Fish Faced Follies

The blog has retired...

2010-05-25T02:18:00.003+05:30

...Not the blogger though.., (I pretend not to hear the groans).

I shall continue blogging here.

The fish has swum away. A thank you to all.

The End.

How to Kill a Cockroach

2010-03-08T14:07:00.013+05:30

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.

Use a blowtorch on it

Shoot it with a gun

Kung-Fu fight with it

Go Kill Bill on it

Use voodoo dolls

Call the burly boy who lives next door and cringe behind the door until the roach is completely squashed

ps: I have an examination day after tomorrow and there were no chocolates around. That is why.

MIHYAP Contest #1

2010-02-13T01:17:00.000+05:30

So, the book has its first contest and some are being given away from free, a gesture always appreciated by students in perennially impecunious situations. Dear GB, when selecting the winners, do remember your fan base who go day after day barely surviving on hostel food. They are the salt of the earth, the ones who unblushingly aspire for pirated copies.

OK, I am not really sure what I meant to write as an introduction. I tend to digress a lot when it comes to hostel food.

The rules can be found here.

My top ten favourite movie lines are:

Well, say something! You lousy bunch of bleedin' hearts. You're not goin' to intimidate me! I'm entitled to my own opinion! Rotten kids... you work your life out! No. Not guilty. Not guilty! (12 Angry Men)
I guess this is just another lost cause, Mr. Paine. All you people don't know about lost causes. Mr. Paine does. He said once they were the only causes worth fighting for. And he fought for them once, for the only reason any man ever fights for them; because of just one plain simple rule: 'Love thy neighbor.'... And you know that you fight for the lost causes harder than for any other. Yes, you even die for them, like a man we both knew, Mr. Paine.You think I'm licked.You all think I'm licked.Well, I am not licked!I'll stay and fight for this lost cause. Even if this room gets filled with lies like these; and the Taylors and all their armies come marching into this place.. Somebody will listen to me. (Mr. Smith goes to Washington)
I've never been alone with a man before, even with my dress on. With my dress off, it's MOST unusual. (Roman Holiday)
Tonight, a comedian died in New York. (Watchmen)
I guess that's how it crumbles, cookiewise. (The Apartment)
I'll never be hungry again. (Gone with the wind) (Also, newly favoured due to the hostel food horror)
I am Death (Seventh Seal)
The Dude abides (Big Lebowski)
Gentlemen, you can't fight in here. This is the War Room! (Dr. Strangelove)
Everyone can be super! And when everyone's super, no one will be (The Incredibles)

I would like to thank Akasuna no sasori for tagging me with this. I also tag elfin void, amazing greys, What's in a name, Doleful Doledrums, arsenik. Those who do, please note :

a. On your blog, provide a link to this page. (http://greatbong.net/book) and tag 5 people.
b. Come over to the comment-space of this post and post your blog’s link so it can be read.

Mr. Bhagat, A Word Please

2009-10-12T03:10:00.002+05:30

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

Still Around

2009-09-15T23:18:00.003+05:30

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.

Betrayer kotha kare

2009-08-30T00:27:00.002+05:30

It is undeniably true.

It still hurts a little bit.

Because I Had Been Thinking About It..

2009-08-26T20:21:00.003+05:30

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).

Bits and Pieces

2009-08-14T20:28:00.009+05:30

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.

Update

2009-08-10T12:27:00.003+05:30

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.

Umm...

2009-07-20T14:28:00.003+05:30

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.)

The Chennai Story

2009-06-02T11:53:00.004+05:30

(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.

Rain and Other Elements

2009-05-12T22:01:00.001+05:30

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.

2009-04-29T21:47:00.003+05:30

I am almost a Graduate.
Heh.

Among other things

2009-04-22T00:26:00.003+05:30

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.

Filler 3

2009-04-18T22:00:00.003+05:30

......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.

Sort of a bucket list

2009-04-13T02:04:00.004+05:30

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.

The Nights Before Examinations

2009-04-12T03:25:00.005+05:30

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.

My Goodbye Post

2009-04-04T23:26:00.009+05:30

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.

Filler

2009-03-30T22:39:00.004+05:30

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.

Why

2009-03-24T15:38:00.002+05:30

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.

The Mindless Musings of the Single, Bored 21 Year Old

2009-03-15T22:34:00.004+05:30

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."

Witching Hour Wishes

2009-03-12T00:34:00.003+05:30

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.

2009-03-10T23:28:00.009+05:30

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.

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.
I adore shoes. I buy them in hordes. But the only shoe I ever wear is a very worn out pair of 'Ketoes'.
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.
I am possibly the only person on earth who has sprained a foot while dancing to 'Safety Dance'.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I never understand the business section of the paper. I blame it on the Economics degree. Everything works completely against all the laws proposed.
I have a maroon top. If I wear it and it rains, the umbrella turns inside out and I get soaked. It is uncanny.
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.
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.
I think Anne Hathaway has the most beautiful smile ever.
The Air India Maharajah scares me.
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.
The English Patient is the only book/movie combo I like, rather, admire and love, despite the fact they both are very different.
I wish to dress up as a witch someday, get dressed in floating, flowing, wispy clothes and cackle.
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.
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.
I have an Oscar acceptance speech prepared.
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.
I want a hat. A floppy, large brimmed hat with grapes on it. I will distribute grapes from it to people I meet.
I chew my hair when distressed. It is not very good for the hair.
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.
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.

2009-03-01T22:31:00.002+05:30

Despite everything, I did manage to turn 21.

Some things are so unfair.

2009-02-17T00:16:00.006+05:30

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.

2009-02-12T20:52:00.000+05:30

Perspective is a very curious thing.

More tags- ho hum

2009-02-05T00:48:00.004+05:30

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.

Advice to the Unheeding

2009-01-23T22:25:00.003+05:30

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

Reading the book.

A Murderer Breathing Down My Neck

2009-01-13T22:50:00.007+05:30

(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?

Because my mind is plotless

2009-01-08T21:46:00.007+05:30

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 .

Sabbatical- part 2

2009-01-03T01:02:00.005+05:30

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.

Since I will be away

2008-12-24T00:28:00.002+05:30

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. May you all have drunken revelries and make plenty of resolutions. Have your share of Christmas miracles and New Year hopes. This year may have been the most dreadful there ever was, but 2009 is full of hopes. And lobsters.

Have a good time.

Pride and Prejudice- The movie

2008-12-12T17:29:00.005+05:30

This is for the people who have been searching around Google to know when Part-2 of Pride and Prejudice might be shown on Zee Studio and being guided here, furthering their anguish and disappointment. Dear people, fear not, Zee Studio has not been playing fast and loose with your hopes and dreams. Switch on the television at 10:30 tonight and stock yourself up with oranges. Is there also a Part- 3? I do not know. In case there is, you may safely assume next Friday is the happy day they will be airing it.

Apart from providing news Zee Studio should start paying me for, Colin Firth makes a wonderful Darcy. Not the Darcy my first copy of P&P was illustrated with, but a Darcy who does not make me cringe. When you see him gazing at Elizabeth- immobile, expressionless- he makes you realize what the British stoicalness is all about. Did I mention Darcy is battling Berry Conway for the fourth spot in my list of the kind of people I want to marry?

Elizabeth, undoubtedly, is one of the most delightful women whom I have come across. She is charming, insane, witty, kindred-everything you want your best friend to be. Unfortunately, she is not Elizabeth. But her utterly wonderful smile makes up for everything- sometimes.

No, the movie is not worth one line judgements on the lead characters. It deserves much, much more. Might flit by later.

p.s. Does not Brando look as if he is Ken come to life?

Domestic Issues

2008-12-09T00:16:00.007+05:30

My parents and I were wandering around a random department store, the sole idea behind whose interior decoration seemed to have been devoted to directing customers to the frozen food section, when my mum, with the uncanny knack all women in love with cooking seem to possess, finally located the cutlery section. My father and I, innocent souls with nothing more in our minds than how to escape without shopping bags, were, hence, unceremoniously dragged down to it so that she could avail of our discerning tastes in La Opala dinner sets.

"What I never seem to understand is," I mentioned in passing to my mother while she tried to tell me how she felt peach plates looked better on white tablecloths than periwinkle blue," is why people think people want dinner sets and cutleries as wedding gifts. What sort of a person feels joyful on opening nice, huge looking gifts and finding plates buried under lots of straw? Why can not we give them something fun? Like a playstation or something. At least they will have something to distract themselves with when trying to murder each other. No Mum, I still think we should buy the purple plates. No, I am not a purple maniac. No, the fact that my room, my bedsheet and most of my clothes happen to be purple has nothing to do with this. Gee Mum, look at all those utensils there."

Having successfully distracted her from the topic of my monotonically increasing purple fetish (x being my age and f(x) being, well, the fetish), we strolled over to steel heaven, accompanied by my increasingly depressed looking father, who sighed at everything and then tried to dismantle anything which had more than two parts.

"Oh, it is beautiful," suddenly gasped my mother in the rapturous tone I usually reserve for puppies, mountains and shoe shops.

"What is it," I queried, looking down at a bowl with dents in it.

"I have no idea, but it will look so good on the third mantelpiece on the right," my mother replied, in the dismissive tone she uses whenever I ask her whether she could make an elaborate cheesecake for dinner. I, being as stoic as the next person, merely blinked and looked for its cover.

"It says it is a paniyakki something maker. What is a paniyakki?"

"Hmm, well, we will have to learn, won't we? No point buying a paniyakki maker if you do not know how to make paniyakkis," was her reckless remark and we soon had a dinner set designed with huge square blocks coloured various frightful shades of pink and blue my mum considered charming and my dad felt, as he remarked sotto voce, was revolting, a paniyakki maker, three types of spoon sets and a blender which had fascinated my father. I felt I was lucky enough to go back home to actually ask for anything more than a purple cup.

There we were, a picture of a happy family, with absolutely no major disasters in the offing, until, that is, my mother realized I was almost 21 and did not know how to cook. If I was to live alone from next year, I would have to learn how to cook at least a few basic things, or else, threatened the woman I had always looked upon as my safety net, you stay here and study under Calcutta University. She knew, like every mother knows, what would motivate me most, and I, inspired, decided to make brownies.

In my first attempt, I realized microwaves and ovens do not really work with the same time settings and overcooked the brownie for some extra 20 minutes, resulting in a hard rock we had to use a hammer to break. We pretended it was a biscuit and softened it with chocolate sauce. In my next attempt, I learned the importance of proportion of ingredients when I absentmindedly poured in the entire contents of the milk carton, unmindful of the fact that 100 ml of milk is hardly the same as 500ml. To compensate, I increased the amount of the rest of the ingredients, and the batter had to be sent in three batches, making more brownies than I had bargained for. In my third attempt, I learned the importance of mixing, when I poured eggs over the flour and then tried to blend it, which made a super strong glue and would not smoothen the batter at all. Why don't you, suggested my mother after my third failed failed attempt, try something simpler. Like toast.

Muttering loudly about lack of support and encouragement, I put three slices of bread on the pan used for toasting bread and promptly fell asleep. I woke up half an hour later to a rather irked mother and smoke. Before throwing them away, I managed to take a picture which is faithfully reproduced below.

My mother, rather discouraged, realizing the safety of her household was at present more of a necessity than the nutrients I required on a daily basis in a city devoid of devoted parents and well trained cooks, crushingly asked me to stick to maggi before rushing off to get rid of the smoke.

Maggi is supposed to be the simplest possible thing one can ever cook. Boil water, put the maggi in, pour in the flavouring and you are done. Hence, it was a considerable shock to my mother when she heard me screaming that I had burnt down the house.

"What, why, you have not burnt down the house," was her agitated response when she saw a flameless kitchen.

"But I will, I poured water on the gas ring and now, when you switch on something electrical, there will be a blast," I wailed, drawing on my memories from late night movies.

"But, why do not you just switch off the gas," my mum gasped and immediately proceeded to do so.

"Will you now explain," she asked after she had done that and calmed me down, "why you poured water on the gas ring?"

"You see, I boiled the water. Then I had to put the maggi in it. But I did not want put the maggi in the bowl over the gas ring, in case I did something wrong and the hot water splashed all over me. So, I took the bowl down, put the maggi carefully in, then picked up the bowl and kept it back on the gas ring. Except that I lost my balance and well...there you are."

However, I did not lose my heart. This story also has a happy ending. After days of practice, I have finally learned how to make hot chocolate sauce.

For Austen aficionados

2008-12-04T23:31:00.003+05:30

If you
a) have the time
b)live in the same timezone as I do
c) own a TV
which actually does have
i) Zee Studio

they will be airing BBC's Pride and Prejudice at 10:30 PM tomorrow night. Do try to catch it, if only for the only believable Darcy cinema has ever been able to produce.

The World of ad libber

2008-11-25T23:50:00.010+05:30

Recently, with economic problems aplenty, I have found myself trying to explain away most of the policies and actions, trying to justify them to my economist mind, so to speak. It was rather comfortable to feel that I could actually fit in a theory with every random policy the government could inflict on the world. Therefore, it was extremely disappointing to know the government had not actually fitted any theories and did what they did because they do so every decade or so. Sometimes, I think, Economics is nothing but an accident.

My professor tells me the present crisis is just the tip of the iceberg. Things are going to worsen and we are all going to end up as paupers. But, on a happier note, economists will always be in demand, as modern Cassandras foretelling gloom and despair, aware of the horrors waiting to face us, yet unable to persuade the common people of them. The lot of an economist...but then you know how the line ends.

It is the wedding season again and fish fry filled weddings beckon enticingly. Nowadays, they have started to get fancier with lobsters and pasta heading the list. All I say is, a wedding without fish fries is positively illegal and the couple is living in sin. However, present wedding scares include the diminishing difference in age between the bride and me. As I get older and they start becoming people I have grown up with, attending weddings has become less about fish fries and more about gaping horrified at the bride and blubbering at the your drink, which is, invariably, instant coffee.

Back in the world of Economics, misguided professors expect students to write essays on important economic topics, possibly to discourage them from writing theses later on, one presumes. Yours truly has been given the world shattering topic of Imperialism and what it did to Indian agriculture and I have immediately proceeded to write something on the lines of a novel by Shobhaa De, an essay so outspoken that it would bring the blush on the cheeks of the most hardened of examiners. But there is only so much you can do with Indian agriculture, a subject which provides no inspiration whatsoever in a writer. Not once have I found an opportunity to introduce the technique of Dance of the Seven Veils to divert attention from some particularly dull bit about farmer oppression.

In the world of humans, classmates can now be divided into two parts. People who will be giving the CAT and people who will remain poverty stricken for life. The section belonging to the latter has suddenly started scraping acquaintances with people belonging to the former. Beautiful friendships are sprouting at every corner between people who are going to make it and people who are going to make their mark. It is, apparently, not possible to do both. It is also, remarks the HOD, a criminal offense if you do not do either. If you can not win the Nobel, says he, make some money. A principle most people seem to be happy giving in to. Random comments centering around the theme, "I think I will give up all this and study social anthropology" is not something people around me take kindly to. Especially since no one really knows what it means and dislikes admitting that.

In the world of animals, I tried to kidnap a puppy, since my mother refuses to give me one. The puppy, unfortunately, disappeared (not due to the exertions of being kidnapped, but due to rather overbearing siblings, not mine, the puppy's) and I am a shadow of my former self, my heart an empty hollow. It is definitely not better to have loved and lost. Nowadays, I seem to be entering into a lot of debates about whether one should get a baby or a puppy. In the same note, I also seem to be entering into a lot of debates about whether Jhoom Barabar Jhoom is a better movie than Tashan. I pitch for JBJ every time. I also pitch for the puppy. But, if given a choice among anything on earth, all I would really, really want from life, is a baby elephant.

