Mr. Bhagat, A Word Please

Since I have not really read the book, my only impression of it has been built by the bits and pieces the roommate indignantly read out loud to mark her displeasure. It is at her behest that I write this piece.

Mr. Bhagat, I am aware of the sheer esteem of the institutions you belong to, and the credit you bring upon them. The fact that I read 'five point someone' at what is best described as gunpoint and have not cared to read the rest might reflect a certain bias in my attitude towards your works, but personally, I have had nothing against you or your successes.

However, the latent economist in me can not but crib and cry afoul when she finds incorrect definitions and concepts lightly thrown about. My dear man, an L- shaped curve is not the marginal utility curve. Marginal implies differentiable and the L shaped curve has a kink. That is why it is L shaped in the first place. The L- shaped curve, sir, is in fact a special case of an indifference curve where two goods are supposed to be complements, which, since you have studied Microeconomics both in IIT and IIM, you must have memorized a thousand times.

Please do not insult economics or students of economics so, considering your own grounding of the basics does not seem to be the strongest.

Best wishes for your next work.

Regards
A very irked Economics student

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Still Around

The blog, you see, has been discovered. A senior stands up, looks accusingly, points a finger and asks, you are the one who blogs, are not you? I go through the usual routing of blushing profusely, trying to remember if I wrote anything remotely insulting about them recently and wondering if denying it stoutly really works.

It does not.

The crux of the matter is I shall have to be slightly careful about what I write. Not that I expect him to return, but we are economists, we talk a lot about risk and take none. So there will be less of college bashing and more of general topics like the weather, or death, or how I think the person who lives opposite my room could be an alien.

I have seen him disappear sometimes. Mostly when I am trying to stalk him. Could be a trick of light, could be the fact that I am half blind without my spectacles. Does not deter me from the fact that he could be an alien. Or perhaps a ghost.

One promises a better post, once one is done weeping profusely in corridors, finding some latent love for economics and finding out more about the alien classmate. But one has to leave and give mid sems in three days.

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Betrayer kotha kare

It is undeniably true.

It still hurts a little bit.

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Because I Had Been Thinking About It..

In the past six months I have lived in

• Kolkata
• Hyderabad
• Mumbai

In the same time period, I have been to

• Chennai
• Delhi
• Bangalore
• Ooty

Geographically, it has been an interesting year. I have learned (albeit very little) Tamil, Telugu, Marathi and what claims to be Tapori Hyderabadi (whatever that may be).

I shall now be smug and claim to be a countrytrotter (as opposed to a globetrotter).

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Bits and Pieces

I remember being a pudgy little girl, short hair, dungarees, mostly covered in mud, chewing my Barbie doll and following the "big boys" (most of them around the venerable age of 9). I wanted to, inexplicably, do "boy things". What these boy things were, I never was very clear. But I had a pet theory that it involved climbing a lot. Hence, I would tumble along, being properly ignored by them, until, after seeing me trip on my own shoelaces for the eighteenth time, a rough, kindly "big boy" would take me back home. The message back then was very clear. "This is not for little girls."

I would spend the rest of the evening wailing to my mother about being a girl, and wished that girls my age would care less about their frilled frocks getting torn and more about climbing things.

You see, I am a climber. My motto has forever been "Show wall, will climb." I never enter through gates if I can successfully scale the walls. In fact, I have never really entered parks through gates. Scaling park fences gives me the sort of thrill I get when drinking well made coffee.

But you get older. You do not display ambitions of ever climbing the Everest. You do not expect a twenty one year old in distinctly feminine garb to climb muddy, moss covered walls. An ensemble of eyebrows rise and a twitter of tongues are tutted (Yes, I make up my own collective nouns. It amuses me.) This girl, it is universally announced, has not been brought up correctly. I, unmindful of mostly everything, jump, shake the dust off me and walk away, head held slightly higher.

The new college is built on a hill. The way from the rooms to the college building, hence, is a whirlwind of winding pathways, each leading to the same destination, but catering to different needs. There is the straight road for the females in extremely correct clothing. There is the one which requires a bit of jumping for the health conscious. There is one which has slightly slippery stones for the person who wishes to skate and there is the Magical Road of Obstructions. It involves a fair amount of scrabbling on mossy, moist walls, one after another. For the student who is in a hurry, it is the shortest route available. No self respecting woman ever chooses this route.

Then again, I stopped respecting myself many years back.

There was I, in what was for once, very correct, and incidentally, white, feminine garb, grumblingly going to an early morning class, cursing the sun, daylight and other people, when I saw a couple of "big boys" (These were big, they are doing their Ph.D.) taking the Magical Road of Obstructions. Heedless of correct grab, heedless of gender, heedless of the fact that I did not really know the route too well, I followed them. Climbed a wall. Jumped over a stile. Jumped over a pond. However, correct white garb, being of the very feminine kind, was proving to be restrictive. A kindly boy, after seeing me dither near yet another pond, advised me to take another road. This road, the wise boy said, is not for women.

There I was, against my own gender, fighting for my right to climb a wall, because I was a girl who had not worn her trackpants to college that day. I now had the option of womanfully fighting the inevitable tears and taking the female friendly route. But why? Women had achieved so much. Women...Women had babies. Women could do anything. I just had to jump over a smallish pond and climb more walls.

"Why not," I asked and jumped over the pond.

I did end up getting very mud strewn afterwards.

My six year old self, however, was very pleased.

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Update

Continuing on the theme of not knowing what to do with my life, I now live in Mumbai. Yes, I study Economics. No, I am not happy at all. But there are compensations.

No, not the six foot four hunk in the next room.

Well, perhaps a little.

The library here is a delight. You start your mornings with the Economic Times, move onto the Wall Street Journal, flip through the International Herald Tribune, pick up the London review of Books, then the New York Review of Books and finish with a look at the photographs in the National Geographic. Someday, I will probably pick up the rest of the 3000 odd journals they keep here.

There are times though, when I wish I was back in Hyderabad. Some places are just meant for happiness. In this city, all I seem to be doing is submerging myself in Economics and losing old friends.

Then again, I like complaining.

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Umm...

I am in the middle of one of those identity crisis which strike people when they are 21 and realize they do not really know what exactly they want from life. So I have gone and buried myself in Hyderabad. Strangely, I am happier than I have ever been in the past one year.

