Rants, Birds, More Rants and Stuff

>> Sunday, March 30, 2008

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 proven 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.

36 scaly flippers:

Doubletake, Doublethink. 11:10 am, March 30, 2008  

there is just too much fuss about the partition. everyone should just wake up to the fact that until and unless we get over with this enmity thing and sanction everyone to marry a hot pakistani guy, there will never be another miss world from india (pakistan?)

that is just the long-term goal. the short-term excuse is to find the pakistani men to procreate with. so near, and yet so far :(

speedpost 11:50 am, March 30, 2008  

Hehe. So you did find some stare-worthy men after all. My next holiday is SO going to be in Delhi. And I might consider taking up Eco if it helps me get in touch with hot Pakistanis.

dreamy 1:58 pm, March 30, 2008  

This post was very educative. It introduced me to very nice sounding phrases like "the mating call of economists" and "undisputed World number one in aantlamo" and "women in the real sense of the word" and "jumping on a rather bouncy bed"

...all in all a very lovable post. You might not be a happy blogger early in the morning, but you do make other bloggers happy late in the afternoon.

Noisy Autist 7:45 pm, March 30, 2008  

funny thing is, all my friends who got posted in Delhi after getting the job say the same thing - that they miss the KolChorr [read: aantlamo] of Kolkata...

but hey, dont break our kolkata guy hearts, madam. :)

Amazing Greys 7:57 pm, March 30, 2008  

i was dreaming a few nights back that i was in delhi just to eat at nirula's & the auto-wallahs just kept on taking me for a ride all aound town. that's delhi for you.
i think you'll be quite a happy blogger if you keep on having chocolates for breakfast.

Macadamia The Nut 7:13 am, April 01, 2008  

I have no idea what to say... seriously :D Should I comment about the feeling of empathy that overcame me when you talked about your err, homicidal tendencies? :D
... Or about how much I loved the phrase "melt away, sweat droplet by sweat droplet" (see how easy-to-please I am)
... Or maybe do a ROFLMAO @ 'closet lesbian"..
Darn! The choices one has to contend with in blogosphere! Hmmmppff!!

:D

LOL!! Awesome post girlfriend!

onnesha 10:05 pm, April 01, 2008  

wash clothes with shampoo?thats something i havent done ever.will try.

the girl with a zillion namesakes 8:50 am, April 03, 2008  

well i recently washed someone's denims with a mini size nima rose soap...i thought i had done the ultimate in washing clothes and then came this post...

Bubbles of FireWhiskey 10:44 am, April 03, 2008  

"He is a smart man, my father."

mine too... lolz...

ArSENik 4:42 am, April 04, 2008  

This is a random post from you for a change, and as with all random posts, I had a number of points that popped up in my head as I was reading, but now, when the time has come to comment, I can't remember any of them.

Good to see that economists mate in a very aantel fashion. Might have to reconsider my wow of not dating economists after reading this post.

I just read on Mitali Saran's blog that there is suddenly no water in Delhi and that neighboring villagers are suspected of pilferaging the elixir of life from some hole in some tunnel, but I now know its because of closet lesbian economists from out of town trying to wash clothes in a load shedding situation.

PS: Whataslavedriver that old hamming fart was! I would have just killed all the Bikrams. Frustration again as yet another villain is shown as an idiot in Indian cinema.

Abhishek... inside out 9:53 pm, April 04, 2008  

I showed my parents the "Nirvana" tattoo I had penned on my right arm on the train journey back home back in winters. A few days later my dad said, "booze, fag, but NEVER dope!"

Sam 4:05 pm, April 07, 2008  

ah... delhi....
saddi jaan hai!! changa hai ji!!

Zii 12:02 am, April 11, 2008  

...given a chance, i would still shoot those balloons.

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