Chronicles of Part 2 Exams: The Student says Pheww

2008-11-20T14:08:00.002+05:30

Disregard previous post. Life is ~~not that bad~~ pretty good.

Chronicles of Part 2 Exams: The Results of the Toil

2008-11-18T23:57:00.006+05:30

One always ends up learning something from life everyday, regardless of one's willingness or open mindedness. Like how simple it is to distract oneself. You can spend the entire day changing the look of your blog and then recreating widgets, you can spend nights watching Tashan, and if sleep does not come, you can always write a blogpost.

This template was not my first choice. I had selected a rather sad looking fish for an image and a dark blue background, something, I felt, which went with my image- sad and inconspicuous. But the fonts displeased me. They would not be inconspicuous. They were large, overbearing and completely dwarfed my poor sad fish, who was soon lost among the verbosity of the written words. So I bade goodbye to the fish and got these water droplets. Fiery yellows and oranges, loud, brash and blatant, everything I would not let my blog be. But I let it be so. For the one water droplet waiting there at the top, to cool off the heated shades someday when they rage too fiercely.

I kept my fish too. Look around, you may find it, a tiny red thing in a sea of blue amidst a sea of yellow. Sad and inconspicuous. The fish of the Fish Faced Follies. Does anyone realize the title makes no sense? That I am not referring to myself as fish faced. That it is there for the sake of alliteration. That Fishface is a tribute to college, the way ad libber is a tribute to school. Like milestones referring to what meant the most at one point of time.

It is curious that I chose a fish as a motif for the blog. I have never been very fond of fish the way Bengalis are usually fond of fish. Perhaps the most important role a fish ever played in my life before the blog was in Finding Nemo and as a Fish Fry.. A cow would have served better as a symbol. Not because I like consuming it, but because I am obsessed by them. I use them for self deprecations, for insults, as metaphors and examples. The literature in my mind is a cow dominated one. Sometimes, I feel my rather surprising crush on Karan Johar evolved from the fact that I had recently studied about a cow breed known as the Swiss-Karan and had immediately associated it to DDLJ (Cow - Swiss-Karan - Switzerland - DDLJ - Karan Johar). But a fish it was and a fish it is. If I ever make another blog, it will have lobsters. No, I am not fond of lobsters much either, either as food or as entertainment. I think the only food I really like is Begun bhaja and Brinjal does not attract me as a blog motif, purple as they may be.

While recently re-reading some of my blog posts, I realize that the same time last year, I may not have been a brilliant blogger, but I was a happy one. Lately, my posts seem to be rather depressing and doom tainted. As I try to trace back the reasons, I receive a message announcing that results come out tomorrow. Stupid world, stupid university, stupid this-time-the-results-are-important-they-decide-your-stupid-masters. Last time, the results led to a multitude of blog posts. This time, they just lead to incessant brooding, insecurity, an irritable temper, loss of friends, and a probable heart attack. Of course, they also include nightmares where my HoD insults me in front of everyone for failing everything, where my results are not published to save the country humiliation for producing an imbecile like me, where everyone refuses to speak to me, where I am socially boycotted. Sometimes, I think, I perhaps am a little paranoid where results are concerned.

Someday, I may have to accept the fact that results are things beyond my control. That I study under a despot University with whimsical examiners who thinking making paper boats out of exam papers are fun. That if I gave a horrible exam, I may get horrible marks and I will deserve them. Right now, all I know is that my results come out tomorrow and if I do not do well, nothing untoward may happen, but it may mean a end to a lot of things. Perhaps more nightmares. It is always results. Never ghosts, never tigers, never parents, never crushes. I do not prioritize things well.

I will now go back to a sleepless night and a fear laden morning. I will go back to what promises to be the most devastating site since my Hindi paper in class seven. I will go back to listening to Kung Fu Fighting to remove depressing thoughts. Perhaps watch The Graduate on Sony Pix. Brood more on a future which seems bleaker than ever.

The world is a very damned place to live in.

Titles have never been my strong point- Yet more tags

2008-11-15T01:31:00.008+05:30

We have been tagged again, and with an unabated tag obsession, we proceed to thank Doubletake for furthering the delights of Tiggery Pokery.

To continue with the tradition, we will first post the rules, an indelible part of any tag presenting activity:

RULE #1 People who have been tagged must write their answers on their blogs and replace any question that they dislike with a new question formulated by themselves.

RULE #2 Tag 6 people to do this quiz and those who are tagged cannot refuse. These people must state who they were tagged by and cannot tag the person whom they were tagged by. Continue this game by sending it to other people.

(Here, I strangely am reminded of a Friends episodes where Monica, with a very familiar obsession, exclaims "Rules are good! Rules help control the fun!")

1. If your lover betrayed you what would your reaction be? Nothing. The most I can do is give him a puppy and when he learns to love it, kidnap it. That would show him.

2. If you could have one dream come true which one would it be? Owning a farmhouse in Italy. Getting a dog. Growing oranges.

3. Whose butt would you like to kick? My Indian Economy professor. He has a rather substantial one and I would not be able to miss.

4. What would you do with a billion dollars? Invest them. Make more.

5. Will you fall in love with your best friend? No.

6. Which is more blessed: loving someone or being loved by someone? Both are horrible things one does not discuss in public.

7. How long would you wait for someone you love? Considering my fickle heartedness, I think I would make a very loyal lover. Probably forever. Or until I realize I am touching 35 and the body clock is ticking away.

8. If the person you like is secretly attached, what would you do? Secretly attached will not exactly be news coming my way. But if attached, thank my stars. I could pine away without actually being in a relationship.

9. If you could root for one social cause which one would it be? Littering.

10. What takes you down the fastest? Sneezes. Indian Economy. Heels.

11. Where do you see yourself in 10 years' time? Doing things my mum fears I will end up doing.

12. What's your fear? Aging.

13. What kind of person(s) do you think the person who tagged you is/are? This kind of stuff embarrasses me horribly. She is wonderfully fun, wonderfully clever and nicely insane. She is a kindred spirit.

14. Would you rather be single and rich or married and poor? Why should I be poor? He can be if he wants to. I am going to make lots of money. Also, sign pre-nuptials.

15. What is the first thing you do when you wake up? Swear.

16. If you fall in love with two people simultaneously who would you pick? The one who picks me.

17. Would you give all in a relationship? Things I will not give in a relationship- Time, conversation, patience. Other than that, all right.

18. What's eating you now? Do not get me started.

19. Do you prefer being single or in a relationship? Look at the above answers. I am commitment phobic. I prefer single any day.

20. Tag 6 people... I have my own rules for Tiggery Pokery. No singling out names. If you actually care enough for this, do it.

Now for the second tag (yes, there are more than one. Oh, joy)

Ten songs I have been listening to over and over again for the past one week:

Safety Dance- Men without hats
Dreaming of you- The Coral
Butterfly- Talvin Singh
Can't take my eyes off you- Frankie Valli
Falling- Nitin Sawhney
Ae Ajnabi (A.R. Rahman/ Udit Narayan)
More than a feeling- Boston
Thee kuruviyil (Harini, Johnson, Mukesh/ A. R. Rahman)
Amintirile- Alternosfera
Sparks -Royksopp

I would add New York Nagaram to this list, except for the fact that I have been continuously listening to this song for the past one and a half years and, hence, believe it is slightly above lists.

We tag everyone, we tag anyone. Pick any tag you please. But we make a special mention of the second tag since it is Doubletake's contribution to the tag world.

Our aim is, after all, to spread sunshine and joy.

Since it is midnight and all I am doing is surfing IMDB for Iranian movies.

2008-11-11T00:36:00.003+05:30

OK, I do confess I had a crush on him even when he was the geeky, chubby kid on Drake and Josh, but this... God, thank you...

2008-11-05T00:18:00.004+05:30

As I entered the once hallowed assembly hall, I wondered what had I feared all those years back. The choked throat, the rubbing of grimy shoes with ties, the hurried glance at the noticeboard glass to check any errant hair strands- scattered reactions I could recall but not really comprehend. Now, really, I muse, how could such a sunshine filled room have inspired such dread at the fearless age of ten?

An evil twist of fate had brought me back to my old school, one I had escaped from for a better, happier High School, and the fact that it was a school holiday and I would not be meeting anyone I remembered did nothing to alleviate my mood. Somewhere, there was a vindictive ten year old student in me, still waiting to prove to her class five class teacher that she was not a below average student. That she had done far better than the girl who had shown so much promise and had won the General Proficiency award. That Mathematics had not led to her academic downfall.
"There you go, you cow," I announced to an empty, lemon yellow classroom decorated with diagrams of the human body and sketches of Tagore and Napolean, " My Maths teacher said I was one of his best students. Did anyone call General Proficiency girl that?"

The previously grey, grimy walls had been altered to a cheery yellow, effectively removing the impression of being trapped in a dungeon. The school should have been full of atmosphere of things gone by- crushed teenage hopes, squabbles founded on monthly class tests, haunting whisperings of the morning prayer, secret crushes, teachers- snappy, kind, funny, pure evil- they were all there in the mind, the memory blown slightly out of proportion after five years, but not around me. Just impersonal lemon yellow walls, interspersed by chrome blue windows, which may not have been out of place in a poorly made science fiction movie.

Who would have known, I remark to myself, that I would be capable of a trip down a memory lane devoid of any form of sentiment. A dry, choked feeling still remains in the throat. School never is easy for ordinary people. There always are others who are better at everything you hope you are good at. The slight disappointments attempt to haunt, once again, not unlike a horror movie you try to forget when you are alone at home at midnight. I look out of the window for a respite. The sight of the sports field makes me twinge. Badminton was not considered a proper game and kabaddi meant running, pushing, dust, and violence, things a fat, slow, fourteen year old never cares for.

The library is a pleasant sight. How can you harbour an ill will to the place which gave you Anne? I stroll over to the water filter, the hang out zone for the popular kids. I remember falling in love for the first time, wonder, slightly amused, how I could not have seen the fact that he was gay. Everyone else could. I wander up to class ten. A class I had spent some of my happier days in, mostly secure in the knowledge that I would be leaving soon. The madness of the last working day. People suddenly realizing they loved other people, water balloon fights, outbreaks of weeping in the corridor, sudden appearance of beer bottles, all adding up to a day one does not forget in a hurry.

This school, I speak to the blackboard, is probably out of my system. I do not feel anything for you anymore. Not fear, not love, nothing.

As I leave, I decide to look up class eight once. The year I made some of my closest friends, the year I thought Bonky was an oily haired, geeky woman I could not deign to speak to (yes, I was the school snob, it has been mentioned often enough since), the year I made up my mind to study Chemistry, the year of first love, the year, when, apparently, everything happened.

The classroom did not look familiar, like the rest of them. More cheery yellow, with huge windows giving a view of the main gate, reminding me of sudden honeybee attacks we always welcomed. I walk over to the desk Sakshi and I had shared for one year, unsurprised by the scratched scrawls all over it. Every teenager needs his Hyde Park. Then I notice it.

Year 2001

Ritika: Hey, what is that word scratched there?
Sakshi: umm, I think it means (whispers)
Ritika: No way, let me look up my dictionary (yes, I was the sort who carried one to school and then used it to understand the writings on the bathroom walls). My dictionary does not list this word.
Sakshi: It is a Student's Concise Dictionary. Check mine.
Ritika (does so): Wow! People our age know such things? How did you? You are the most innocent person we have in this class.
Sakshi: I noticed the word before you did.

Seven years later, I stand there, in front of the desk, which has, miraculously, never changed its position, the F-word, scrawled in blue, a standing testimony to the fact. I look down, a wretched, despairing hollowness filling up every pore. Every essence of my school life, contained in that one, dirty word, a benediction to every hope and every joy, to what every day and every year meant once. What went far deeper than a few teachers and Physics.

School was over and I had made my peace with it.

A Second Quest

2008-10-10T01:09:00.002+05:30

My memory is not one of my many strengths, as most friends would fervently agree. In fact, if I died and people were looking for a favourite one-liner of mine to engrave on my tombstone, they might as well engrave "I have forgotten" and go home with the satisfaction of a duty well done.

Why do I mention this?

For the past few days, a scene has been tormenting me. It is about a woman bursting balloons with cigarettes in the backseat of a car. She was accompanied by a male. The only other information I can provide is that it as not a movie. I am definite I was reading it. It could be in a blog, a novel, a play, a short story, a newspaper, even a cerealbox.

A little help?

Please and thank you.

My Ramble Scramble Pujo Post-3

2008-10-08T01:19:00.002+05:30

As I serve food, arrange the pandal, rehearse, make friends, celebrate, have deep discussions and silly conversations, I realize how transient it all is. That, if all goes well, next year, I may not come back. Next year, there may not be a puja for me. That, next year, I will not wonder about why pandals are dressed with skulls and crossbones. Next year, I will not be goading elderly people into dancing on the streets. Next year, there will not be giddy women singing, "Chacha ki chae pila du" to surprised cab drivers. There will be no mass bawling sessions when sisters and friends come back for fleeting visits. There will not be any more foolish haircuts which make one look like a pirate, no more rush of new clothes, no more coming to pandals dressed up in college T shirt because one can not bother about looking presentable. No more minor jealousies and major heartbreaks, no more friends coming in to surprise and delight, no more scuffles behind banners, no more conversations under stars, no more just lying down on the grass and ordering guys about for cold drinks. No more fasting, no more anjali, no more shantirjol. A world devoid of long walks through slushy roads to see uninspiring and often mystifying pandals. A world devoid of comparison of hours spent at Maddox Square to prove how popular one is. No more squealing babies and their squalling parents squeezing through crowds for a better look at an idol who looks the same everywhere. No more horrified sights of a dancing Father. No more obsessed purchases of shoes. No more ramble scramble puja posts. No more home.

My Ramble- Scramble Pujo Post-II

2008-09-28T01:21:00.000+05:30

What should have made me suspect the plot in the first place was the delighted smile with which my mother welcomed me. My mother and I share an unusual relationship where she greets my homecoming with a sepulchral, "Oh, there you are" and I make for the kitchen. Hence, as I said, the delighted smile should have made me suspicious. However, what with being the owner of a pair of spectacles whose lens keep on popping out due to, I like to believe, the intensity of my gaze, but mostly due to the fact that I went and sat upon them once, I failed to notice it completely and walked upon a multitude of the neighbourhood women.

"Oh, good," said one, as she pounced upon me, " we want someone to operate the CD player," and before I knew it, there I was, starting and stopping instrumental music they were singing to. Pujo rehearsals have come to town, and this time, they have selected my house.

It was while I was dozing off to the fifteenth rendition of Aguner poroshmoni, when everyone suddenly stopped singing and asked innocuously, "So what will you people be performing?"

Rather surprised by the sudden change in the lyrics, I managed a "Huh?' before the implication of the question struck me. "Which people?"

"You kids, of course,"said Mrs. M (bless her golden heart, it does do me good to be addressed as a kid at this age). "You will be putting up something right? We have kept the Ashtami slot aside for you people."

"But what people? Everyone has left the city. We are barely a handful. Maybe four, definitely not more than four people. Who will teach us? What could we put up?"

"Excuses," said the lady with the iron resolve, " Set your mind to it and you will manage it."

Thus, three days later, three girls and a piece of paper sat broodingly on a parapet, wondering how to entertain a hundred or so people without sharing any talent between them.

"We have to dance. It is the only thing we all know a bare minimum of," suggested the economist (no, not me, do you think I am the only economist around anywhere?)