I wash clothes, I scrubs floors, I have reduced meals to one a day so that I do not have to consume sambhar, the only recipe the cook apparently is aware of, I share one bathroom with ten other women and the nearest anything is a twenty minute walk away. I am not even sure whether I will even stick till the end of this course.

But, dear blog world, life has never been more hilarious.
(Net connection is limited to the library for now. It is a bit of a do I want to walk for 3 miles for internet question.)

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The Chennai Story

(Long Post)

Dearest A,

Despite my inherent quality of rambling ceaselessly, I have promised to limit myself to chronological sequences of events for this letter. I shall begin from the beginning and continue till I reach the end. However, if I do trespass the boundaries of sequential arrangements, do realize that my mind is still in a jumble of opinions and memories and I would like to jot them down before I lose them forever in the giant sink of my mind.

We did not start well. Though Shada and I had planned and planned till we had actually planned throughout all our examinations, we still could not manage tickets for an air conditioned compartment and ended up in sleepers. There were five of us- Deep, who would accompany us only till Chennai, Ari, whom I had never spoken to directly, Stinky, who did not even bother to get an excuse of giving an examination to go on this trip, Shada, my co-planner and I, still numb to the actual fact that I was going to Chennai.

You have known, more than anyone else, how much I have obsessed about Chennai, its people, its music, in short, anything which breathed Tamil was adopted as mine to love and cherish and adore. Yet, here was I, on my way to Chennai, worrying about accounts, people not reaching on time, the fact that I was not wearing my Presidency T-shirt, and that there was a young woman with a child on our seat who refused to speak or move. Chennai was yet to enter my conscious.

Travelling second class was a revelation, A. The compartment carried around twenty more people who travelled on the strength of the fact that they were numbered 348 on the waiting list. With the heat, the crowd and absence of my beloved laptop, I was predictably violently sick throughout the journey and lived on glucon-d for most of the second day.

However, it seems making friends with people is easier on trains than when you have been classmates for three years. Ari and I discovered a passion for musicals and spent most of the night entertaining Stinky with our rendition of 'I could have danced all night'.

(n.b. I know you think my taste in music is suspect, but I will have you know that Deep also has the song 'mera laung gawacha' on his ipod. Of course, I keep mine disguised under the name 'Deep, dark wailings of the soul'. Also, he is a boy. So, bleh. I shall revel in the song and if you complain about it once more, you are not invited to my Gothic themed wedding.)

Chennai is beautiful, A. I will admit now, I was afraid. I had been afraid all the while that everyone else would be right. The people would be hostile, the city would be ugly and it would not be the paradise I had always imagined it to be. But it was. It was. Every tiny bit of it. The buildings are beautiful, the roads are clean and wide, the names so fascinating.

But Chennai to me has always been Chennai of the people, Chennai of the music. I found it. It was there, waiting for me, exactly as I had wanted it to be. The warm, friendly, amused people, all around, smiling wryly at our antics, at our hopeless attempts to get a grasp on their language, despite the fact that absolutely no one spoke in Tamil to us. The only Tamil we took back from the city was the one we came with- 'illai' and 'kodumai kodumaiyo'.

You know, A, if you have a Chettinad meal at a restaurant, they give you complimentary bananas. It is a good thing. Chettinad meals turned out to be too spicy for even those of us who had been reared on Bangal food. (No, I am not one of them. I have been reared on paratha achar and I am proud of it). But the utthapams, oh, the utthapams, light and perforated and so pretty, it felt sinful to even touch them.

Presidency College is in ruins. The one in Chennai, I meant. Ours, apparently, is going to be painted a light purple. After I leave. Why do things turn purple after I leave, I will never understand. The sea, also, is very uninteresting. Then again, I am a creature of the mountains, and thus, perhaps, a little biased. They do not sell coconut water over there either, at least, not on the beach we visited. Beaches without coconut water is sinful, ruins the idea of a beach.

Anna University is very beautiful. Deep red brick complemented by marble floors, it is difficult to believe that is a university, at par with Calcutta University, a land where time stops and communism begins. The canteen sells "pockets of water" for a rupee and we are branded as aliens. By the end of Chennai, all of us had got used to the fact that people would stop, stare at us, and then move on. Yet, someone just writes on a gtalk window that "we have no time to stand and stare". I just saw an entire city do exactly that.

I remember, while buying Tamil DVDs at a mall, wondering if this is what the sole purpose of coming to Chennai had been, buying Kannathil Muthamittal with English subtitles. But I had Chennai for one whole day. I gave an exam in it, went to the sea, bought DVDs, had South Indian meals, went to a children's park at midnight and left footprints on the sand. Which is all Chennai will ever be to me. A delightful city of delightful people where I had a delightful time. I did not get to do anything I had planned (including stalking A.R. Rahman and asking a Tamilite to marry me). I will possibly never cherish a moment there either. But a chapter is at an end now. A story has been laid to rest and I can begin afresh now. There is a whole new world awaiting for me of new obsessions, interesting fascinations.

You see, A, I have been to Chennai and I have come back. This is the trip, this is the tale, this is all it will ever be. Yet, it was so much more. More than even I realize now.

I still have two more tales to tell you. Do not expect them any time soon. The vacation has turned me lazy.

S.W.

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Rain and Other Elements

Foreword
I can not draw. I can handle a mouse and colour parts of my screen even less. This is my idea of trying to devise ways of amusing myself.

Yesterday, something akin to a thunderstorm took place. Clothes escaped from lines, thunder shook the windows and the cat sought refuge under the car. I, being at the nearest mall, trying to finish Batman novels at the store itself so that I did not feel compelled to buy them, was blissfully unaware of all this. Until, that is, the people whom I was originally supposed to spend the evening with decided it was time to leave. Which is when the entire place suffered a blackout and the fire alarm got activated. Which is when the first part of the drawing takes place. There I am, in the middle, wondering if there was any way on earth I could convince the others of the joy of an icecream while walking back home in a thunderstorm. There are the others, doing things I was not really paying attention to, being lost in an icecream reverie.

I did get the icecream, acquiring which I escaped my disapproving guards and had it while being drenched in the rains, which poured down with an unequalled alacrity. Ice cream finished, I crept back to my friends with a docility they did not believe in and we went back to our respective homes, the rains now being officially over for the day.

