. Also that I have begun to resemble a blob. A nice, shapeless, green and brown blob. Which still does not sound like a conclusion. So I will try again.

This is the conclusion.

The Dudes Abide

It is very easy to recognize economists when the budget season nears. They go about looking pale and sickly, heedless of all sights and sounds, except when wincing painfully at the sight of a copy of The Economic Times. It is not hard to reason why. Most economists forget all they have learned ten minutes after they get their degrees. Some do not even wait till the end of the examinations. After that, all theories propounded by them are a result of assumptions made and an imagination active. Many are the theories I myself have created on ill prepared examinations. Three of the papers easily deserve a Nobel. John Nash is a classic case of famous economists. No one but he could have created something which reads "Complementarity is the source of multiplicity in the Nash equilibrium". One requires the aid of an imagination fueled idea and a psychological disease to make up that.

The lot of an economist is a hard one. In the olden days, most people would join the Foreign legions to help them forget. With the legions having now been disbanded, they try to fall in love. Love after all, always makes you forget everything. However, most economists are a bunch of snobs, assuming (which is their business) that every other human is inferior to them intellectually and they deserve no less than Fellows from Oxford. Of course they do not get them. But economists are extremely persistent. If nothing else works, they go and take to drink. And they forget.

(N.B. If the economist is a female, she does not even need to take to drink, she takes to weight loss. That makes her forget everything, including love and foreign legions. It is an unstated general rule that female economists who take the subject seriously are fat. The fact that there are not enough female economists proves it. Who really wants to remain fat nowadays?)

But then drink brings out all that is base in man. Which is why perhaps when we got drunk, all we could do was whine about "Cournot equilibrium" and "Todaro-Harris model" and then sob in a corner.

But I digress.

(Click to enlarge)

Every man meets his Waterloo. And economists, despite all rumours, are humans. Albeit with slightly different Waterloos. While the misogynist finds the woman of his dreams, business tycoons find brothers constantly reminding them of their share in the business, politicians find unsuitable son-in-laws, economists have the budget thrust upon their unwary faces.

For in this world, there still remain a few of little faith. Judas is the name which comes to the mind as an example. Some who do not trust enough in the healing power of forgetfulness. And they keep on remembering. Then they go join newspapers as columnists. Or the "Gor-ment" as financial advisors.

It can never be a very pleasing sensation when served with your early morning coffee are the screaming headlines referring to cost push inflation. The Fates band up against you and you realize there is a family member looking down expectantly and asking you to explain the meaning of cost push inflation as opposed to other kinds of inflation. The hurriedly mumbled line defining cost push inflation as inflation pushed by cost, rather than by other, say, non cost, what do you call it, thing, is not accepted in a spirited manner and the economist goes back to face the world, a mere shadow of his former, jubilant, coffee sipping self. The Fates are a cruel lot though, once aroused by the Furies, and questions regarding the subtle difference between fiscal and revenue deficit haunts the economist's mind till he receives the next day's paper, which speaks glibly of various anti inflationary measures and waiving of farmers' loans.

However, the budget question, once admirably settled, does not raise its head again for a considerable time. No more is the economist tormented by the general, misguided public to explain something the general, misguided public happily imagines the economist knows about. The economist, what with the daily cares of the world on his shoulders and the severe concern for the income of various alcohol fermentators, gets involved in the grind again. And forgets. Time, as usual, remains the best healer. And the economists, as spelled out by this very fascinating movie called The Big Lebowski, abide.

Damn My Cursed Memory

Dreamy tagged me. Of course, she has no way to know I have never remembered anything for more than ten minutes at a go. So, most of the input which was supposed to be remembered is remembered by my mother. She is the guest author of this post.

Life Ten years ago:

From what she remembers, I was gawky, awkward, shy and tongue ties with mostly everyone. Of course, she willingly and unnecessarily adds, I have not shown much change since then. I wanted to be a singer by night and doctor by day. My life revolved around mathematics, my best friend and molding mud into cakes. I used to decorate them with leaves and grounded brick powder. It all used to smell wonderful. Life was also about shared lunches where nine or ten giggly girls would sit around and discuss the comparative advantage of Punjabi pickles over Marwari pickles over Bengali pickles. To my unrefined tastes, Marwari pickles always used to win uncontested. Bengali kuler achar (I can not translate this into anything remotely English), as divine as it is, could never match up.

Life five years ago:

I was fat. That used to take the fun out of most things. Life was mostly about how torturous Physics is and how much one scored in Biology on ten marks. The impending Boards exam failed to scare me. The effeminate classmate I thought I was hopelessly in love with did. Marwari pickles still formed a huge part of my life. There was also a personal diary which was full of so much sentiment, I ended up throwing it out once I entered college. Also started writing poetry. Stopped next year.

Life tomorrow.

Will try to turn 20 without getting into hysterics (OK, yeah, tomorrow is my birthday :D. That is the entire purpose of this post anyway)

Five locations I would love to run away to.
(Ordered by accessibility)

• Presidency Botany Department corridor
• Lakshadweep
• Corfu
  
• Random African jungle
• P. E. Island

Five bad habits I have.
(I do not consider biting nails as a bad habit. It is a necessary condition for existence)

• The fact that I cannot sit down for a meal without knocking down a random glass. My favourite eatery refuses to serve me water anymore.
• I keep on complaining about the dissatisfying shape of my nose. However, not much nowadays. I realize I have to marry Bilawal Bhutto anyway. Which obviously means I will be heading the country some day. For that, one needs an authoritative nose. Indira Gandhi and I own the same nose.
  
• I cannot laugh before examinations without getting hysterical and end up laughing for half an hour straight for no reason why.
• I go to sleep at 6 in the morning. I wake up at 2 in the afternoon. My mum is thinking of disowning me.
• I am scared of everything.

Five things I will never wear.

• Something pink.
• Gold.
• Navel ring (someone told me it itches a lot)
• Heels more than 2 inches long ( I can not afford to tower above the remaining male population)
• Rings
  

Five biggest joys at this moment.

• I painted my toes green and chrome. It looks ugly, but very satisfying.
• Conversations with Bonky
  
• My hair is longer. I do not look any more like a boy who tried to give himself a crew cut. Now I look like the boy who forgot to have his hair cut.
• I have lost both my glasses. Now I can walk down anywhere I like to without having to recognize people. I can always say I could not see them.
• I am off to buy more clothes.
  

Something to achieve by next year

An aim. I cannot just live in frivolity for the rest of my life. More is the pity.

Something that impacted me last year

The hospital tenure. I realized in those ten days that I was making many wrong choices. Now making different wrong choices. But not the same ones.

What will I miss about 2007

Teenage

Five things I want to do before I die

There are a hundred. The most important one is to learn to raise one eyebrow. The others are either too insignificant, or too sacred.

I tag Abhishek, doubletake, doublethink, Mac the nut, Kaushik, Na. Su. Krishnan, Speedpost, the new age scheherazade and The ancient mariner.