"We have three weeks. We are four people and we need to keep dancing for an hour. This better be one of those brilliant brain storming sessions. Think of a theme," said the oldest among us.

"Oh, oh, I know, I know, trance-classical-fusion," I exclaimed.

"Eh? That does not even mean anything!"

"Precisely, so we can do anything and they will think we are doing it!"

"Doing what?"

"It! What we are supposed to be doing. Trance classical Fusion!!"

So we had a theme, which purported to mean nothing absolutely and thus, got us nowhere when it was time to zero in on the music. That was when the economist had the idea to rummage around my playlist.

"But what are you looking for exactly," I asked, much affronted at this invasion of my privacy.

"Oh, you know, the sort of music you weep to. The kind of music no one ever hears of unless you make sure they do."

"New age electronica!! Mostly trance or fusion. Or both. I am not even clear about the genre myself. As about the weeping, I do not weep. The music I listen to is soul searching and my soul just does not happen to be a very happy one."

So we found a few songs which seemed suitable enough to start a programme with. Then, the economist came up with the new idea of doing a Kathak-Bharatnatyam duet. Considering none of us knew anything regarding Kathak, we took up the idea with great fervour and alacrity. We all have flat feet now. But that is not the story.

Looking for the teacher was slightly more difficult. We dared not compose anything ourselves, what with each suffering from a hint of an insecurity complex. Hence, I was packed off to a school friend to make her compose some of the dances. That evening, Jadavpur received a fine sight of me dancing all the way on the roads, trying to remember the steps, with Sru's dictums following them, "Smile more broadly, oh do not, you look like a wolf. Do not look as if you are flirting, look as if you are already in love. You do not have a bun, you have a flower. Pretend you are Ma Durga. Open your eyes. Do not eye that guy. Do not eye any guy. Move your neck, stretch your arm more, try seeing whether there are people around when you stretch your arms next."

"So you are doing something? Should I contact the dressers? Would you like to wear proper costumes," asked the lady with the vampire smile.

"Umm, Bharatnatyam costumes?" I gulped.

"Yes, of course. Since you are doing what is, hopefully, a semblance, that should be appropriate."

"Oh, dear," remarked two of us.

"Eh, why do you not want it," asked the other to me.

"Mumble-wumble," I replied.

"Eh?"

"It makes my hips look large," I replied, less incoherently, blushing a pale crimson.

"Oh, ok, I was concerned with quite another part of my anatomy," said the other one.

"Very well, Bharatnatyam costumes it is," said the lady with the iron resolve and that was that.

The last two weeks, I have found myself either sitting on my toes or balancing myself on one leg, all in the name of dancing. And Pujo. There is no body part which has not hurt. I have discovered muscles I never thought I had, and definitely never expected to pain. However, things are not over yet. As I walked in tonight, the entire battalion smiled at me and asked me how my day was. As I blinked in response, the lady with the sugary sweet voice asked if we would not like to perform to their Rabindra sangeet on Saptami too.

Pujo has arrived. Painful, busy, and entirely delightful.

Rather Randomly

2008-09-26T13:44:00.002+05:30

What draws people into reading blogs? How do people come across them? What is the average blog lurker looking for when he adds to the hitlist of a blog?

This is what blogpatrol has to say regarding the preferences of people lured into reading my blog (or, if you are still clueless, top keywords in search engines):

Poisonwood Bible worst interloper (which is what makes me post this in the first place, who are you and what in the world did you mean by this?)
Ritika porn (flattering, as the idea is, blogs are not the place to get the stuff)
gays in gariahat (I can imagine the lurker's disappointment on coming across a rambling post about two women in gariahat and a comment mentioning Doogie Howser grew up to a homosexual)
Algebra cholera in fish (Is it a disease, is it a piscean body part, is it a virus, is it a mathematical formulae engraved on the fossil of a fish, will one ever know?)
failed attempts to solve world hunger (at Fish Faced Follies, really? Google disappoints me extremely)
pokery tamil (eh?..)

I have had to avoid a flurry of matchmaking attempts recently, when my friends realized everyone I knew was in love with real people (as opposed to Johnny Depp, Bugs Bunny or the imaginary stalker unicorn). I perfectly agree that it is very sad when all your friends suddenly change their facebook relationship status (excluding a few who believe they are married to Hrithik Roshan), but what is sadder is being matchmade to random men, one of whom, incidentally, turned out to be another friend's uncle, thus complicating an already complicated story where I was churning out more imaginary boyfriends than my hottest friend ever dumped.

The whole point of falling in love, my dear matchmakers is, that one should be capable of doing it themselves, away from the eyes of friends, at Africa, while involved in espionage, and apes should be a part of it. However, leaving my dream love story aside, the moot point is no more matchmaking. Period. Unless he is Tamilian and resembles Johnny Depp in daylight and Jude Law at night.

Though I do wish I had one failed relationship so that I could use the playlist I have kept apart for the occasion.

My Bomb Post

2008-09-14T20:03:00.005+05:30

There has been a shower of bombs (again). People have died (again). A news channel makes a couple of gaffes and announces names everyone else is trying to keep under covers. Political parties make statements, everyone eyes the upcoming elections, including Mamata Banerjee (whoops, wrong post) and the hangover is exactly what it always is like after a big bomb party.

Last month, after a reunion with old friends, enemies and embarrassing memories, eight o' clock in the evening found me far away from home, with messages flooding in with the very cheery note that a bomb blast would occur at City Centre exactly at 9. Intrepid as ever, I made up my mind to be near City Centre at zero hour, and, mind reader as ever, Goopy announced she would personally see to my safety. And thus, at ten to nine, I found myself on a rickshaw, being bundled home.

Rickshawwallahs, unlike autowallahs, refuse to be friendly to me, possibly sensing the lack of philosophical depth. However, after recently being part of conversations where people proudly mention their philosophical tete-a-tete with the tribe, I made up my mind to have a conversation worthy of blogging about later on. Hence, with an iron resolve and a cheery disposition, I remarked airily, " Say, know anything about the bomb?"

The calm of the night air accentuated the silence. By now, blushing profusely, yet undeterred, I persisted, " The bomb, you know, which is supposed to go off any minute now."

Success finally found me, and an old, garrulous voice, cold and disinterested, not unlike my class ten Physics teacher's while I tried to explain to her why I thought my bathroom mirror was an example of refraction since I appeared fatter in it, queried back, " Where?"

Delighted by the breaking of the ice, I exclaimed excitedly, "Oh, City centre. Amazing, no?"

The man mused on this for a while longer, and then replied again, this time showing more than a little curiosity, "Oh, you mean here?"

Looking at my right, I realized we were going past City Centre.

"Yes," my voice trailing off, in a mixture of fear and curiosity, "right here."

He stopped pedaling for a moment and we just looked at it. All I managed to see was a few policemen thronging the place. The place had been emptied apparently, and possibly, even then, someone had come to know the warning email had been a hoax.

As he took his money, he remarked, I will always maintain, rather wistfully, "We did not die."

I looked at his face. Lack of adventures had made gawkers of both of us. "Kindred spirit," I whispered rather foolishly and came back home to announce to surprised parents how close a brush their daughter had had with death. Unsurprisingly, the replies were,

"Gimme the remote. Oooh, animals eating other animals."
"Go, wash."

I look at the news reports this morning and remember Karol Bagh. I remember convincing auto drivers to take us to Miranda College, remember the feel of homecoming the street had given me after a long, hard day. If I close my eyes, I think I can recall a green sign, brandishing the name of the hotel where Stinky, Berry and I claim to have been the happiest in our stuffy, claustrophobic lives.

A news report says people have taken the recent bombings very philosophically. No fear, no retributions. Bombs happen, people die, someone mentions the undying spirit of the city. The numbness with which people greet the news is, in a way, pitiful. And scary. Then again, I am not the one who girds the loins of mind to write something deep and meaningful.

(For people who do not know, City Centre is a mall)

Tiggery Pokery's Joy

2008-09-08T23:52:00.006+05:30

There is a new tag in the offing. Tiggery Pokery, the tag collection, sniffs the air in anticipation, and leaps in joy. Its sense of smell is not mistaken. With the faintest waft of Vanilla, a tag drops out of the Sky, and Tiggery Pokery has a new member to add to our midst.

The tag requires the tagged one (Taggee? Taggered?) to write six quirks about oneself. Why people assume the entire world awaits with bated breath for a chance to read stuff like this, is a question I often ask myself in the middle of the night, but not often enough to deprive myself of the joy of adding tags to my repertoire. My six quirks, dear world, are:

Trains obsess me. I firmly believe all great love stories begin on trains. As a teenager, I had hoped my one true love would dance on a train for me, but, apparently, stunts like that are dangerous. Hence, I have decided to make do with buying the biggest train set of the world to decorate my living room. If I ever have any guests, they will be made to play with it. I plan to include many tunnels, signals, and people trying to commit suicide on the tracks.
I refuse to look at people directly while speaking to them. I believe it is a purely nervous reaction. In addition, I get very interesting views of knees. I am an expert on them now. However, I will make a very poor witness.
I like eating chalks. I realize it is hardly a quirk, since most bloggers seem to like chalk. However, I also like to peel paint off the walls and eat it. I am not averse to some mud either.
I talk too fast. Everyone complains, but to no avail. I think it is because my mental processes are too fast for my tongue to catch up with at a decent speed. I have seen receptionists blink in alarm and look around for help, and, if possible, translators. I have seen strong men wither under the stress. I have seen teachers pale and stutter. I have seen it all, and yet, as a friend remarks, I continue to spout white noise.
I have an all-encompassing love for all things Tamil. It started with A.R.Rahman, went over to Mani Ratnam, and now includes anyone who claims to have anything to do with the State, even if the only Tamil connection they ever had was a maidservant whose son in law bought her a sari from Nalli's.
I start dreaming about results exactly one month before they are supposed to come out. They act like an indicator, notifying me as regards the time I should begin to panic. In one of the more recent dreams, I dreamed I had swallowed my results whole, not unlike a sword-eater. However, when I woke up, I found my cellphone half way up my mouth, rather battered after the ordeal.

I tag everyone who might find their names mentioned in the blog list on the right hand side of this blog (thank you Dreamy, for the very handy suggestion). I also tag them who think this is the very tag, which completes their world.

How Economic Models are Made (or What Heads of Institutions I will be Applying to Should Not Come Across

2008-08-21T22:34:00.015+05:30

(N.B. Judging by initial reactions, I hasten to add that this post does not reflect my knowledge of Mathematics, Economics or Physics. This is just one of those silly conversations people have when faced with too much of Economics)
"He Dharti ma, mujhe apne god me samale!!"

"No, nothing, not even a budge," Bonky observed and tilted her head in thought. "Maybe you have got the words wrong. These goddesses are very picky about the words you say."

"Hmm, should we be more specific you think? Maybe ask her to open a crevice and then add the 'god me samale' bit?"

"If you ask me, she would get offended if you treat her like a kid. Next you know, the earth will start contracting again and we will end up right next to the Russians and Bangladesh will become a mountain."

"As admirable as your Geography is, I think its worth an effort."

The revised version of the classic suicide appeal was exclaimed again with full fervour with no tragic results and we were left mulling over the undivided road yet again.

"You know what I think? Dharti ma has done her work. Now we need to appeal to the god of roads. The earth is probably all hollowed and awaiting my corpse. We need to pray to the road to divide and let me access my grave."

"Trying to commit suicide, are we? Is this because they abolished the examinations for masters at Presi? Come, come now, we know suicide is too drastic a step, do not we? Try breaking a leg or something," remarked an interloper.

"We have an examination for masters? Since when? You think mundane stuff like this drives to me to desperation? Ye hardly know me, interloper."

"Of course we do," said the interloper, ignoring everything else but the reference to examinations. "Don't you remember PM telling us some girl only drew a downward sloping line when asked what a budget line was?"

"No. Who is PM?"

"Uh, the Indian Economy professor, but never mind that. Why in the world are you looking so thoughtful? Last I saw you looked thoughtful was when you were making paper balls to throw at..."

"Yes, never mind that. Ask me that question again."

"Why in the world are you..? Oh, oh, you mean what is a budget line?"

"Seriously, what is a budget line? It is a downward sloping line. What more could we add? That it looks like a rainbow from afar if drawn with one of those multi coloured pens?"

Bonky, appalled by my ignorance, added her own intellectual input to the answer, "It has a negative slope. Oh, and in case supply is rationed.."

Quelling her with a glance, I continued, "Let me think out the answer without trying to write downward sloping lines have a negative slope. Oh, oh wait, I know, a budget line is a downward sloping line. This means it slopes...er...downwards.."

"Oh yes," Bonky interrupted icily. " I can not mention downward sloping lines have negative slopes but you can mention downward sloping lines slope downwards. Not only are you a despot, you are a..."

"Careful with your language. I have a feeling I might be blogging about this later."

"You blog about us?? You mean our conversations and everything?"

"Of course not," I remarked airily. "Now stop interrupting my answer. So, since a budget line slopes downwards, we can assume the force of gravity acts on it."

"We can assume what," she exclaimed.

"I am just incorporating a bit of tenth grade Physics. You should know gravity now. You studied Physics at high school, did not you? Waste of time in my opinion, when you had to end up as an economist and forget about gravity. So, where were we? Oh yes, let us assume slope of budget line is -1. It can be anything really; we just need a negative value. So do not go stretch the syllables of the word 'what' again. Acceleration due to gravity is 9.8 m/sec². Now, we will proceed to equate them. Therefore, -1= 9.8 m/sec². Bonky, why are your eyes popping out?"

"Are they? I never noticed. The weather, perhaps? Tell me," she added conversationally," do not you think equating -1 with 9.8 is rather pathbreaking? Not many people dare to do it."

"I did not equate it with 9.8, Bonky," I replied, a strained note creeping in my my voice due to all the unnecessary explanations. " I equated it with 9.8 m/sec². And close your mouth. What with all the eye popping and mouth gaping, you are beginning to look like Fishface"

"That, of course, makes all the difference."

"Now for the last bit of my answer and pray do not interrupt me again. Cross-multiplying, we can say -1/9.8 = m/sec². Bonky, I see you goggling again. It is a very unnerving habit. Get rid of it. Sec² cannot be negative, since it is a square, which implies meter is negative. However, we know distance is a scalar quantity and can not be negative."

"So? Go on. You interest me enormously. How will you deal with this obstruction to your brilliance?"

"So, Bonky, all it proves is that a budget line does not exist. The concept of a budget line is mathematically unsound and hence, all we have learnt in Consumer Behaviour is based on the foundation of mathematically incorrect theories. Which means our Part 1 examination was one big lie."

"You know," remarked Bonky, after thinking it over a bit," I think the ground vibrated a little. Want to try that prayer again?"

A Hurried Update

2008-08-18T03:36:00.003+05:30

Have been country-hopping a bit lately. The world is a very nice place with amazing things to look at, wonder at, and glare at. But you can not do much about it cooped up in rooms with computers and air conditioners.

Had a very rushed week at Mumbai. Managed to see a couple of roads and the airport. The only journeys I had involved me falling asleep on my way to anywhere. Hope to see more of the city soon, but what with this, that and brooding over the future, will probably have to put it off. The best part about the trip was that it helped in making a decision. The city, as wondrous and mysterious as it is, is not very kindred to aspiring pseudo- economists. Hence, it is removed from list of cities I can haunt next.

Also, Fish Faced Follies completed two years on August the fifteenth. As someone once said, have cake.

What ho

2008-08-08T01:19:00.009+05:30

Apparently, dinner parties are not hosted to give one a chance to practice their incinerating skills. Hosts tend to look askance at guests who forage toothpicks from the appetizers and burn them on floating candles. Yelling "Burn, you heathen, burn" and jumping up and down excitedly is also not advised. It is little things like these which make parents dub you as an anti social and talk about psychiatrists in hushed tones.