The rains, being what they are, came back today, in the form of drizzles at intervals. The weather turned from insane to miserable, the sky turned a depressing grey from a fiery black, and I, horrified at being awake at an early hour, decided to mope and strolled along dejectedly from room to room, singing dismal songs to myself. However, when you sing Ella Fitzgerald songs, you require, nay, crave an audience. Hunt-the-cat took place until it was found trying to sleep on the backyard porch.

"Now, Opuntia," I announced as I took my place beside it, " I know we do not get on well, but your cat friends have betrayed you and my friends may well be cats. However, this animosity between us has to stop, we are all the other has. I even have a song about it. It was sung by Ella, pure of tone and pure of heart, not unlike you and I. In fact, Opi, this is between you and me, I want to be her. Now, I want you to be a true judge. You have heard her work before. You usually saunter around at my window whenever I play her songs. So, now, here we go."

Thus, I started giving the cat a rendition of Let's call the whole thing off, halfway through which, it gave an agonized yowl and scampered away.

Which is why I should definitely be allowed to get a dog.

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I am almost a Graduate.
Heh.

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Among other things

Me: Hello, University of Poseidon? (Poseidon here stands for a city in one of the southern states in the country).
Voice on the other end: Ok.
Me:...
VOTOE:....
Me: Sir, I had a query about the current admissions procedure.
VOTOE: Admissions?
Me: Yes.
VOTOE (sighs and then murmurs resignedly): Admissions.
Me: Yes. Well. Umm, I am a general candidate. I was wondering if the stipulation of sending a proof of medium of language in class 12 was a general requirement or is it solely for the backward classes.
VOTOE: Hindi, English, mumble wumble..
Me:I beg your pardon?
VOTOE: Hindi, English, mumble wumble...
Me:(wondering if he was asking me to speak in his local language) But these are the only languages I know!
VOTOE:Hindi, English, mumble wumble...
Me (Throwing caution to the winds): Umm, Main general candidate hoon, er, I was wondering, umm, proof of medium of language, sab ke lie hain ya (here, Hindi fails me), shudhu backward classes der jonno?
VOTOE: (now agitated) Hindi, English, mumble wumble.
Me (suddenly enlightened): Oh you mean, if the medium was Hindi or English, we need not send?
VOTOE: Po
Me (happily): Ok.

Later we found out we did have to send it. Also, that Po means go.

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Filler 3

......In contrast, consumer goods industry grew rather slowly. Food, beverages, tobacco, textiles and leather products grew at a rate of 4-5% p.a. The only exception was the footwear industry which grew at the rate of 10% or even more. The second phase (1966-1980) was marked by a slowdown in growth rates in three main industries, viz., metals machinery and intermediate goods. On the other hand, there was a revival of growth in consumer goods industries. The maximum growth rate (14%) was achieved by footwear industry.....

I have always maintained that it is womankind which will rescue the world from the clutches of recession. Women of the world-unite. We need to go shoe shopping.

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Sort of a bucket list

I would rather not sleep.

I wish

• to marry a statistician. It is the only way I can pass any of my examinations. If you know of a statistician who is looking out for a wife, point him to this blog. Pretty please?
• to remember the person I had fallen madly in love with three years back. To remember you love a person and not to remember the person is devastating, to say the least.
• to draw new doodles. I am so bored of the typhoons, I shall very soon descend to drawing hearts or swans.
• to sit in the park with Bonky, eating homemade brownies and wondering what life has in store for us.
• I had not forgotten about the latest Artemis Fowl. I can not believe I still have not read it.
  
• I could stop being an utter idiot for once.

It has just struck me.

I AM GOING TO CHENNAI.

I shall now hyperventilate.

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The Nights Before Examinations

Midnights, creeping in, usually find me gaping at the window, absentmindedly doodling on the margins of my notebook. My doodles usually conform to depictions of typhoons, Chinese fans and noses. It probably reveals something deeply disturbing about my psyche, but I choose not to delve on it.

It is 12:30 soon and the cellphone tinkles. The first message of the day is a cryptic plea from an unknown number. I read it again and again to make sure I have not skipped a few words or sentences.

"Sweetie (it says), I miss u. V hv not met up for so long. I know u hv exams but cant u make some time. If yes, give me a missed."

I gaze fascinated at this epistle for a long time and then call up Bonky.

"Whom do you know," I ask wonderingly, "who would miss me?"
"You should really learn some phone skills, you know. How come you never say a hello?"
"But who is capable of missing me," I ask insistently.
She ponders. "Apart from the entire faculty in our department, I really can not think of anyone else. Why do you ask? Having a sneezing fit?"
Whereupon I tell her the story.

"Hmm," she says after a few moments reserved for giggling. "Give this person a call. See who it is."
"Is not that a bit desperate," I muse.
"Honey, when you can not recall any person who would miss you in the middle of the night, chances are you are desperate."
"We are not having this conversation. Go study."

It is now one hour and ten minutes. I have finished my seventh typhoon and am starting on my fifteenth nose. The cellphone tinkles again. This time it is a phonecall.

"I have not started Indian Economics. Do not ask me anything. Go away."
"Umm, Pongs," says the voice on the other side. "I am in love."
"Oh dear," I sigh. "Now?"
"Uhh, yes?"
"Who is it? Does he have any single friends? Please do not get married before I get a boyfriend," I plea, my voice trailing away into a whine.
"Well, I met this guy in the metro. I actually bumped into him and apologized. Then I looked into his eyes, oh Pongs, such dreamy eyes, and fell in love."
There is a pause.
"Uh," I say, breaking the pause. " Then?"
"That is it," she replies, matter-of-factly.
"You do not know the guy," I exclaim, scandalized.
"I do know that he is my soulmate," she mumbles in a small voice. I can even visualize her puppy face.
"OK, honey, you know I am all for this sort of thing. But I can hardly help you hunt for the love of your life. I shall be very busy the next couple of months."
"Oh no," she hastens to explain, "that is fine. Actually I called you to help me find a perfect song for this moment."
"Oh."

It is close to two. I have actually read something from my notes and fallen into a reverie, most of which involves ghosts materializing through open windows.

The cell phone tinkles again. I start the conversation with the familiar denial of ever studying Indian Economics when I am interrupted.

"Could not care less. Listen, I bought two club sandwiches for dinner today. You know the hostel food. But I could only finish one. If I keep the second one for breakfast, what are the chances it will not stink or something?"

I blink.

"Is this a probability question," I venture, flabbergasted.
"No, idiot, I am asking you. You are a girl. You should know about stuff like this. Food and rotting and things."
"Ohh. Right. But, you see, I do not," I reply, as gently as possible.
"I knew I should have called Deep. He would have known. By the way, we have to go to Chennai in a month's time," announcing which he hangs up.

Wherein begins a flurry of phone calls, messages and further downloading of application forms.

It is soon almost half an hour past three. I have now degenerated into spelling my name in Bengali. Succeeding in that, I now venture to spell the names of the characters in Harry Potter, faltering badly with Hermione, and shift to spelling the names of the characters in Feluda.

The next tinkle on the phone is Bonky.

"Want to go out for coffee tomorrow?"
"No."
"Eh, this is coffee we are talking about, something you have Freudian dreams about. How can you refuse coffee," she asks, taken aback.
"Bonks, I have been practically stuck in this house for three months. My face is now a deathly white, and my dark circles make me look like a poltergeist. I actually have a haze all around my face. I look like an indeterminate mass. If you take me out for coffee tomorrow, everyone would think it was the family ghost's day out."
"Want to meet up in your park and crib about our lives then?"
"Yeah, all right. Also, I need a couple of notes. Get me the text on commerciali.."
"Never mind, Pongs, I think I will take a nap tomorrow," she says, a little wistful.
"Bleh."

It soon is five. I close the windows, give the books a malevolent gaze, avoid my image in the mirror and thankfully go to sleep.

This morning, however, I blogged.

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My Goodbye Post

Yesterday was the last tuition class, the last trip home from the ends of the world (or South Kolkata, if you prefer), the last time we groaned at the Dil Chahta Hain soundtrack perennially being played on the car stereo, last time we photocopied some more worthless notes we would possibly never read, and the last time we were together as classmates, friends, confidantes, and car poolers.

Holding up my carton of Frooti, I proposed a toast from my seat at the back of the car, bundled among bags, notes and empty Frooti cartons.

"Guy," I choked, not disguising either my tears or the fact that I badly needed to blow my nose, "I want to thank you all for make my college years so amazing. I do not think I have ever been happier. Everyday we met was full of laughter and joy. I can not remember a day we have not laughed..."

"Hey, what about the day when we went to watch Taare Zameen Par," interjected Joe.

"Oh, yes," recalled Pingu. "Ritika was bawling so loudly, the woman beside her had to shush her."

"I was not bawling. I can not sob quietly," I replied haughtily. "Are you implying I am a cry baby? What about the day we went to watch Guru and Bonky kept on sniffling?"

"That was you, Pongo," remarked Bonky from the front seat.

"Actually it was both of you, I kept on passing my handkerchief from you to you," said an amused Pingu.

"Oh, how about the time Bonky was sick of being the object of love of The-Father-of-Five-Point-Five and started sobbing at Pingu's place," again remarked Joe,not renowned for her tact.

"It was not because of him. I cried that day because of Fishface, " lashed back Bonky.

"Oh yes, I had completely forgotten you used to be in love with him," Pingu chimed in.

I smirked. "Used?"

"Yes, why do not you add your own bit to my own failed love story, Kalua lover," said Bonky, smirking back.

"I will have you know I was not as much in love with Kalua as, ok you know what, this has nothing to do with my toast, which you people have ruined completely anyway," I grumbled and sank back into my seat, covering myself with more papers.

"Hey, no, no, " said Pingu soothingly. "It was a very good speech. Please continue."

"So what I was saying," I continued, still a bit miffed, " we have had our ups and, ok, why are all these photocopied pages on me?"

"Do you realize, in these three years, we have actually spent about 20000 rupees on photocopies," mused Joe.

"We should probably open a Xerox place when we grow up. Only way to become millionaires, really," joked Pingu.

"Why one," I queried. "We could have an enterprise. A photocopy centre near every major college and coaching place. We could have cafes attached so that people could wait while their pages get photocopied. We will have the lowest costs per page and people will flock to our shop."

"If we have the lowest prices, how do we make any sort of profit," asked Pingu.

"From the Japanese restaurant we open next to it. It shall be a sister concern."

"Japanese," interrupted Bonky. "Who likes Japanese food?"

"There are no Japanese restaurants in this city. It is so weird. Does not Japanese cuisine deserve to be introduced in a gourmet food loving city like ours?"

"How about a scheme or something," Bonky asked excitedly. " French fries free with every bunch worth 200 bucks."

"This is a Japanese restaurant," I exclaimed, alarmed. "How can we have French fries in a Japanese restaurant? We will have...umm...noodles?"

"What do Japs eat? I know they use chopsticks to eat whatever they eat," wondered Pingu.

"Sushi! Japanese people eat sushi," exclaimed Joe. "So we will give free sushi."

"You know, let us make it a home delivery system. If you order food, you get your photocopied pages home delivered for free," said Pingu. "But hey, your speech?"

"Oh yeah, " said I, coming out of our entrepreneurial reverie. "So what I was saying was..umm never mind. I guess all I do want to say is I love you all so much and I will miss...and I...oh...(blubbers).."

So, since everything has finally come to an end, all I do want to say is, despite all the regrets and complaints and grumbles, there are some things you remain grateful for ever. Even for the day you walked in, looked up at the building, and fell in love, wretchedly, happily, submissively, because, nothing else mattered than the fact that you were a part of the college even before you knew whether it wanted you or not. Because of three wonderful, wonderful years, despite all the Economics and heartbreaks and misgivings and self doubts. Because of the friends and the people who could have been friends and the people who never could have been friends and the people who never mattered. This will be the hardest good byes of all.

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Filler

An updated list of the keywords which are directing clueless Google scavengers to this blog :

• Women who fall in love with murderers (All I ask is, who was looking for this? Is he a murderer? Has he earmarked me for future seduction? What are the chances he is also a millionaire?)
• bengali arrogant intellectual (heh)
• lonely bored empty (oh)
• i have you breathing down my neck breathing down my neck (ew)
• witching for fish (I do like the phrase very much)
• commercial fish remains garbage disposal (Not so much)

And I do wish people would stop looking for ritika porn here. It is not very flattering (Though I do realize typing that term here just means a fresh surge of blog voyeurs).

An update: For those of you who will be giving examinations soon, do remember, one blog post a day, keeps the desire to kill self away.