Being a final year student abruptly changes your life. The subject stops seeming like something you decided to take a vacation with before finding your niche in the world. Companies actually attempt to provide us with jobs without blanching inwardly. Everyone around you looks younger, and teachers and students fall back comfortably into a back-slapping relationship. This is the right time to call yourself an adult. Unless you are doodling tornadoes in your notebook while your professor gives you a lecture mostly wandering around the topic "You are the future."

Hence, having kept aside everything I love the most, days and night are spent mostly on oil, oil prices, inflation, more oil, cartels, complaining incessantly about why hair styling prices rise with rise in price of oil, interviewing rich, snooty people, even more oil, and discussing with bus conductors what they think the political impact of oil price rise is. As fascinating as the exercise is, all it seems to lead to is frayed nerves, an impatient attitude towards oil in general, and a hatred towards buses in particular.

So, on days not spent wondering about oil, we take photographs. Which I will now proceed to unveil to the discriminating public, for one of them (the pictures, not the discriminating public) is very dear to my heart, namely,

which is the dearest view on earth. You are viewing Presidency, from my secret spot.

The world viewed from under an umbrella is a very beautiful place. Specially when its three people under a very purple umbrella and you are walking on a very unknown road to a very known destination.

The known destination. Accompanied by very buttery pao bhaji and what seems like people shooting a Bhojpuri movie.

And how such trips are destined to end.

Being a senior is turning out to be a most interesting experience. Though random thoughts about burning toothpicks in Indian Economy classes require to be quelled. Specially since they do not provide us with floating candles.

2008-07-26T18:48:00.002+05:30

The love affair one is envious of.

(note: Wikipedia has it all wrong. Go read the book to know what it is all about.)

What I Could Do With My Life- The Way of the Economists

2008-07-17T00:35:00.011+05:30

(Yes, I will be talking about Economics again.
No, I have not entered a rut. I am graduating in the subject. What else do you expect me to write about? When I try getting a degree in African Pottery, I will write about African Pottery and its possible toxic effects on the gastric juices. Till then, I will write about Economics.)

By this time next year, if I have not actually managed to write everything incorrectly in my development paper as my dreams seem to predict, I ought to be a graduate. However, as is almost obvious by the level of intelligence one usually displays on this blogspace, 60.5 percentage of Indian graduates are not employable. All students of Economics immediately fall under this marquee, namely because, when real life does not measure up to theory, we attribute it to errors made by statisticians. In fact, in the blame game, we attribute anything to statisticians if it makes us look good. Marriage between a statistician and an economist is, thus, amongst one of the worst nightmares of a marriage counselor. Of course, most jobs earmarked for graduates do not provide statisticians, resulting in the unemployability of economics students.

Let us form a flowchart in our minds, since I do not know how to create one on blogger. The educational path of a graduate divides automatically into two parts, an MBA or Masters. We will not consider the former in this analysis as I would immediately start weeping uncontrollably if anyone tries to interview me.

A masters degree usually ensures

The geek tag
A job
Pretty much nothing else

And now we will revert to my favourite form of writing- point wise discussion.

1) I take up the job

Description

I have absolutely no idea. There was a vague explanation somewhere which said we would
have to predict GDPs and stock market fluctuations. There have also been whispers of bulls and bears. But since I plan to take up Mathematical Economics, questions I would be certainly be incapable of answering in job interviews are

What do you think will be next year's GDP?
What was last year's GDP?
What is GDP?
What are bulls and bears?
What is a stock market?
What is a stock?
What is macroeconomics?
What is economics?

Pros: I will have money if employed.
Cons: Probably no one will employ me.
I would still be clueless regarding what the subject is all about.

2) I get desperate and decide on the Ph.D
This also has different repercussions. So sub dividing the topic

a) I do the Ph.D. and take up a job
Refer above.

b) I stick to researching economical stuff.
Description

No one really knows what economists research, least of all the economists themselves. We begin by trying to find out a correlation between the shininess of a jellyfish and its sexual life (Translated : A jellyfish!! Ooohh pretty!! Do you think it has a girlfriend?) and end up with results on the marital stability of men who own charter boats. We automatically create a model on the basis of our observations and pretend it describes the economic conditions of fishermen.

Of course, sometimes, policymakers think the sexual life of jellyfish is exactly what the countries need as a pick-me-up in these times of desolation and degeneration. Hence, Nobel prizes are often awarded randomly to economists on the basis of the prettiness of the paper clips used. So the probable effects of doing research are :

i) I win the Nobel Prize
Pros

I will be famous.
I will be rich.
I will have a model named after me. Palit's theory of monopoly whorism has a nice tang to it.
I can finally be an author, even if to a niche reader base.
I will finally be invited everywhere, and not only because my great-granddad had two many kids, assuring an unending supply of relatives.
I might accidentally figure out what the subject is all about.

Cons

I will be famous.
I will have to give lectures. For which I will have speak slowly and enunciate properly. Something I have never cared for since I was seven.
I will be doomed to either a life of celibacy or multiple divorces.
Every budding economist will hate me.
Someone might figure out my model is actually based on a statistical error.

ii) I do not win the Nobel Prize
Pros

I can still be an author.
If I force Calcutta University to add my book to the recommended texts, the royalties will be decent. But only just.
I can have a blog about Economics and people in love with the subject can read it and have a crush on me.
I can finally be an aantel.

Cons

I would still have to lecture people. I would probably end up being the vague, scatty professor who always trips while entering the classroom. Also, my students will hate me.
I will be the poor cousin of Nobel prize winners. The only parallel I can think of is being a weatherman-on TV, but only to give the newsreader a break.
I might end up coming back to Presidency and then complain vaguely about the lack of attendance in my class, enabling my HOD to give me gloating looks.
I would only have the option of dating economists, never getting the chance to meet anyone else.
I will have no money.
I may still not be able to figure out what the subject is all about.

This is roughly, the sample space of total possibilities in my chosen career path in the next twenty years or so. Since this has been my first attempt in long term thinking, it probably comes as no surprise that I am in extreme panic mode. However, these make nice blog posts. If anyone can come up with alternative career prospects for me, please mention them in the comments section, and I will analyze them too. Of course, when it comes to choosing, I will probably just draw lots. But that is next year's tale.

(p.s.1 Apparently I have crossed my 50th post. So happy 50th to me )
(p.s.2 I miss Maths. I really, really miss Maths. I do not remember missing my best friend this badly. The loneliness is killing me. Does anyone know how to get over this loss? I have been advised that drink does not help).

Chronicles of Part 2 Exams- The Examgiver's Fear

2008-07-04T17:14:00.007+05:30

The heart of a young girl is a precious gift which should be given wisely. No sole man deserves to be loved wholly and completely by a young, pure, virginal heart in the spring of youth. Hence,

"So this is the final comprehensive, holistic, exhaustive list of the men I am in love with right now. Class hottie, Physics Department hottie, random guy we saw in the canteen last month, the guy standing behind you right now and Johnny Depp."

"You forgot Ronaldo."

"Oh, yes.... Ronaldo. "

"Yeah..him.."

"Yeah..."

"..."

A sacred silence pierced by the drone of mathematical formulae being memorized all around was thus the high point of my Maths exam.

Pre-examination conversation often ranges from the desultory to the conventional. Barely reaching peaks of "Oh My God, when was this chapter added in the syllabus?", it fails to appeal to a connoisseur of interesting conversations. Then again, when you are meeting your classmates after six months, you tend to forget what brought you together in the first place. Sometimes, it takes examinations to make you realize what you knew all along, how much more amazing face-to-face conversation is.

"So, you know right I have sort of decided to dump Economics and do something else. I keep on asking everyone what options I might have, but none of them have had those clear moments which follow a revelation, when you realize, oh, but of course, that is what I am meant for."

"Ever wondered about thinking it out yourself? You know, discovering for yourself what you are meant for?"

(Accompanied by a deprecating glance) " I did that. How do you think I ended up in Economics in the first place? (Sigh) Bonky, what do you think I should do with my life?"

(Random stranger joins in the conversation)
"Ritika, can I bank on you for the Modern Algebra part? I heard you are having problems with 3D. I could give you a hand with it."

Lots of blinks follow.

"Who are you?"

More blinks.

"I am your classmate. I sit behind you. I was the one who gave you one of the objectives of Land Reforms."

"You know me?"

"Ye-es."

"Ohh. Hey, what do you think I should do with my life?"

I was waved at by a thief. Or a cat burglar. I did not really get to know his nom de plume. First I watched him get in and out of windows. Then he watched me taking videos of him getting in and out of windows. Convinced that this was the start of a beautiful friendship, he waved at me. And he kept on doing so till I decided I was traumatized enough to go call up Bonky and then tell her in details of the burglar's deeds. It mostly involved the climbings and a shiny object. I conjectured the man was smuggling a largish damond. Bonky thinks it was a
knife he was planning to throw at me to kill the sole witness. The fact that the distance was considerable (can never judge distances, lets just call it considerable) did not dampen her hypotheses-excitement. The more prosaic Pingu thinks he probably dropped a coin. But we never pay any attention to her opinions anyway. They are always right and boring.

"Sometimes I wish some female had created the world. It would be so perfect and full of non fattening food. Also no exams. But some male hyper competitive mind came in and ruined everything."
"Hey, you never know. God might be a female."
"Rubbish. Females are perfectionists."
"Are you? Am I? Amir Khan is a female?"
"That is because we have been created by a bachelor God. Female Gods must be perfect."
"True. Maybe ten years from now we could all live in a world run by females."
"We would probably be dead in ten years. Hopefully heaven is run by females. And lots of Vodka and icecream. I am definite heaven is a place full of vodka and icecream."
"Female gods would have probably included background music in their created Earth. We could have gangsta rap on our way to the exam hall."
"Or Bhojpuri stuff when its true love."
"Or Dido if its not."
(gleefully rubbing palms) "The world would be so confused. Muhahahahahahahaha. No one would know whether they loved someone or not and then we would come in and pick up the best guys and play Enrique. They would think we were their soulmates."
"Oh, but I hate Enrique."
"Noooo, not him, you have an appalling taste in men"
"Ronaldo?"
"Oh....."
"I lurve him"
"Yeah. Lao him. Totally"
"Yup. Lao."
"Wanna?"
"But I do not really know the lyrics."
"Oh, we will make them up as we go."

And we happily proceeded to sing "shadher lau" with made up lyrics until they allowed us into the classrooms where Bonky tore her shoes and then we both got lost and ended up in the boys' section. Much fun was had until we were directed to the right room.

We also gave a fairly decent exam which went on to prove exams never make sense anyway.

Who has got a new tag?

2008-06-24T00:51:00.003+05:30

I do, I do! :D

I have, as is obvious, decided to collect tags the way people collect stamps, coins, butterflies, weight and notches on the bedpost. This is Doubletake's contribution to the Tiggery Pokery (which is what I have decided to name my collection) and she is duly thanked and wept on.

4 Jobs I’ve had (in chronological order):
As 2 year old, was responsible for getting my dad the paper. Yes, I was the family puppy. Overcome by the fact that I was actually given a responsibility, I crawled all the way into the chair and still have the scar to show for my efforts.
As a 3 year old, my mum made me watch over my sister. I watched her fall right off the bed. People keep on alluding to that incident.
As a 20 year old, my friends send me to get photocopies done. I am also responsible for dividing the food bill so that I am the only one who does not have to pay the VAT.

4 Movies I Could Watch Over and Over:
My Fair Lady
Pulp Fiction
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
Dr. Strangelove

4 Places I have lived in (in order) :
I distinctly remember answering this in some other tag.

4 TV shows I like
Scrubs
Friends
Hope and Faith
That's So Raven (Does Disney count?)

4 favourite foods:

Vada Pao
Aam ka achaar
Fried chicken
Chocolate Cake

4 Places I would rather be:
Right now?
At Pingu's place, with friends, food and lots of tears and laughters and playing with barbie dolls.
With my mentor, being comforted and told that life sucks and I should get married. Thats his solution to everything. Even when I tell him that I burnt Maggi.
My library. I realize I have seven books due. For more than 15 days. And I keep on forgetting to call them up to reissue.
At Ladakh. Away. Happy.

4 People I am tagging:

Hate doing this. Everyone is tagged.

Now, Who Really Gives a Damn What This Post is Titled

2008-06-19T02:11:00.008+05:30

So, yes, I am angry. With myself, with people, with examiners, with my upbringing, with my syllabus, and definitely the entire world.

You see, it all started long back when I realized I could actually complete all my studies on the last night and yet do comfortably well. And there was no one to stop me. Which leads to the fact that I have 3 days to complete what people have not been able to complete in three months. Fair enough, you say, you do not complete, they do not complete, does time really make a difference in the long run when all supply curves become vertical anyway? But it does.

Guilt is tough. It gnaws and erodes and twinges at the most uncomfortable times. Brooding over decisions, wondering whether something could have been left unsaid, its extremely tough dealing with it when all you want to do is concentrate on curves and lines and why they intersect and then trying not to laugh because it all sounds like a very perverted joke. Its harder when crying friends call up wailing about the chapter they have been trying to mug for weeks and you realize you plan to do it during your journey to the exam center. You feel like a cad, a wimp, and then you wonder what you are actually guilty about.

Education is hard. Making your own decisions regarding it is harder. Knowing you are making the wrong decisions now and that you will never change is the worst of them all. Acknowledging your laziness, your unconcern, your selfishness and then dealing it with all and trying to make up for months of studies...oh yes, the lot of a student should not happen to a dog.

Its windy. It has been raining. Or perhaps will rain. I will be able to see the sky tomorrow maybe. Feel fresh air. God bless lining up at college to pick up admit cards. There will be grey skies, puddles, rolled up jeans, soaked floaters, meeting people whose faces you have forgotten, having professors tell you they hope you are better prepared this time, autodrivers inform you that I better employ my Economics education when I question why there is a rise in fares. I wonder if the Auto drivers will remember me. They usually know my stop, the time of arrival and often save me a seat. I love them all. Only people I have ever spoken to who do not know my name and yet freely curse the world in front of me and then ask for my opinion regarding their opinion. In fact, even people who do know my name never do it.

The funniest thing this week was reading a book by Mankiw. He is an economist. He is alive. He is hot. And his book is one of the most awesome literature on macroeconomics ever (ok, its mainly because he does not employ phrases like nominalised normalisation of weighted sum of aggregate something something). He pokes fun at himself, his job, his subject, everything he stands for. And you realize everyone knows what they are doing is a big joke and so completely unimportant, you can make fun of it. Even if it is yourself. He also reads children's literature and recommends The Devil Wears Prada. I think I just found my mentor.

(If you are interested, he blogs.)

Sony Pix is amazing. They make a decision to show my favourite movies daily and stick to it with a determination only seen in golden retrievers. If you are wondering why its glad news because I ought not to be watching them now of all times, fellow blogger WIAN advises people to watch a movie daily if you have examinations. Yes, performance in examinations will be more abysmal than usual, but you will be a lot more cheerful. Especially on watching stuff like Robin Hood : Men in Tights. I happily recommend it to everyone.

On conclusion, my mum has been threatening to invite everyone of my friends over and show them how messy I am. I am one step ahead. So dear blogworld, this is what my table looks like. Incidentally I have shifted to the dining room. Things kept falling off my bed and then I started falling off the bed and then the bedroom floor got overcrowded and so I had to take over another room.

Its fun being a student.