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Why

Sometime late yesterday evening, with friends wondering why the world is such a dismal place on my right and a haunted apartment to my left. For some moments, the world is a beautiful place.

Sometime early next morning, back home, with no ghosts or friends around, notebooks marking my area, furious journal entries with certain scribbled words actually decipherable. Most of the words seem to be 'stupid', 'economics' and 'damn it all, I am getting married'.



This is why.

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The Mindless Musings of the Single, Bored 21 Year Old

I have spent the last four hours sprawled on a very battered bean bag chair, eating curd, and reading books single women write about their cats. It is, yes, one of the major avoidance activities when you are supposed to be studying for University examinations, ranked just below glaring at happy couples walking hand in hand and writing existentialist poetry. Hunting for haunted houses and making crowns out of festoons closely follow.

Cats are to a single woman what cigarettes are to an engineer. My father spent most of his youth smoking away his wonderment at all things mechanical and greasy. I, completely failing to inherit any of his genes, remain completely impervious to letting a cat run my life. If I ever do come across one, I hardly get the chance to exchange civilities before both of us are fleeing in opposite directions.

When I am a single 30 year old (note the assurance, I have taken it quite for granted I am incapable of ever being in a relationship. I am cold hearted, selfish and obsessive), I shall not keep cats. Nor hamsters. Definitely no dogs. I shall just let lizards overrun my apartment, where they may mate and eat flies to their heart's content. I shall then have lots of babies, and the babies, the lizards and I will have a happy life, watch lots of musicals, sing A Fine Romance, eat oranges and curds and read books about cats written by single women.

A cleaning fixation is one of the side effects of studying attempts. I have, till now, cleaned my desk and organized my notes by chapter, subject, exam paper number and probability of occurrence in examinations. This was followed by cleaning out all my bags. This was a very interesting venture since I have owned around nine bags since I joined college and they all have been used exhaustively. The things I found while cleaning them have been listed below, categorized according to appearance:

• A packet of peanuts (which is very strange since I do not like peanuts)
• Rs.124 in loose change
• a pair of grey socks (which I do not remember owning)
• a purple bandana
• broken lenses from the last pair of spectacles owned
• a heel
• cotton
• a matchbox
• 3 black crunchies
• a love letter
• 2 pens (one green, one black)
• nail polish remover
• a key chain shaped like a fish which says "Ship ahoy!"

I however find myself in a position to actually explain some of these findings. The bandana was a part of an impulsive purchase when I decided to protect the hair from all sorts of harmful elements. The heel was a part of a shoe. I had kept the heel when throwing away the shoes since I had loved them very much. The cotton, the matchstick and the nail polish remover were all a part of a bet where I had bet a friend that nail polish removers were inflammable.

The love letter was a part of another bet. I heard a friend of mine bemoaning the fact that girls could not write proper love letters and I swore I would write one and prove him wrong. Here is what that piece of paper read,

"Dearest,

I love you so much, I shall even watch cricket matches for you. I do not only love you, I like you very much. There is a huge difference between them, and if you do not appreciate it, you are a doofus and I can not see why I am dating you.

Sweetheart, there is no reason or sense left in my life since I have met you. I have stopped gazing adoringly at shoes, weep a lot while watching Meg Ryan movies and write poetry. Here is a sample.

You know what, never mind. I want you to love me back and not run away in horror.

Will you still love me if I wrote poetry?

This is where the letter ends. My otherwise substantial imagination peters off when it comes to romance and things akin to it. I also lost the bet.

Then came the great CD organizing fiesta whereupon I found certain lost bands I had acquired a taste for as a teenager. The big find was the Linkin Park: Live in Texas concert video. As I was watching it, I realized there was nothing more cooler in this whole wide world than being a rock star. Yes, I was transported back to my seventeen year old self.

When you are 21, lonely, bored and must go back to studies, there is not much else you can do with your life. Hence, you play all the Linkin park songs you have and pretend you are a member of the band and lip sync.

Pretending to be a band member in a concert has certain pre-requisites. They are mentioned below (I am obsessed about lists) :

• The clothing. The wardrobe of a geekish woman contains nothing a 30 something rock star would wear. So you end up wearing a pink shirt which says 'Bite Me! Bite Me! Bite Me!' you bought during a hormonal surge. I hope Mike Shinoda never comes across this blog.
• The mike. Since you have cleaned the cupboard two days back, there are no empty bottles of perfume. So you check in your sister's room and find a green bottle. It says Fa: Caribbean lemon. That is the mike. A green mike. When life gives you lemons, it does indeed give lemons.
  
• The band member: You want to be either Mike Shinoda or Chester. But you are not sure which one you want to be more. Rapping is the best option, speaking fast is your forte, but Chester is the one who gets to scream a lot.

To be frank, I have not really come to a decision about the last point.

In fact, the whole thing can be summed up in one line, a line which closed one of the saddest conversations I have ever participated in or made up during Avoidance Activities.

"I just wish Bonky, that someone loved me, and loved me as much as I love my hair."

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Witching Hour Wishes

Wishes are beginning to come true. After all the hoping and praying and wishing, I have finally turned purple all over. It is correct to surmise that I look far more uglier than I am prone to, but I am purple, hence, life is good.

Happy Holi everyone.

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I have been tagged, and by tagged, I mean properly tagged and not a tag stolen from someone else's blog. Though originally tagged in Facebook, I prefer limiting tags to blogs, where no one really knows me and therefore, would not bring it up against me next time we meet. The tagger, Vanilla Sky, defines this tag as

Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you.

1. If I stare at a person long enough, listen to their conversation and not say a word, the person eventually ends up betraying all their innermost secrets to me. I attribute this to an unwavering stare. Blackmail, therefore, is a very effective career option.
2. I adore shoes. I buy them in hordes. But the only shoe I ever wear is a very worn out pair of 'Ketoes'.
3. I get very excited at the sight of policemen, police jeeps, police stations or vans carrying criminals. I do not know why. My mum thinks that is the reason I happily lose my identity cards.
4. I am possibly the only person on earth who has sprained a foot while dancing to 'Safety Dance'.
5. My favourite sort of movies are musicals, specially the type where things are bound to end happily and the songs are popular ditties. Sweeney Todd does not fall under this category. Nor does High School Musical.
   
6. The only time I have had a crush on a real person (defined as people you actually know and who know you back and you have conversations and hang out in general) was when I lost a classmate's pen and he laughed when I tried to apologize for it. By the end of three years, I had begun to dislike him intently for trying to steal my thunder.
7. I have elaborate dream sequences, most of which would make very gripping thrillers. The last one was a murder of a newly wed man and Bobby Deol happened to be the detective in charge. He goes and asks the bride if she had had something silvery grasped in her palms at the time of death and whether the victim was humming to himself at that moment. The bride opens her palms to see a silver foil attached to it. It was clearly the defining moment. Then the alarm bell rang. I hate my alarm very, very much.
8. I am a terribly messy person. The sort of person who would not clean her bed and would rather sleep on the mess, and, if the mess happens to be uncomfortable, on the floor. But I am obsessed about clean sinks. I often spend my time in dinner parties cleaning the sink.
   
9. I never understand the business section of the paper. I blame it on the Economics degree. Everything works completely against all the laws proposed.
10. I have a maroon top. If I wear it and it rains, the umbrella turns inside out and I get soaked. It is uncanny.
11. The first actor I ever fell in love with was Rupert Grint. The fact that Ronald Weasley and I shared birthdays just proved the fact that we were soulmates.
12. My favourite word is 'preposterous'. As a nineteen year old, one of my deepest wishes was to become a princess, and say preposterous all the time while randomly ordering people to be beheaded, not unlike the Queen of Hearts.
13. I think Anne Hathaway has the most beautiful smile ever.
14. The Air India Maharajah scares me.
    
15. The more I see of Dustin Hoffman, the more I like him. I really wish to see him in Death of a Salesman, a very favourite play of mine.
16. The English Patient is the only book/movie combo I like, rather, admire and love, despite the fact they both are very different.
17. I wish to dress up as a witch someday, get dressed in floating, flowing, wispy clothes and cackle.
18. The only people I bond very well with are twelve year old girls. They immediately like me and say I am the nicest person they have ever known. Not many people say that. The world needs more twelve year old girls to be a happier place.
19. If I ever write a novel, I want it to be a tragedy. Everyone in it must die lonely, painful, lingering deaths. There will also be a family ghost, a woman with a haunted past and a retired acrobat. They will all die too. Except for the family ghost, since it is already dead.
    
20. I have an Oscar acceptance speech prepared.
21. I often wake up in the middle of the night due to sheer panic. Most of these are caused by the fact that I have forgotten whether Obama is republican or democrat, the meaning of allegory or whether I had cleaned the sink before sleeping. Whenever this happens, I end up sweeping.
22. I want a hat. A floppy, large brimmed hat with grapes on it. I will distribute grapes from it to people I meet.
    
23. I chew my hair when distressed. It is not very good for the hair.
    
24. I love it when I find some of my favourite songs in movie soundtracks. Like Saif singing Heartbreak Hotel in Parineeta. Or More Than a Feeling being played in Madagascar 2.
    
25. I believe the best entrance ever in a movie was made by Akshay Kumar in Tashan. Yes, I have watched Tashan. I watch everything. Except Ghajini.
    

I am still rather surprised by the fact that I have finished this. I tag everyone who has not done this but wants to.

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Despite everything, I did manage to turn 21.

Some things are so unfair.

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It had been a whole week since I had noticed the boy in the park for the first time. It almost had the manner of a routine for him. He would stride down at around eight p.m., throw down the satchel with an almost drunken force and sit down on the bench opposite mine. He would squirm in his chosen seat for half an hour, get up, pick up his bag and leave. By the end of the week, I had begun to time my watch according to his movements.

He was, if shadowed street lamps ever facilitate guesses, a school boy, definitely not more than fifteen. He never looked sad, which surprised me. Most people who sit in the park after sunset are desperately unhappy people in search of shadowlands. Sitting there gave him no peace of mind, rather, it made him more irritable still. He disliked the weeping old man in the bench next to him, disliked the streetlights alighting his side of the park,and definitely disliked waiting there in the park, day after day.

For I had made up my mind that he waited there. I had not really made up my mind about what. The idea of a girlfriend seemed cliched. Perhaps for something to get over. Perhaps for someone to come out from the house opposite. The idea of he being a detective did not seem inconceivable. Was not Jupiter Jones about the same age? It was possible that he was stalking someone while pretending to be a lovesick youngster waiting for his beloved in a park.

Thus, it came as a surprise when I saw him seated on my favoured seat a week later. I stopped in my tracks, swore under my breath and turned away in search of a new bench. Which is when he called me.

"Hey, is this yours?"

Never having been very comfortable speaking to complete strangers, I immediately froze and panicked. Probably unnerved by my complete silence, he ventured again,

"This bench, do you usually sit here?"

I turned to look at him. In the shadows, he seemed younger and slightly guilty, like a boy caught doing something wrong.

"Yeah, well, no, I mean, it is ok, hardly my seat," was what I managed to mumble out.

"I found it today. It is completely hidden by these bushes," he ventured.

"Yes, er, that is the point of it," I mumbled again.

"Ah, good find of yours then." By now, both of us had hardly any idea what we were talking about, we were too busy trying to pretend we were not park regulars.

"Yeah, well," said I and went back to ogling the grass.

After doing the same for a bit, he tried again with a casual, "Come here often?"

"No, yes, sometimes."

"Why?"

I tried to raise an eyebrow, realized belatedly that raising an eyebrow was not one of my accomplishments, went back to nervous gulping and inanely replied, "It is a nice park." I may have sounded slightly defensive. I do not recall now.

"But, of course."

Silence reigned again as I wondered why I was rooted to the spot, answering the questions of a pimply teenager. The pimply teenager, now almost lawyer-like in being, coughed slightly.

"Ever seen me here?"

"Sometimes. You used to sit right opposite." I wondered if I had sounded accusing enough. He was the person who sits in the bench opposite. Why was he shifting benches? Why was he taking over mine? Could he be so completely unaware of the unofficial park bench rules?

"You like this park, do you?" I decided it was my time to ask questions. If the fifteen year old boy detective meant to detect me, I did not see why the fifteen year old girl detective in me could not respond.

"Oh no, I dislike it intently. Never hated a place more."

"Oh." I probably looked puzzled. I did feel puzzled. He was a detective. He was not supposed to have any emotional leanings towards the park. It was just one more place he could observe criminals from.