Chronicles of Part-2 Exams: The Voyage of the Blog Reader

2008-06-11T18:09:00.004+05:30

So I was blog hopping as usual because that is all I seem to be capable of nowadays, excepting, of course, watching all sorts of Govinda movies. So here is another tag I was fascinated by at aandthirtyeight's.
It has been described as "In one stone, two mangoes!" and I intend to keep it. Admirable description, methinks. Considering we have two wholly different tags.

First tag

Aim: To do something utterly meaningless to avoid getting back to the books.

Methodology:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.

Procedure:
Get lazy bum off comfortable seat to look for book.
Find all books have managed to evaporate inexplicably.
Wander off to room and find "The Secret of Cliff Castle"
Blush profusely and look for some more intellectual sounding book.
Decide to be honest to people who would not know any better anyway if you lied and choose Secret of Cliff Castle.

Results:
Hilary's eyes shone. She felt excited. She caught hold of Ben's arm and looked at his eagerly.

Conclusion:
If I had not known better, I could have sworn this came out of some Mills and Boons. Which goes on to show that in life, you never know any better.

Second Tag

The following is apparently a list of books, "most of them sitting unread in people's bookshelves to make them look smarter". The rules are: bold the ones that you have read, underline the ones you have read in school, italicize the ones you have started but didn't finish.

Which is precisely what I think I will do.

1. Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
2. Anna Karenina
3. Crime and Punishment
4. Catch-22
5. One Hundred Years of Solitude
6. Wuthering Heights
7. The Silmarillion
8. Life of Pi: a novel
9. The Name of the Rose
10. Don Quixote
11. Moby Dick
12. Ulysses
13. Madame Bovary
14. The Odyssey
15. Pride and Prejudice
16. Jane Eyre
17. The Tale of Two Cities
18. The Brothers Karamazov
19. Guns, Germs and Steel
20. War and Peace
21. Vanity Fair
22. The Time Traveler's Wife
23. The Iliad
24. Emma
25. The Blind Assasin
26. The Kite Runner
27. Mrs. Dalloway
28. Great Expectations
29. American Gods
30. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
31. Atlas Shrugged
32. Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books
33. Memoirs of a Geisha
34. Middlesex
35. Quicksilver
36. Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West
37. The Canterbury Tales
38. The Historian: A Novel
39. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
40. Love in the Time of Cholera
41. Brave New World
42. The Fountainhead
43. Foucault's Pendulum
44. Middlemarch
45. Frankenstein
46. The Count of Monte Cristo
47. Dracula
48. A Clockwork Orange
49. Anansi Boys
50. The Once and Future King
51. The Grapes of Wrath
52. The Poisonwood Bible
53. 1984
54. Angels and Demons
55. Inferno
56. The Satanic Verses
57. Sense and Sensibility
58. The Picture of Dorian Gray
59. Mansfield Park
60. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
61. To the Lighthouse
62. Tess of the D'Urbervilles
63. Oliver Twist
64. Gulliver's Travels
65. Les Miserables
66. The Correction
67. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
68. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
69. Dune
70. The Prince
71. The Sound and the Fury
72. Angela's Ashes: A Memoir
73. The God of Small Things
74. A People's History of the United States: 1492-present
75. Cryptonomicon
76. Neverwhere
77. A Confederacy of Dunces
78. A Short History of Nearly Everything
79. Dubliners
80. The Unbearable Lightness of Being
81. Beloved
82. Slaughter House- five
83. The Scarlett Letter
84. Eats, Shoots and Leaves
85. The Mists of Avalon
86. Oryx and Crake
87. Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed
88. Cloud Atlas
89. The Confusion
90. Lolita
91. Persuasion
92. Northanger Abbey
93. The Catcher in the Rye
94. On the Road
95. The Hunchback of Notre Dame
96. Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
97. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Enquiry into Values
98. The Aeneid
99. Watership Down
100. Gravity's Rainbow
101. The Hobbit
102. In Cold Blood: A True Account of a Multiple Murder and its Consequences
103. White Teeth
104. Treasure Island
105. David Copperfield
106. The Three Musketeers

The only novels I did read in school were The Old Man and the Sea and The Tiger of Malgudi. I did not end up loving any of them.

I tag everyone. You are here, you are reading this sentence right now, you have the right to take up the tag . There, you have material for another post.

(p.s. I know Prince Caspian come first, but Voyage of the Dawn Treader arrived first because it was easy to mess up with the title. Prince Caspian is next. Promise.)

Chronicles of Part-2 Exams: Bollywood, the Student and the Free SMS Scheme

2008-06-02T16:16:00.004+05:30

From: Bonky
To: Everyone

Seedhi Zabaat zindagi bawal ho gayi
ho teri ek nazar se zindagi nihal ho gayi
nihaal ho gayi
nihaal ho gayi
etc etc

From: Me
To: Bonky

ya se...
Ye mera dil pyar ka diwana..(add appropriate sounds here)
Diwana, diwana, pyar ka parwana

Why are we doing this?

From: Bonky
To: Me

Neele, neele ambar par chand jab chaaye,
pyar barsaye, humko tarsaye

Pingu and Jo insist on spending all the free sms on their boyfriends. So I am reduced to this.

From: Me
To: Everyone

I finally have understood Cournot after like 3 weeks :D
I am so delighted I could weep, weep, weep. In fact, I will do so
(weep, weep, weep)

From: Jo
To: Me

Isn't Cournot, like, one page? In fact, even I have finished Macroeconomics. I am so delighted, I am going shopping tomorrow.

From: Me
To: Everyone minus Jo

Jo is such a bitch.

From: Bonky
To: Me

I have decided to spend all me free sms on you. So what's up?

From: Me
To: Bonky

Great, now even I will start wondering if I am a lesbian. Right now, I am having fried chicken. Diet be damned.

From: Bonky
To: Me

#@$#, I know. My regime has gone for a toss. My life looks so bleak I spent the whole afternoon watching Vivah today.

From: Me
To: Bonky

You too :D
We are such soulmates. In fact, I alternated between that and Swarg. Swarg has Govinda and Juhi. Govinda is Juhi's servant, then becomes all glamorous and Juhi falls for him. If our servant becomes rich, would we marry him?
(p.s., wish Mithun and Govinda had mated and produced a kid. He would be the greatest dancer on earth)
(p.s.2 OK, I have a crush on Govinda)

(n.b. I write long sms)
(n.b. 2 What is the plural form of sms?)

From: Bonky
To: Me

My heart is set on Mimoh. I doubt I would want any other son of Mithun, even if he is a hybrid of Govinda..am a loyal lover...

From: Me
To: Bonky

Mimoh is mine, woman :O
You always want my men. Mimoh is the only one who makes me see unicorns and rainbows when he dances. You know, I thought I would never know love. I never realized it would come to me in this form where my beloved is sundered apart by cities and superstardom. But someday, we will gaze into each other's eyes and realization will strike him and he will dance. He will dance Bonky like he has never danced before and love will envelope us. Then we will have a son and call him Gomoh.

From: Pingu
To: Everyone

I was playing diner dash on my cell phone and lost for the 12th time in a row. I was so frustrated I banged my head on the floor and now I am dizzy. Stop studying till I feel better.

From: Me
To: Pingu

Heh, I am busy telling Bonky my love story with Mimoh. You have no fear from us.

From: Pingu
To: Me

Mimoh is gay toh :O

From: Me
To: Pingu

Ki jata :O
More somman is expected from a Bengali towards Mithun's son. Of course, most people I fall for do turn out to be gay, so won't protest much.

From: Pingu
To: Me

Of course! Should have got the link. But there are better gays man. What is wrong with your taste? Jo ladki kabhi Karan Johar ke kwhab dekhti thi, woh aaj Mimoh pe utar aayi? Ghor kalyug!!

From: Me
To: Everyone

I am leaving Oligopoly. It has stopped making any sense. Nash can go screw himself.

From: Jo
To: Me

Oh, but that is the most major chapter. I have just finished Duality. I also bought (long list follows)..And is not Nash dead or something?

From: Me
To: Everyone minus Jo

Jo is such a bitch.

And yet another tag

2008-05-31T13:57:00.002+05:30

Which on the surface promises not to take much time or space. And then you rethink.
This is Rekaf's contribution to the tag world, something to be pondered over and to remember him by when he passes on to greater things than blogging obsessively.

One thing I truly regret:

Not being able to enjoy my college life till I realized its getting over. Too many holidays. Too many library trips. Too much studying. Too many wanderings. Too many friends. But no college. No joining political parties and pretending one is Mamta Banerjee. No canteen trips and doping and crushes all over the place. No making best friends with Promodda (the canteen owner, a legend in his own right). No being able to tell Johnny Depp lookalike one thinks he is the hottest thing since the real Johnny Depp.

Yes, this is actually all I regret. This is all I have missed.

Take up the tag. Believe me when I say its a difficult one.

A Quest

2008-05-19T14:35:00.005+05:30

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

2008-05-17T02:18:00.002+05:30

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.

2008-05-04T22:22:00.002+05:30

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

2008-05-03T13:27:00.008+05:30

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.
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.
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.
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

2008-04-25T22:10:00.003+05:30

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

2008-04-19T02:16:00.004+05:30

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

2008-04-11T01:40:00.007+05:30

I promise this to be the last tag for a long, long time. After this post, it is 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. It is 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

2008-03-30T00:54:00.006+05:30

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.

The Dudes Abide

2008-03-04T01:58:00.008+05:30

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

2008-02-29T11:43:00.004+05:30

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.

The last ode to teenage-ism

2008-02-20T18:25:00.004+05:30

Warning : Girlie post

Fellow blogger Doubletake, Doublethink has had a girlhood akin to all girlhoods, mostly spent in waiting for the dream man from the pages of a book (ranging from Danielle Steele to Gone with the wind) to materialize in flesh and of course, fall in love with us. This being the most significant experience for girls all over, one realizes the importance of preserving the essence of our first loves. Thus, while she rots with other more trivial pursuits (like Boards for instance), she, for us to remember her by, has started a meme, as she names it. In her own words,

"I'm starting a meme (muahahhaha). Anyone who has ever fallen in love with her version of the GHM, I tag you. Write a post, it doesn't have to be very big, about that person – literary character, comic book hero, some guy in a movie, a random person you'll never meet – we’ll start a list that will probably never end."

GHM would be the Georgette Heyer Man, a one of a kind lover an impressionable girl can easily be obsessed with. Doubletake has a more detailed description of him in her post.

And so, my GHM....

He arrived in my life at the very naive age of 14. He returned when I was 18. And, of course, till now, he displays no willingness to leave and someone real arrive. Harry Rayburn, or John Eardsley is a cross between Othello and Tarzan. He is rich but has given up all his wealth to seek vengeance for the death and defamation of his friend. He resides alone in an island in Africa and does more or less nothing but brood. Of course, he goes and seeks revenge, is often an impostor in the strangest of ships, is mind numbingly hot and threatens to beat up his love interest black and blue if she even looks at another guy.
A self confessed wife beater, an Etonian who has given up all his wealth for an African island near a waterfall, where he saves drowning damsels and then marries them (if he does marry them, hard to find a registrar in African jungles, I would have guessed). Paleolithic in his passions and general behaviour with the rest of humanity, rude, insolent and a woman hater, he is probably not every woman's dream, or even nightmare, but since the age of 14, Harry Rayburn has been the man I have woefully given my heart too. Of course, the fact that he catches diamond smugglers and can easily murder someone in the heat of anger just adds to his gentlemanly charms.

He is the chief protagonist of Agatha Christie's Man in the Brown Suit, and despite the impression I seem to have given, is wonderfully monogamistic. If it reflects sadly on my literary tastes, yes, I have fallen more in love with Christie characters than any other, except Feluda. And Lord Emsworth. And of course, Psmith. There was also these brief affairs with Rhett Butler, Buntschli, and Flambeau, but the Man in the Brown Suit stands tall and unchallenged.

I request all girls to take this tag up. Even guys if they have had their own female version of the GHM.
So, visitor, you are tagged.

It is That Time of the Year Again

2008-02-09T01:23:00.000+05:30

1) When colleges close up within a few hours notice. When you may suddenly end up in the first page of newspapers. When you might switch on the TV and see your classmate being beaten up. When everyone is fawning over you.

For College Elections have come to town.

I frankly pity students who have never studied in a politically inclined college. Nothing, nothing beats the news of college being closed down because policemen have gheraoed the area. And, of course, if you have ever had a crush on one of those politicians who would never deign to look at an unpolitical mite as you, this is the perfect time for the come-hither looks.

Let the Chinese have their New Years. Let the lovers have their Valentine Days. Let the chickens have their flus. I have more involved, passionate and dangerous events to look forward to.

2) When one realizes its about time one comes to term with reality and starts taking her graduation seriously. So the first thing one goes and does is watch Dr. Strangelove. Of course, after such an experience, it is hard to take anything seriously. Plans are in the offing to watch Elizabeth next. The probable inspiration one looks forward to is declare to the whole world one is illegitimate and go tell Bilawal Bhutto that one is the rightful heir to Pakistan's throne. Then again, it is not right to assume brotherly feelings for him after having lusted for that aquiline nose for months.

Then again, as discussed so minutely in the last post(specially the comment section), I am probably about to be declared non-collegiate. So do not think it is worth taking the pressure of examinations for.

3) Valentine's Day. When happy couples spend money on each other and single people go around protesting that its just a marketing gimmick. Of course, I do not believe in Valentine's Day. It is a marketing gimmick.

Bonky and I happen to be the only unattached (or as we prefer calling ourselves, detached) people remaining in possibly this entire world. And no, we have not had any lesbian tendencies. But it is a sad week for both of us while we take advantage of the Valentine sales to buy chocolates and wristwatches for ourselves. But we are a kindly lot. We want the other to be happily settled in commitment bliss. Which is why the following conversation took place

Bonky and Pongo, taking another never ending bus ride home. Pongo is immersed in a book. Bonky is immersed in watching cute guys. They are thrown together so much anyway that they have hardly anything left to talk about. Next time I make friends, I will go for the ones with commitment phobia. At least it will not lead to my mother harbouring doubts about my orientation, seeing that I only have one friend I spent most of my time with. The others are too occupied with their better halves.

B: Damn, not one cute guy. Oooh, Ritika, you got to look, it is your soulmate.
P (By now used to this occurrence): Oh, indeed? Long hair?
B: Check
P: Tall?
B: Check
P: Earrings?
B: Only on one ear.
P: Perfect. Unshaven for a day or so?
B: Yes. An out and out aantel. Plus, he is carrying a bag which looks as if it might carry books.
P(suddenly animated): You have got to be kidding me. You found my soulmate!! Where is he?
B:Oooohhhh
P(tremulous): Hot girlfriend?
B( nodding sadly): Check.

4) I grow older. With a difference. I will never be a teen anymore. I leave my teens with regrets, having never done a thing teens are supposed to do. No wild romances, no overnight wild blings(or is it bilge, anyway, something) and certainly no pyjama parties either. At 19, I am growing up to be a dowdy 30 year old.

Though there is still about a month left. A whole month to fill it up with all the wildness of seven years.

I think I will end up being a dowdy thirty year old twenty year old. I have had more fun that way in all these years anyway.

Valentine's Day is not only for couples. Its for all loved ones. I love you all for actually taking time out and visiting my blog. So, here is wishing you all a Happy Valentine's Day.
Also, please dress in black on fourteenth. We will have a collective mourning for Mr. Wodehouse.

Weddings and Funerals

2008-02-02T02:41:00.000+05:30

What with the advent of dire situations mere mortals would call bird flu and a weather which freezes your fingers to the keyboard, the situation at the home front is something Edgar Allan Poe would, frankly, revel in. Not that Poe would ever envisage a plot line in a city which has lavish weddings even in such morbid conditions. Hardly the kind of misery one looks forward to during the month which hosts something as horribly empty as Valentine's Day.