"A girl broke my heart here last week," he confessed, his tones awkward and embarrassed.

"Oh," I replied, a few dreams dying inside me

"Yeah. I come here and pretend I am murdering her after she does that."

"Oh."

"Good way to get it out of the system."

"Very sensible," I reply mechanically.

"Ever been in love?"

"Not really," now wondering whether I was caught in some Greek tragedy.

"Pity. Nothing better."

"So one hears."

"Yeah."

Another one of those silences fell, wherein I debated with myself whether leaving now would seem rude and he stared at the bench opposite, expressionless.

"In college, are you," he asked unexpectedly.

"Yes." Then tired of my laconic answers, I rushed into speech. "Was, actually. It got over last month."

"Oh."

He went back to studying the bench opposite. After sometime, he looked up at me and coughed again. An apologetic, embarrassed cough.

"Listen, I am sorry about taking this bench. I will go back to mine from tomorrow."

I, now feeling immeasurably foolish and small, squirmed and replied hurriedly, "Hey, no, it is, I mean, hardly my bench. Really. It is fine. Whoever comes first gets it."

"Sounds sensible, yes well, let that be the deal then."

"Yeah," I nod along, privately resolving to find a new spot to fight demons in, one which did not involve fake boy detectives committing fake murders.

It was obvious now that the conversation was at a close. I left the park, without looking back at the boy, the bag or the park where fifteen year old hearts broke. I knew the shrubs would hide him cleverly from view. That was the point of those shrubs anyway. To create a sanctuary. One which a young boy with a school bag had stolen from me that day.

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Perspective is a very curious thing.

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More tags- ho hum

I want to write something down. Things have been happening and they are most certainly not the kind of events I want to swallow down and never mention to any living being. However, things being what they are, I seek refuge in a tag, which I do not know whom I am borrowing from, since everyone else has done it. So here is another tag for the annals.

1. What does your user name mean?
It means a person who does as she wishes to do. It is not an actual word. It is based on the French word ad lib. I am glad I did not keep the name Helena Hairbushed as I had planned to once. That would have needed some explaining.

2. Elaborate on your user photo:
It is a fish. That is because the title of the blog has a fish in it. I do not go for allegories or hidden meanings much.

3. How many comments do you have?
Do you require an average? I do not know. 3.5?

4. What's your current relationship status?
The guy I pretend I like does not know I exist. The guy I think I like is, well, Jude Law. The guy I know I like, oh, Johnny, darling Johnny, do not marry her. I love you.

5. What exactly are you wearing right now?
Is not that a dirty question?

6. What is your current problem?
Yeah, ok, this will be worth a couple of blog posts by itself.

7. What do you love most?
Stuff. Bubble wraps. Mountains. Scientific calculators. My hair.

8. What makes you most happy?
Buying books.

9. Are you musically inclined?
I have no idea. I did learn the art once. Now, the most I do is buy better earphones.

10. What would you do if you woke up one morning and found out you were on cocaine?
Wonder how I actually managed to contact anyone who peddles the stuff.

11. If you could go back in time, and change something, what would it be?
Not go to an afternoon Maths class in class ten. Or take an auto there. Or just look out of the auto for a brief, maddening, heartbeat stopping moment.

12. If you MUST be an animal for ONE day, what would you be?
A cat. I would make a very good cat.

13. Ever have a near death experience?
Yes. Plenty of times.

14. Name an obvious quality you have?
I can roll my tongue into an 'o'.

15. What's the name of the song that's stuck in your head right now?
Africa-Toto

16. Are you happy today?
No.

17. Who will cut and paste this to first?
Everyone else has done this tag. Perhaps someone with a mole on their neck.

18. Name someone with the same birthday as you:
Buddhadeb Bhattacharya

19. Do you have a secret crush on someone?
I do not know about it being a secret. Everyone else knows about it but them.

20. Do you have a garbage disposal in your kitchen sink?
No idea.

21. Have you ever been in a fight?
I have a sibling. So, yes. I have scratches all over to prove it

22. Have you ever sang in front of a large audience?
Yes.

23. What's the first thing you notice about the OPPOSITE sex:
Hair.

24. Whats your biggest mistake?
Compulsive eating when depressed?

25. Say something totally random about you?
My hair is growing longer and straighter. Yay!

26. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?
The nose. Always the nose. Indira Gandhi's nose.

27. Are you comfortable with your height?
No. The cutest, richest guys in the class stopped growing after 5 feet 5 inches.

28. What is the most romantic thing someone has ever done for you?
Heh.

29. What is your favorite smell?
Cake. Wet earth.

30. What's something that really annoys you?
Cockroaches, my Statistics teacher.

31. What's something you really like?
Almost the same as Question 7. I shall add here my books.

32. Do you give random hugs and kisses?
Not really. Any sort of physical contact makes me nauseous.

33. What's the longest you have ever stayed up?
3 days. Ah, the University exams.

34. Have you ever been rushed to the emergency room?
Yes.

Now I shall go back to reflection regarding why I do stuff like this. Then sleep.

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Advice to the Unheeding

Things not to do before watching a movie the entire world is gaga over:

• Reading the book.

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A Murderer Breathing Down My Neck

(It depresses me extremely to realize how pathetic I actually am regarding giving titles to post. If I ever write a book, I shall name it A, and then go along the English alphabet while naming any other books there might be. Then, of course, my publisher would expect me to write 26 books, and I shall disappoint him extremely by going until C and then suffering from a major writer's block, or acquiring a religion which prevents a person from leaving any tangible proof of the fact that they had once existed. If I do not, I will keep on worrying what I would name my book after the 26th is published and probably die due to a massive heart attack. Despite these misgivings, I quite fancy writing a book called A for Aardvark. It shall be, because I will be a sort of a rebel author, about aardvarks. The title shall not be a metaphor for the tragedy of the demise of seals. That story shall come under S for Seals. My autobiography shall be named P for Pestilential Parasite. Until then, I will put this post under the rather banal title of A Murderer Breathing Down My Neck).

In Agatha Christie's world, people fall in love for the most peculiar of reasons. Women fall in love with men because the men do not love them back, the men need to be protected, the men are pure evil, the men are faithful puppies, or perhaps because the men have a streak of untamed wildness. All the men fall in love with the women because they are curiously beautiful. Moreover, the women are usually around nineteen years of age, which is rather sad since, all my life, I have been vaguely hoping I would bloom into some sort of a beauty around the time I am thirty. In Agatha Christie's world, when you are thirty, you are a lady, but not so young. No one speaks of blooming beauties. Yet, Poirot assures us that there always is someone because "journeys end in lovers' meetings".