Weddings fascinate me. They provide lost souls with fish fries. On a less brighter note, they also include relatives and other people who all claim to have met you when you were a more socially adept toddler. One grins and bears it with Spartan composure. But then one wonders. Could one be a changeling? Why is surprise the first expression registered in the erstwhile acquaintances' faces? Why should it be mentioned again and again that one looks like her father. One would assume it to be a cause for concern if one did not look like one of her parents. And why is this said over and over again (I know its a cliche, but this does happen to everyone, and it remains the most tiring of all questions)

Unidentified relative (UR) :My dear, how you have grown!!!!
Fish Fry enamoured invitee (FFEI) (deprecatingly) : Oh, just the heels.
UR (flustered) : OH, well, you still have grown.
FFEI (with burgeoning suspicion): Do you mean, grown fat?
UR (alarmed) : Oh, no, no, dear, no. Of course not. Certainly not.
FFEI (in verge of tears) : Of course you mean fat.
UR: Oh no, I never..Oh dear..I...
FFEI(the sense of dramatics in full force) : You can not blame me for putting on a few extra kilos. Its the most harmless addiction I could find. You do not know what I have seen. You do not know what I have faced. I have fought drugs and fags and booze and sex and politics and studies. Would you deny me the extra morsel of food? Would you, I ask you?
UR(leaves whimpering piteously)

Attended a sorrowful funeral a few days back. Buried my shoes amidst fond farewell scenes and tears, for they had been not unknown amongst friends and acquaintances. Its sad demise, which had been as gory as the death scenes in Saving Private Ryan, resulted in a hunt for new shoes while walking barefoot along the learned footpaths of college street. But that is a story for more cheerful times. This tale is about the sheer pain of loss.

It all started when buses started making seats for pygmies with, hopefully, both legs amputated. Fulfilling neither of the qualifications, I twisted around a narrow seat, with one leg curved viciously against the other. Needless to say, having longer legs than bus designers expect the average women to have, I got stuck the minute I had to get up and leave. After extricating myself out of it for a struggle of around ten minutes, my feet greeted the college steps, shoeless and forlorn. My beloved shoes remained stuffed inside my bag, now split into two. We finally buried them in the famous Presi drains, a fitting renowned graveyard for a pair of loyal shoes. They have stood with me through thick and thin, withstanding rains and summers and snow, have been trampled on, dragged, stomped and walked with. I wore them on my first day to college, they were a part of my attire the day I took my first steps to my library, they adorned my feet the day I my HOD declared I had 32% attendance and about to be listed as non-collegiate. Yet, they gave way under the pressure of narrow bus space where legs cannot be crammed inside.

This post remains dedicated to its memory.

[To people like me who seem to think they will never ever get to celebrate Valentine's Day, just tell people you refuse to do so, as it would be an insult to the memory of P.G. Wodehouse, who died on that day (May God bless his soul)]

Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones - Another Rambling Non-Review

2008-01-23T01:12:00.000+05:30

I usually do not attempt reviews, mainly because I get hold of the wrong end of the discourse or because I am afraid it may actually lead up to an argument I would pitifully crumble against. But sometimes, one comes across a book one feels very strongly about. Thus, a blog post is born, just to ask people to get acquainted with the book once, not because one wants discussions, but because good books deserve to be read.

All avid Dickensians would immediately recognize the eponymous character, the main protagonist of the " greatest novel by the greatest writer of the nineteenth century", Great Expectations. This book reveres Dickens as a rock against the insane ravages of a modern civil war. Set in remote South Pacific island, it deals with cultural imperialism, uprisings, generation gap, inter racial marriages and religion all against the backdrop of Dickens. An island where the only sign of civilization is the faith in Bibles.

Yet, the book is essentially a simple one. And, thus, equally devastating in its simplicity.

Seen through the eyes of a 14 year old black girl, it begins with an achingly familiar topic of reverence to a teacher who changed lives. But the narration keeps taking sharp diversions, but with smooth accelerations. The teacher, the last remaining white in the island, Mr. Watts, takes to the reading of the book in his classes periodically. And soon, the students start finding parallels with the problems of a white orphan, residing five thousand miles away from their little, forgotten island. Pip becomes more than a character. He becomes a friend, a person they wake up to, whose life they mull over before going to sleep.

Resentment thus takes birth among the parents. What it boils down to is that a white atheist brings hope to black children, who have lost faith in religion, with a person who is fictional, yet closer to them than their ancestors. A man who challenges the existence of the Devil by saying he is a make believe character and yet believes whole heartedly in the trial and tribulations of a boy. But soon, fiction and reality start merging with devastating results.

This book, frankly, taunts the readers. Every pre-conceived notions, every partisan favouritism is challenged before you reach the end, forcing the reader to go back and review every character and find out the subtly hidden flaws and virtues not noticed the first time around. By the end, you even start having second thoughts about Dickens, the foundation of the book.

But what stays back after the shock subsides are the fleeting thoughts and ideas spread innocently around the disarmingly innocuous looking book. Be it the amusing discourse on broken dreams ( apparently, fishes are the best example of broken dreams. The surprised look on their faces when caught best explains it. They can not believe they will never see the sea again), the breathtaking idea of forming a whole world in your mind with the power of your own unique voice, or the shockingly matter-of-fact descriptions of barbarous murders, haunting images and ideas stay behind, long after the memory of the book is dimmed.

Its a tale of survival despite all odds, where people gain strengths from the power of storytelling. An unusual attempt to retell the old adage that "a book can change your life forever". For it can.

Dead Turtles

2008-01-20T21:43:00.000+05:30

Which was mostly what the weekend has been about. Dead turtles lined up in a broken line, buried ostrich-like in an otherwise pristine beach. At twilight hour, a lone turtle being washed up on the shore, a lone moon directly above me with a lone star underneath and I, plopped down on the golden, silky sand, the sound of the sea enveloping all other sounds and the wind in my hair, the best caress one could ever receive. A seemingly endless beach with two occupants, one of them, sadly, dead and the other, feeling the waves lap at her feet.

And highlights from the world of Television :

I watched Apna Sapna Money Money for the third time. Watching it for the first time somehow numbed me from actually providing an opinion. Decided to watch it a second time and write a review. The third time was accidental. However, the sneaking suspicion drew on me that I was starting to enjoy the experience. My system is not only immune to ASMM, but considers a regular dosage of it a health option. Is ASMM to me what Gunda is to Greatbong? Or Ingrid Bergman to Alfred Hitchcock? Or Shahrukh Khan to Karan Johar (more on this later in this post)?
The trip was on a bus which played (horrors) videos. My poor earphones knew when they had been outnumbered. The insomniac in me gave way helplessly to songs from Muskaan, Kasoor, Raaz and songs from a similar genre. Of course, newer movies did get a chance with special preference to Fool 'n Final. Needless to say, today, I am a changed girl and will never ever abuse Himesh Reshammiya again. FnF has shown me light. In fact, while I type this, I am downloading three of its songs.
Spent a Saturday evening morosely biting a biscuit and watching Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gum for what seems like the 42nd time in the last six months. Its when you do this that you begin to wonder whether this is how you thought you would end up once in college.

Then again, you forget all about wondering that and begin wondering why you find Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gum so morbidly fascinating. You just stay numb and watch the idle rich fight the injustice they face from the world, the dictates of their hearts, moribund traditions and, of course, their sacrificial, all suffering parents who do not seem troubled watching their sons, husbands or even the occasional elderly father practically making out with the neighbour's daughter, but take offense at the slightest hint of theirs wishing to make the affair legal by the sacred ties of matrimony.

I seem to have mixed up too many movies in this description, but then, who has not watched these movies. You may pretend to like Apocalypse Now and cry over Casablanca and argue about the significance of title of The Streetcar Named Desire, but you have, on the sly, watched all of Karan Johar's movies and have caught yourself laughing and sighing along with it. There is no solution to the eternal problem named Karan Johar. But its scary to think that a hundred years later, a new generation would be looking at our world and its culture through his eyes and find similarities between the the Greek and the Indian culture. Greece had its Helen, Menelaus and Paris. Our country had Shahrukh Khan, the rest of the world and Karan Johar.
Kyle XY now has an additional character who looks uncannily like Michael Jackson and claims to be a female in love with Kyle. All this is obviously a diabolical plot by the producers to prove that Michael Jackson is actually a female android which is the reason he feels attracted to young boys. Boys because his soul is of a girl. Young because as an android, he lost out on the first 16 years of his life. Its a compensation for a lost youth spent under microscopes and brain scanners.

Okay, so I have just watched TV endlessly for the past few days and have nothing to write about and just desperately want to update this blog thing of mine.

Oh, I caught an oyster at the beach. It did not have anything in it sadly.

The Year That Will Be

2008-01-06T01:33:00.000+05:30

One of the few facts I have managed to retain from long forgotten History lessons is that Akbar was made Emperor at the tender young age of 13 and until he came of age, Bairam Khan, his general, ruled on his behalf. Possibly, all it does purport to mean is, fifty years down the line, Gowarikar's son might be casting Hrithik's grandson in the lead role of his movie Bilawal-(enter future wife's name here), with A.R. Rahman's son giving music rehashed from his father's incomplete works. It might also mean the Mughal empire was a democracy and one failed to understand it.

The only fact one can grasp here is, here is a 19 year old, with an entire country's reins falling into his laps, and here is another, musing on what the young inheritor's mother might have meant? What Times of India (yes, I proudly and unflinchingly proclaim I read it, and actually read Calcutta Times before heading for the headlines, if at all) displays boldly as a quotable quote has me fumbling for answers. What did the Benazir Bhutto mean when she said Democracy is the best revenge? Revenge against what? And why revenge? Would not it have been easier focusing on a few salient issues like actually bringing in the democracy for the betterment of the countrymen and countrywomen?

Then again, I never did really understand politics and possibly all the hidden agendas elude my flighty little brain. For how can I possibly deny the whole Bhutto tragedy caught my eye because

1)Bilawal Bhutto is hot. Period.
2) My young, inexperienced life has not seen many assassinations and one so close home always generates excitement.

God bless her soul though. She might have treated the idea of being killed philosophically, but it must have been rather a nasty surprise.

When Shakespeare did say what's in a name, he must have said it in an unthoughtful, unreflective moment, possibly just after giving a series of autographs and wondering how good a name Rob Ray would have been. For there is something about the name Akbar which makes the beholder of the name greater than mere mortals. Though the original Akbar did shy away from forcing his own religion upon his subjects, one of the few things he abstained from, his namesake, Akbar Khan, however, can apparently do anything. He is planning to re release Taj Mahal. Some kind of a Valentine's Day surprise to the unsuspecting world. Of course, all this might be a stepping stone to greater deeds like Ram Gopal Varma releasing a director's cut of RGV ki Aag as a Halloween surprise or on the death anniversary of Veerappan.Which might lead to the sales of a special DVD collection of Fardeen Khan's earlier movies. One fears the worse and actually goes on to wondering whether this might all lead to a Tushar Kapoor starring Yash Chopra movie, but one remains hopeful.

A.R. Rahman turns another year older today. I will always revere the man. For creating the two most perfect pieces of music ever. Parts of two separate songs. But when confronted with it, one does realize what perfection is. For then it does make you feel how absolutely small you are. How completely insignificant. And how wonderfully lucky. For some very curious reason, Bhojpuri movies make me feel the same way. As if in the presence of some greater god. Or perhaps the Messiah of a long lost, dignified, reawakened religion. Perfection, again, is such a subjective topic.

I bring in the New Year, as usual, with forgotten resolutions and a horrible tummy ache from over eating. Realization also strikes that 3 a.m. in the morning is not the time to churn out my thoughts in form of a blog post. What should have been random is strangely confessional (I did not mean to admit that despite Greatbong's tirade, Bhojpuri movies still hold a compelling fascination for me) and that is never a very comfortable thought to go to sleep with.

Good night, blog world.

Book today: The Story Girl, L.M. Montgomery ( compelling, beautiful and an indelible part of girlhood)
Movie today: Lawrence of Arabia (good, but long. Makes the watching rather arduous for someone who is not much into war movies. Probably means I have no taste)

The Month That Was

2007-12-27T23:59:00.000+05:30

As the year ends, I realize I have absolutely nothing to post about. There are no more ideas, no more thoughts, and sadly, no more useless rendezvous in front of the computer. I have suddenly started living usefully. All those hours I would spend in front of my blog, blankly hoping a comment would arrive just by sheer force of will power, have now been replaced by hours I give very serious thoughts to what to wear to this year's new year party. Clothes are now sadly occupying a major part of my brain functioning, thus leading to unfounded comments about my sudden embracing of my femininity. Thus, my year end post is mostly going to be about conversations regarding this and other feminine topics. I assume it would be vastly uninteresting to the male segment of my readership and hence, to entice a bigger audience, this post is being rated as adults only, due to allusions to topics the censor boards happily imagines 17 year olds do not know anything about.

Conversation 1
(Bonky and I, while on one of our expeditions)
P: So, I have been thinking, all these guys I know, they look at me in a very..umm.... asexual manner. What could be the reason? My demeanor?
B: Dude, you realize you just said 'I entreat..' to a guy while trying to juggle two handkerchiefs. While each by themselves are not very appealing, both of them together are fatal for your romantic chances. What you need to do is be more feminine. No more coming to college with unbrushed hair.
P: Feminine huh? So how do you go about this feminine..uh..thingy?

(A few minutes later, the time interim having been spent on saving a centipede from a professor's footsteps)
B: Since we did save it, should we adopt it? It is one of our responsibilities now. You know, once you save someone, you are doomed to protect it for ever?
P: Oooh yes, and you could be its mother. I am obviously the godmother since I am too creeped out to touch it. We could call it Pintoo.
B: Huh? I was thinking of Albuquerque. Why Pintoo?
P: Association of ideas.

(after 5 minutes spent in profound thought)
P: Say, a centipede bites a man, and the man becomes centipedeman, what colour would his costume be?
B: Hey, it could bite us too, so why not centipedewoman?
P: Dude, you really want a hundred legs?
B: We could have retractable legs. Though I wonder what use they would be. Does not look as if a hundred legs make him any faster than two.
P: Uhh...their extreme hairiness which protects us from bullets?
B: (after pondering long and hard) You are right, there can never be a centipedewoman.
P: So, chrome and platinum should be ideal, what?
B: Yup, chrome outfit with platinum legs.
P: That should do it.

Conversation 2
(Berry and I in an auto)
P: So, this femininity thing..I got this new jacket, you know, and it does make me feel very girly, not the usual tomboyish self. I have been thinking, is femininity about what you feel rather than what you look? Coz, I guess I look the same, but you know, the feeling thing is there and are you even listening?
B: You? Feminine??
P: Uh..
*pregnant pause*
B: Can I borrow it?

Conversation 3
(Gupi, Sakes and I, meeting up after two years. The first line spoken goes down in history of first lines spoken between friends after 2 years)

G: Hi, yeah, I need you guys to help me rob a teacher of a law book.
P: Get in the room, if he is there borrow it, if he is not, steal it.
S: But why?
P: Eh? How does that matter?
S: I am sorry. What was I thinking?