Yes, that is correct. I get advice for my love life from a fictional Belgian bachelor with a pronounced case of moustaches.

My favourite (and spookiest) teacher once asked me why I liked reading, nay re-reading, Agatha Christie so much. I, with the sense of a feeble minded 15 year old, ventured a guess that it was because her plots were, rather, you know, page turners. He raised an eyebrow, glinted thorough his spectacles, and asked me why, then, did I not feel the same way for Sherlock Holmes, or even, Father Brown. The power of most detective stories lie in their plots. How was Christie different?

By then, practically petrified by his glinting glasses, I brought forth an "er..." and relapsed into a painful silence. After glinting for a few moments more, he answered his own question. It is, he drawled, because of the humanity in her books. The various people, the various thoughts, the banters, the humour, the tragic touch, the inevitable romantic end. Hers is not a murder alone, hers is a whole by-play of human life.

Father Brown, however, still remains a favourite. Despite the rather Gothic atmosphere, the scholarly outlook of the author, and the incongruous mildness of the detective (for detectives, even Miss Marple, are usually very agitated by the evil in men. Father Brown, invariably, chooses Christian forgiveness). The spiritual approach, however, was never a fault. The underlying religiousness, the humility and the gentleness - was Chesterton, one wonders, symbolizing the supreme tolerance of his own faith?

Do books with religion as theme take on the characteristics of the religion? There is Buddha Da - charming, insightful, gentle, probing, introspective, in fact, donning the mantle of the very Buddhism it uses as plot tool. Despite the rather uncomfortable Scottish way of speech, the book never fails to touch a chord. It remains, above and beyond religion, a heart warming depiction of faith and acceptance.

While we are on the topic of Scottish authors, Scottish author Alexander McCall Smith is supposed to be inaugurating the Kolkata Book Fair on the 27th of this month. People not unfortunate enough to be a part of Calcutta University might want to drop in there. Perhaps get me an autograph. Or read him the seven page speech I am going to write in his honour. Pretty please with a cherry on top?

I now forget what the title was supposed to be about. Why a murderer? Why the neck? Where did Scotland come in? Why can not I stick to a point? What are aardvarks?

Which probably means, why am I even posting this?

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Because my mind is plotless

Dear person who stole my wallet,

I assume you are literate, considering you did commit the act in a library. Hence, in case you do come across this letter, please consider this as a plea directed to you.

Sir, I understand your choice of vocation, nay, I applaud it. Conmanship had been my preferred career as a sixteen year old. In fact, it is one of the reasons I am studying economics. Nobody understands money more than economists and thieves. Since I can not be the latter (not due to a misplaced sense of honour, only because my mum would have disapproved), I have banked for the former. Let me add that I do not understand anything about money. Apparently, only practical experience is of any use in this field.

To c0me back to my original point, I admire your ways. The skill with which you extricated the wallet deserves a good wallet. I hope the wallet gave you many joys, indeed more than it ever gave me. To tell you the truth, I was never really fond of the wallet, but my library card would not fit anywhere else. Thankfully, you have now proved an easier solution. With no library card to worry about, I may now carry absolutely any wallet I may please. I now carry a rather attractive, striped wallet which does not look as if belonged to my father once. Please do not consider it as an invitation to help yourself to it, though. I like this wallet very much and, indeed, should be heartbroken if it disappeared.

Esteemed sir, you are welcome to all the money in it. Most of it was for my tuition teachers, and frankly, as one almost conman to another, they are not worth it. They are all a bunch of self satisfied, self consumed, economics loving people and have never managed to teach me more than how to be rude to people and develop a fine sense of sarcasm. I do not begrudge you the money. In fact, I would like you to spend it on something frivolous and luxurious. That sort of thing will cause a rise in demand, and everyone knows the necessity of a rise in demand in these days. Perhaps something like shoes. It pleases me to think of you prancing around in uncomfortable, fancy shoes financed by money originally meant for a couple of moustached people. I do hope you do not have a moustache. They will not go with the fancy shoes.

However, the point of this letter is, could you please be a nice person and return my identity card to me. You see, that identity card is one of my strongest bonds with my college, the days of which are numbered now. I am a final year student and I shall never get another identity card in time. Mine is a government college and what with all the rules, regulations and the rampant laziness, a new identity card usually takes around four months to appear. Not to mention all the hassle I will have to face with the police while going about getting an FIR. Like any law aiding citizen, I like to keep away from anything which might prompt incessant bribing, impromptu weepings and undignified wheedling. You understand that, you can not be very fond of the police yourself.

If you could do this much, you could be assured of good karma flowing towards you. That and good wishes from my side. My phone number, address and bloodgroup are mentioned on the card. I believe the information is sufficient for you to mail the card back to me.

With high hopes and best wishes,

Yours truly,

The girl in purple clothes you stole the wallet from .

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Sabbatical- part 2

I have lost all my writing skills, or at least the semblance I had.

I stare and stare and stare at the computer screen and all what comes out is "The mosquitoes have ganged up against me." This is not a good sign. The blog gave me a secret identity. Without my blog, I am just this overweight, horribly depressed, unhappy with her graduation subject woman who dreams of nothing more than a trip to the African jungles.

I admit I like blogging. I like people asking me if I am the blogger, so that I can blush a deep red, stammer and wonder if I had recently insulted anything they could possibly be involved in. Not that it happens often. It has only happened thrice, and one of them was a grandmother.

However, for all thoughts and purposes, it is over. I will now go find something new to do, so that I still remain the woman who has a life beyond Economics and weeping. Like pictionary. Or being a vampire. I like the taste of blood. It comes number 7 in my list of weird food stuffs I happen to like, coming immediately after wood shavings.

The good things happening in my life? I have completed the pre-21 aims. I can now turn 21 without locking myself in and refusing to speak to anyone. I shall gladly welcome all friends and family and tell them how much they brighten my life. I might wish inwardly that they go skiing and break their necks, but they will not be informed of this.

Also, the lobster is not mine to get.

Happy New Year, everyone. I do not wish you broken necks. May you all keep on writing. Being a vampire is not much fun.

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