(Gap of fifteen minutes)
G: Of course, Sakes can not have non vegetarian.
S: Yes, never had it before. Never will.
P: Er.. you have. Once at school. From my lunch box. Class 7.
S: I was a kid then. I will not be losing my religion over that surely.
P: Ahh, but you see, religion is like virginity. Once its gone, its gone.
S: *blushes*
G: Still the kid, are not you?
P: Say, suppose we end up as single mothers?
G: (dumbfounded) If that happens, one has to be really unlucky. What with all the technology and stuff...
P: Do you deny the possibility completely then?
G: Hmm..OK, what if we do end up as single mothers? How is that fun?
P: But don't you see it? We would have full freedom with its upbringing. He could grow up to be a Kalahari desert tribesman. Or the King of Cannibal Islands!!
G: And eat you?
P: Course we tell him relatives are not food. But it could eat all the people we do not like. We won't even need to worry about disposing the body.
G: Oh no. I am not murdering anyone. I stick only to robbery.
P:Hmm..we could be like Iago, you know. We instigate others to murder and just use the body to feed the kid.
G: You realize we just created a foolproof plan to feed a cannibal child we are supposed to be giving birth to?
P: I know! We rock!

This post, though seemingly senseless and pointless, is meant as a tribute to one of the happiest years of my life. To all the friends and to all the laughter. And Economics. I guess. Someday, you will be my future. I guess its about time I started liking you. You are my New Year's resolution.
And my blog readers.
Thank you.
I will probably be out of ideas till next year.
So here is wishing you a mad and silly New Year.

The Perils in the Life of the Indian Student

2007-12-14T22:44:00.000+05:30

While the whole country discusses in a hush tone the degeneration of the moral responsibility of students regarding the all important question of the health and mortality of their fellow classmates, one remains tolerantly amused. Yes, murder is a serious threat to the peace our society is accustomed to, but it is such a rare occurrence that one glances over the newspaper, tut-tuts, and promptly switches over to semi-naked pictures of Hrithik Roshan in the entertainment section.

OK, one does not do exactly that, but one does exaggerate a bit. But let one go on to what one means to post about.

The average student life is fraught with enough mortal dangers. Even if one decides to forgo the possibility of self annihilation, education is not exactly a path of strewn lilies. There are blood thirsty teachers, spending years of their lives waiting for that one particular bit of homework, which inspires and alleviates one to the level of hair pulling younger siblings. Of course, they take it too literally, and there is a certain amount of one sided hair pulling involved, but one does not go further into it either. The case in point was never very satisfactorily solved. Of course if the teacher does not get you, there are always your classmates. Even if most do not have access to revolvers, they could always get you with a good hard shove in the back. Of course if you manage to dodge classmates, its usually the volleyball which has it for you, or the chair has a faulty leg, or the chalk gets you in the eye. If not facing enough impediment from the inanimate world, you could of course get yourself. Let the shot put drop on your leg, be a boy, or just find yourself dozing in the class. Danger lurks at every corridor corner, behind every library shelf, inside every cobwebby desk shelf.

But these, are of course common dangers. There are also the more unusual, though not unknown forms of dangers. These kind of dangers are first intimated the day before voting day for election of the college union. Knowing one's perfectly apolitical stance, party members and hopeful representatives, people who never look twice at one during average, non-political days, begin calling you up and talking about providing bodyguards on your way to the college. When the same one is not exactly built on slender lines, and is accustomed to carrying The Suitable Boy as a light read in ones bag, one begins to wonder on what diabolical plans the opposition might be planning to actually nullify the effects of both of ones strongest weapons. Kidnapping- possible. Threatening- probable. Sexual Harassment- not unheard of. But one braves all odds. One refuses guards. One goes to college and immediately realizes both parties are waiting for one because most votes are known except one's. One revels in the importance. Then one feels foolish. Then one gets disgusted. One somehow manages to elude the hypocritical fools and vote for one she hopes is lesser of the two evils. One thankfully goes back home. Then does the excitement start.

News starts pouring in. Two members of one of the parties have been kidnapped. There has been a lathi charge. The winning CR has been gheraoed. The principal has been gheraoed. Students have been arrested. You switch on the news and see the person you usually sit behind of getting beaten up. It becomes an unreal world. Not the place you drag your sorry behind to morning classes. More so when the kidnapped guys actually have been arrested for eve teasing a woman. And these are the people we vote as our representatives.

The actual danger all this while had been the idea that a couple of eighteen year old students actually believe they realize what political ideology is all about. But then, how many older people can claim knowing it either?

Of course, there is another sort of danger, which does not really lead to physical harm...I think. At school, a girl with lovely, shiny hair used to sit in front of one. One and her were never particularly good friends. But one envied her lovely hair. One used to wonder whether ones superior intellectual skills ( modesty is not one's besetting sins) was a compensation enough.

One day, one grows up. One enters college. One decides to do the ultimate grown up thing. One consults a few friends. One goes out and buys beer. One drinks beer illegally at Forum. One actually opens it with her teeth in the bathroom at BURP! Transfers it to a cold drink glass and drinks beer openly. One gets a little high. Ones friends actually get drunk on beer, having no constitution whatsoever. One meets the lovely haired girl. One knows she is in one of the city's premier colleges studying some obscure subject. Girl says she is very happy. Girl is 18 and she is getting married to someone seven years older than her in a matter of two weeks. Ones friends and one keel over in shock. One thinks one is having hallucinations. Three weeks later, one meets the same girl, in jeans and sindoor.

An year later, when one struggles with her first University examination paper, shiny haired girl struggles to bring the first of her many babies to this world, education and ambition long forgotten. Girl is perfectly happy. One is perfectly happy too. In different worlds. Where one is still a child and another a mother of one.

One wonders, is one too judgmental?

Hallelujah

2007-12-09T20:30:00.001+05:30

I have been tagged by Moo-lah :P
So this tag basically wants me to reveal my maddening music choice to the unsuspecting cyberworld. I apologize unreservedly for affronted feelings.
Rules:
1. Put your MP3 player/Media player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what.

IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY?
Flipside [Nitin Sawhney]
Okay, it would make sense in some kind of a parallel universe, I guess.

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Beautiful World [Colin Hay]
So, yes, basically I am a happy person, so I would send this answer to the parallel universe too.

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Letting Go [Nitin Sawhney]
Ho-kay....

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
I could have danced all night [My Fair Lady]
Not really....

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
Show me the meaning of being lonely [Backstreet Boys]
I knew it!!!!

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Call of the tribes [Karunesh]
This, I did not expect.

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
As long as you love me [BSB]
Selfish Creatures.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
Boogie Wonderland [The Emotions]
I am so glad they do not know I blog.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Overkill [Colin Hay]
True! True! True!

WHAT IS 2+2?
Khoya Khoya Chand [Khoya Khoya Chand]
Reason no. 124 why I screwed up my Maths pass paper.

DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
I'll Be There For You [ Rembrandts]
Uncanny.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Hold on Hope [Guided By Voices]
Thats exactly what everyone else says.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Nadia [Nitin Sawhney]
The song is mostly about calling out to an unheeding lover. So, close.

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
I like to move it [Reel 2 Real]
Whaaaaat??!!!!

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Sting [Desert Rose]
He is always making out with his girlfriend, so true. Very sting-y :(

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
I'm a Believer [Monkees]
Eh...?

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Dracula From Houston [Butthole Surfers]
Its got lines like " I know that you’ll miss me, But I’m never never never, Comin’ home". It also has lines about buying beers and painting bikes. It probably means I will elope.

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Heartbreak Hotel [Elvis Presley]
Yay-ee

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Move your Body [Johnny Gaddar]
What is wrong with the bloody shuffler?

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
You got the Hooch [Everything]
....

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Nostalgia [Nitin Sawhney]
Hmmm...

WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?
Hallelujah [John Cale]
Amen to that

Whoa..over..

I tag arsenik, doubletake doublethink, firewhisky, new age scheherazade, the ancient mariner and what's in a name.

Go, go through hell. You have my blessings.

The Terrible Two and the Mystery of The Reluctant Child

2007-12-01T20:15:00.000+05:30

Prelude

Scene : Near the Gariahat flyover. One surprised looking man, one bawling child, two girls, one angry and the other with a crude mask over her head. The unmasked girl glares at the man. The air is charged with the essence of an unanswered question. The masked girl seems to be shaking with rage. The child continues to bawl. No one else seems to care. No cute guys around. Both girls carrying bags where huge notebooks do not seem to fit.
Time: somewhere around seven in the evening.

Chapter 1
The Only Chapter There Is

It all started one fine Thursday afternoon when I realized I was not receiving respect enough for my existence. On roads, I am either passed over, or have the wrong body parts stared at by the all and sundry of the eve teasing population. It was while my dramatic soul cringed against the unfairness, my sister came in sporting a laboratory coat all Science students are expected to wear, as an impenetrable protection against the deadliest acids. Needless to say, the selfsame cloak of invincibility was stained and holed, her entire class having had the mind boggling idea of having an early Holi party with the more dilute versions of the same acids and a few bases. But, like the sight of those who bring good tidings to the mountains, the coat lay in front of me, bright, shining and beautiful.

The lab coat, in all principles, resembles all lab coats in the world. Specially the coats worn by the unfortunate few in the medical profession. It was not surprising that a few hours later, I started out for my Maths tution dressed up as a medical student. Who does not respect medical students? Someday, I might presumably be saving the very lives who give me a blank stare and add to my insecurities.

It was a nice trip. But nothing unusual. Apparently, there are too many doctors in this world and beyond for people to bother. The conductor did manage to find me a seat though. Was it because of my gender, my alleged profession or the fact that I perpetually look like a helpless cow, I will never know. But at my tution, I caused sensation. Its a different thing only one person was there, but she was curious enough. But as usual, Berry took it very sportingly and even came up with a madcap idea to justify the presence of the lab coat. After the diabolical lie was cut and pruned to perfection, we realized the brainstorm had made us hungry and we went outside to forage for anything which looked cheap, unhealthy and fattening.

However, our journey to the world of further obesity was cut short by the sight of a man dragging a child of about four, who, as was obvious, did not want to go and was using his lungs to its fullest capacity to state his objections. Since all detective novels require a description, the man was of North-eastern descend, dressed in something blue and cheap and his front pocket seemed slightly bulgy. The kid looked like all kids, snotty, wailing and at the stage of life when kids stop being cute and become noisy. Berry and I looked like ourselves, sharing between us neither egg shaped heads, nor pipes, nor moustaches, nor trenchcoats, nor even knitting, the trademark of Miss Marple. Our detective trademark, if any, would be bags filled with ill-fitting notebooks and wrappers of chocolates hidden from discerning parents.

Both Berry and I read the papers. She reads them to know what is going in the world. I read the comic strips and the TV guide. But I have read enough crime stories to know an attempted kidnapping when confronted with one. We both shot a look at each other and decided to follow the man. All this, of course, was done wordlessly. But we had enough time later to exchange words. People who belong to Kolkata might be better able to estimate the distance. We started at the beginning of Ballygunge Phari near Merlin Court and ended up near the Gariahat flyover. Our dialogue during the stalking went on these lines :

P: We are not exactly very inconspicuous, are we?
B: You find trees and bushes on this footpath, and I name thee Mrs. Feluda.
P: Shucks, you are too kind. How did you know I have been totally in love with him since like when I was fourteen?
B: Will you kindly concentrate on the matter at hand? You talk too much.
P: Oh yeah, the kidnapped kid? Do you think people know what we are upto? I have been catching a few glances.
B: None of that, I assume, has anything to do with your weird choice of wardrobe today, eh? Darn, its seven, sir must have arrived. What are we supposed to be doing today? Testing?
P: Test? Test? What test? Did he say anything about a test last week? Was that when I was looking at Zombie. He is kinda sexy, you know, in a very warped sort of manner.
B: Its the name of a chapter, woman, the one we did last week. And Zombie is shorter by a few inches. Oh God, we are just behind the man, what do we do now?
P (while opening coat): OK, how about I put the coat over the man and you grab the child and run away with it? Also, FYI, all guys in this city are either shorter or younger.

Berry, not very impressed with my idea of re-kidnapping kidnapped children, decided to put things in her hands. While I crept up close to the man, ready to muffle him with the acid stained coat, Berry shoved me aside and decided to confront him, woman-to-man.

"Oi, mister," she demanded in her most severe tone, "where do you think you are going with the child? Whose child is it?"

Thus arose the situation described in the prelude. I promptly put the coat over my head to prevent the man from recognizing me in a line-up and began laughing hysterically behind it. The man looked amazed to say the least. The kid, of course, could not care less, his lungs being the envy of all asthmatics worldwide. Berry continued to glare in an uncanny resemblance o my eighth grade Biology teacher.

"I..you...this kid..you see...my employer's child. He asked me to get him to his home...making too much noise...office being disturbed...says mother will see to him," the man faltered, either in nervousness (having two mad girls attack you in the middle of the street can never be easy) or having hopelessly fallen in love with Berry and thus rendered semi tongue-tied.

"Figures," I commented laconically from behind the coat.

Berry was not easy to convince though. She demanded proof. The brave, brave woman, standing in the middle of the street, ten minutes late for tution, walking up to a random stranger and asking him to prove he was not a kidnapper. This girl is so gonna grow up into a social activist. Or a policewoman. Or a mugger.

It all ended when the man finally offered to call up his employer and convinced us that it was indeed his child. Finally satisfied, she permitted the poor man to withdraw with the yelling kid to the mother, possibly a harassed, tired woman prematurely hard of hearing. We trudged back to our classes, complaining bitterly about how nothing exciting ever happens to us.

Case satisfactorily solved.

War and Peace

2007-11-23T01:38:00.000+05:30

"Once upon a Time," says my Grandfather at story hour, " we had a curfew. This was even before your parents were born. I was a young boy then."

Look of disbelief in my face. Are not grandparents born silverhaired and wrinkled?

"Back in our days, we had real curfews. Lasting for hours, with armed policemen, ordered to shoot on sight. No newspapermen to warn us about numbers to call if one falls sick. Back then, if you fell sick, you waited. You could recover or you could die. The alternative was certain death. So people waited. People nowadays get it all on a platter. Yet they complain.

"We used to live on the first floor of an apartment building. Not an apartment in the truest sense though. They were two roomed flats. And we were eight brothers and sisters. We were a bit hard pressed for space. Look at you. You insisted on a room of your own because you could not stay with your one sister in the same room without breaking into free-for-alls."

I have two cousins. Were all those brothers and sisters celibates? Or was my grandfather a black sheep and casted off from the family tree?

"On one those curfew nights, all was silent on the streets below. The girl living on the rooms above looked out of her window to see whether anyone was about. She was shot through the head. Her age? Possibly fifteen. Maybe fourteen. Definitely not more than sixteen. Her religion? Its more than sixty years now girlie, I do not think she cares anymore."

Tonight, I passed through all those areas war was declared in yesterday. The bus I took included sleeping men, lecherous men, blank faced women, absolutely no cute guys and me, trying to look like a sad faced Madonna (the Raphael version, not the pop star one). However, as soon as we entered Park Circus, everyone suddenly got alert. Eyes began to search the roads, stripping it of all humility. What were we looking for? The illogical fear that someone might decide to stone us? Or, like the vulture every human is, for a remnant of the horror yesterday, one sign to show us how civilization died? But there was nothing. Just common men walking around for common businesses. The city had moved on. Not proudly, not with a head held high, but with sheer doggedness and force of will.

Which is how I will always identify the spirit of the city as. A bent backed sweeper, sweeping all signs of sins committed yesterday to create a cleaner place to live in. There is hopelessness, for one knows it will get dirtier during the course of the day, but, as always, there is no dearth of new beginnings. So the sweeper sweeps on, too proud to beg, too ashamed to forget, yet, too desperate to give up.

Yet, not a shard of broken glass...

Results come out this Monday. If you hear a silence on this website for more than a week, please assume I have gone on a self-induced coma.

Reflections on Oranges, Death and Om Shanti Om

2007-11-17T01:40:00.000+05:30

Its five months since my first University examination (yes, this will be a cribbing, moping, depressing post again). They have been an eventful five months. I have been hospitalized, fallen in love twice, have suffered an entire month of joyous celebrations, have convinced my parents that I actually have an ambition by sheer glib talk and have made a foolproof plan of bombing the University building. However, the people in charge of correcting my papers appear to be having an even more eventful time, for the results are still as far off now as they had been five months ago. And there has been not one day since these five months I have not moaned and groaned and wished death on myself. Yes, I have been a pretty depressing company. My university does that to you. For all I know, my examination answer sheets have been recycled as flyers in the Nandigram issue, used to make temporary refuges in the cyclone ravaged areas (bit of a prediction here) or crafted into jhalmuri containers. They may never have been checked. I may not exist in the University registers. Its the sheer madness of uncertainty which actually brings on the severe depression and the forewarnings to close relatives to buy something white this Puja.

It was while I was watching OSO when i suddenly realized what is the implication of death. No its not the reincarnation jazz. My very own personal view of the movie is that its sheer rubbish and watching Budhdha Mar Gaya is more fruitful. At least you know what you are watching will give you the headache of a lifetime. But it did give me food for thought. So I will be more kindly to the movie and agree it has a few amusing moments. And I do wish Shahrukh Khan's hairdresser has that baby and gives him the damned hair cut already. He is beginning to look like a mop.

Death, I realized, is not just the end of troubles, its the end. A simple end of everything you know, wish, love, think and experience. Its not a forced removal of the future, its the discontinuity of the present. The end of the sheer excitement of existence. When I die, it just would not be the things I am looking forward to I would losing out on, even if they are rather nice things like finally getting to watch all the F.R.I.E.N.D.S. episodes, actually watch the last episode of Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, know why Kyle XY has no bellybutton (I am thinking I watch too much TV), marrying Johnny Depp, and, of course, see how I finally turn out.

But there is so much more to life right now. There are some lovely things to live for even if Johnny Depp never finds me maddeningly attractive. (This post is just another way to convince myself that life is not all about getting a first class, bear with me). So I began listing out all the reasons I enjoy just being alive for. Here is a bit from the last revised draft

Oranges : They mark the beginning of winter for me, my favourite season. What is winter if not spent on some rooftop, soaking in the afternoon sun, eating orange after orange and doing Maths? (This actually goes in good points about High School. Nowadays, I do maths with the radio on, snuggled in rugs, with mugs of coffee surrounding me).
Mathematics : Much as I hate the subject, I love the organization which comes with it. It appeals to my messy self like a spirit finite calling to the infinite (I do not know what that means). It has begun affecting my writing style. Now whatever I write has to be bulleted. Its by sheer force of will power that I do not add footnotes.
Mosaic floors: They have all these small stones where, if you squint slightly, you can actually make out faces. Marble floors are cold, inhumane things which provide us with no imaginary human company. When I have a home of my own, I will keep the marble floors and get a puppy. That, I think, will be slightly less mad.
A.R. Rahman
Chalk: I eat them. More accurately, I nibble them. I find the dry texture fascinating, despite the fact I often choke on them. Of course, I mean white chalks. Coloured chalks have a weird bitter taste.

So there you go University Examiners, even if you fail me now, I still win.

You have not broken me.

Yet.

As a byword, in case you watched OSO, they show SRK's reincarnated self was afraid of fire because he had died in a fire. I am afraid of

fire
water
ghosts
heights
dogs

I am guessing in my previous birth, I died when the ghost of a dog, blazed in flames, attacked me on a rooftop, from where I was forced to jump, falling right in to the middle of a swimming pool where I drowned. Only then do all my rational fears make sense.

Filler

2007-11-14T15:05:00.000+05:30

Andha saalayil nee vandhu saeraamal
Aaru degeree-il en paarvay saayamal
Vilaki poayirunthaal thollayae illai
Ithu vaendaathe vaelai
- An excerpt from the song Hey Goodbye Nanba
Film Ayutha Ezhuthu
Lyricist: Vairamuthu

(If only you hadn't been on that street;
If only my eyes hadn't tilted 6 degrees;
There would have been no trouble...
For we have landed ourselves into unnecessary work)

Found this paragraph extremely cute which, obviously, led to an incessant need to share it with the rest of the world. In case people are wondering which song this could be, its the Tamil version of Hey Khuda Hafiz, from Yuva.

Because I am Not Sleepy

2007-11-05T01:15:00.000+05:30

This post is about nothing. It has no literary value whatsoever. No opinion will ever be dictated here. I probably should be sleeping while I type this, but I do not care. Let dark circles remain a permanent feature of my physical attributes. I will show them they are not everything.

Love is a weird thing. Here you are, thinking there is no man on earth who could be everything you wish him to be (which includes having the guts to dance on the roof of a train and be a criminal mastermind) and then suddenly you see him serenading Audrey Hepburn. Life suddenly becomes topsy-turvy. And anyone who suggests this is a school girl crush, may you get the Wagga Wagga disease.
Kolkata buses have many faults. But no one could label them dull. From banters between a fisherwoman and the conductor to free-for-alls, they never lack the human element of comedy. However, the government thinks otherwise. What with too many passengers being dragged to depots because they fall asleep on long bus rides and snore past their stops, they decided not to risk the unpredictable presence of over sensitive passengers and went and added radios. They possibly voted for television firstly, but what with the universal demand for soaps clashing with the fact that they are mostly R-rated, they decided on the radio, where the most harmful thing for children's ears would be the Bula-di advertisements. But since everyone knows them and can recite them backwards, word- perfect, that was not much of a scare.
(BTW, what is it with minibuses and Big FM? Has Mukesh Ambani taken over RT-72 bus? Is a chain of buses the next big thing he wishes to gift his wife after that joke of a jet plane?)

So here was I, one sad Friday afternoon, dragging my sorry self to a Statistics class, pondering on the meaning of life when the friendly, neighborhood radio decided to play the title track of Bhul Bhulaiya again, for what I could make out, the fifth time in the hour. That was when I realized how desperately I was in love. For Gregory Peck materialized in front of me singing that very song, for ME!!! For the next five minutes, i gazed openmouthed at the conductor, for Peck always seemed to hang around him, resurrected from death, lip syncing a pseudo-rap song from a Hindi movie, all because I have a wild imagination and have watched DDLJ absolutely too many times.

I could not concentrate much on my tuition either. Peck seemed to hang around a lot near my teacher's left ear, just looking in that heart warming manner of his.

As if I do not already have enough reasons to quit bothering to educate myself further.

I still do not feel sleepy. I might prolong this post a bit more. I wonder how many of my blogrollers are busy deleting my link.

People who have ever loved Mathematics might appreciate this. What with too many late nights trying to deduce why a particular question was taking you three months to solve and was a possible contender in next year's examination, the subject tends to overcome your senses. You live, breath and feel Maths. I went a step ahead, I started walking Maths.

The area I live in has islands. They are the names for circular edifices at every crossroad, with shrubberies in them. If the following picture belonged to wikimapia (it does not, its a Palit original), it would show islands like this.

Yes, slightly messy. So was Picasso.

Anyway, here is a crossroad, many cars, its late in the evening, Spiderman here is a figment of my imagination and there I am, in the right hand corner lower footpath, waiting there for fifteen minutes. All because I wanted to reach my destination by taking a path which was tangent to the island.

Given,
OP is the radius, not that it matters.
The red star shows my desired destination.
Drivers do not like me. I am a bad pedestrian.

Required to find:
A tangent which does not kill me.

I actually went to and fro the footpaths, around eleven times, till I found the right tangent, starting somewhere two meters away from my starting position.
Also, the angle alpha signifies nothing. I have forgotten what two tangents do when they intersect. Probably start a family of baby tangents and eventually end up getting divorced, but by then, I was home.

Ah, the first glimmers of sleepiness. Let the end be now.

Ode to Too Many Failed Attempts to Solve an expletive Maths Question

2007-11-03T22:54:00.000+05:30

Staring out of the window,
At the lone light, struggling for existence,
Like the last beacon in a tempestuous gale,
At the silhouettes, endeavoring to recognize each.

At the last scrap of paper, with the futile attempts
Of an entire day, smudged here and there
With hopeless tears, betraying the anguish
Of a bitterly disillusioned mind.

Praying with the belief of an atheist,
Looking out at the night sky, with a new surge of angst,
Light breaks out, the firmament lightens slowly.
Dawn arrives.

How desperately do I need to sleep.

And I have yet not solved the sum.

I am a bitter woman. I can't rhyme words. I suck at poetry. I am sick of Mathematics. If you hate this poem, its perfectly reasonable. I hate it too.

Herbert- A Rambling Non- Review

2007-10-30T01:04:00.000+05:30

I was supposed to write my more serious experiences during these Pujas. I had had the most amazing, earth shattering ideas, thought up the sharpest of phrases and probably would have won the Pulitzer for that post. Unfortunately, by midnight yesterday, I had forgotten all about those experiences. I am flaky, absent minded and, possibly, a blonde with a permanent brunette hair colour. I blame it on Economics. The subject does not suit my mental prowesses. I am taking up Philosophy as soon as I can scrape up a graduation degree. However, till that happens, let my once-widening-and-now-stuck-at-seven blog reading population suffer more of my flakiness.
(What? I am a brute! The last post says so.)

My results are coming out. Possibly everyone I have ever been acquainted with knows about it. I have cribbed about it, cried about it, and warned people not to be surprised at the news of my death. Behind this scared exterior, however, lies an even more scared girl. The University I am registered under is not a very kind University. In fact, its a positive lemon in the garden of Universities (more Wodehouse plagiarized lines here). It revels in making its students psychotic killers. Not surprisingly, all the worry and the wonder has turned me into a zombie. Or an owl, if you prefer it. Sleep eludes me until its day break and then I sleep for fourteen hours straight. I am, of course, hours away from being disowned, but that is a secondary topic.

Last Saturday, after partying hard for seven hours straight, I trudged into my home to face another bout of insomnia. Television, my solace and savior, beckoned and at two a.m., I was enmeshed between a sofa and many cushions, channel surfing like there was no tomorrow.That is when I came across a Bengali movie. Normally, I do not watch Bengali movies, not being very well versed in the language (my ancestors are probably rolling in their graves now), but this one had English subtitles. Needless to say, I was intrigued. Any Bengali movie with English subtitles is an intellectual movie, at least that is what I believe, and intellectual Bengali movies are just the thing to make one a politician. Thus, I settled down more comfortably and started a movie marathon journey called Herbert.

I was not mistaken. The central theme was politics. Unless it had some obscure inner meaning I completely failed to comprehend. It started with the investigation of the death of a man called Herbert, who had caused a terrorist attack. The movie thus began unfolding, telling the story of Herbert, as a young, orphaned boy who was brought up at his uncle's place, treated miserably as a servant, growing up to become the supposed terrorist of the present year.

The movie, as many reviewers have noted, is perhaps a time traveling journey through Kolkata, showing it in its many facets, from the politically tumultuous 1970s to the more urbane, conscious city we know today. And we see Herbert suffering through it all, losing his loved ones one by one, through this amazing journey called Calcutta (I revert back to the name. It wasn't Kolkata then). We first see Herbert as dysfunctional, gawky, the proverbial idiot nephew in every family. But he grows on us, and we begin to see a more defined Herbert, the one who has a beautiful penmanship, the one who writes nonsense poems, the one who needs a hiding place, the one who flies kites, the one who has a vivid imagination, the one who has his unnamed longings, the one who dabbles in paranormal studies. Suddenly, he is not the idiot nephew anymore.

Another extremely important facet of the movie was its language. Possibly all the Bengali expletives known to man (and apparently unknown to Calcuttan policemen) were freely used. My knowledge of Bengali khisti increased overnight. Sadly, after I woke up next day at some time late int he afternoon, I had forgotten them all. Hopefully, someone else might fare better.

Predictably, since this movie was about politics, my college had a bit role to play. Its like second nature, a movie with few political leanings and suddenly, my college is a part of it. Though they did have a good view of it. And I liked the way the Presidency staircase was juxtaposed into the the 'Odessa steps', the site of a workers' uprising supported by the crew of the Russian battleship Potemkin and Lenin's Iskra, where hundreds of Odessan citizens were murdered on the great stone staircase (copy-pasted from Wikipedia). Some things, apparently, never change. Not that I understand anything about politics. I never did. I saw the movie from the viewpoint of a person wondering why the screen was moving. I did not attempt to delve deeply and certainly do not have any political illusions.

The movie also used several interesting techniques of movie making, among which, is an interesting craft, called by reviewers the Brechtian art of Alienation. I do not know what it means. I do know what it referred to, though. Herbert's parents were shown in certain shots, filming the life of their son, giving a tragi-comic twist to the entire plot line. Perhaps that was what it was about. A tragi-comic life of an idiot who got entangled in situations beyond his comprehension. The story of a foolish do-gooder.

It was a sad movie. A bitter one. Not a movie I should have watching in the middle of the night. But the memory lingers. There still is an impact. I am yet to fathom of what.

To read more coherent reviews of this movie, go here and here. I write rubbish reviews.

The Personality Defect Test

2007-10-29T20:16:00.000+05:30

Got the link of this site from Firewhisky.I knew I was evil, but they make me sound hideous. How I love them.
To realize you are not as flawless as you thought, go to
http://www.okcupid.com/tests/4741219933576750506/Personality-Defect

The Personality Defect Test

Your Score: Brute

You are 28% Rational, 28% Extroverted, 57% Brutal, and 85% Arrogant.

You are the Brute! You are introverted, arrogant, brutal, and more intuitive than rational. Like a big, dumb animal, you are driven by your emotions more than your reason, and as a result of the fact that you care very little for the feelings of others, you tend to be rather selfish. You also possibly fling your own poo. Because of your selfishness, you also tend to be a bit arrogant, seeing yourself as big or strong or smart or always correct. This makes you a stubborn, irrational, emotion-driven brute. King Kong best represents the gorilla-version of your personality. Emotional, introverted (King Kong was isolated on his own island, after all), brutal, and arrogant (proud to be the largest ape on Earth!), Kong would probably get along very well with you, seeing as how you share many of the same traits. Aside from, you know, all the fur. You probably keep to yourself and take great pleasure in watching fat people fall down stairs. (But who doesn't, really?) You probably also have dreams of becoming famous or well-known, but this most likely won't happen because your introversion limits your Hollywood connections. Being introverted, ape-like, and arrogant isn't so bad, though. It beats being dead. So your personality defect is simply that you act like a large, overgrown ape that thinks highly of itself whilst brutalizing buxom blondes. Or something.

Try to stay off of buildings.

If you do the tests, do leave your results. They make an interesting read.

My Ramble-Scramble Pujo Post-I

2007-10-24T02:54:00.000+05:30

Five Rather Weird Pujo Occurences 2007

Even at 4:30 a.m. at Maddox Square, it is perfectly possible to meet someone you know, complete with additional props like drunken stupor . Our group had 9 girls and had the innate power to wake up around 73 guys, all resplendent with their cameras and weird hairstyles, which, as everyone knows, is the mating call of our generation. The presence of 7 boys with us could not defeat their purpose. The spirit of Maddox Square glows splendidly in these 73 men.

Houses actually have signs stating "Ei gate-r shamne roll ba Pepsi jatiyo khaddyo grohon korben na (Do not consume eatables like Pepsi and roll in front of this gate)". I still don't see why. Pepsi is possibly the least likely thing one would spill. Unless they used is as an example of the genre it belongs to, alluding to tequilas or beers. Though I do not see people trying to have tequilas on a corner plot at God knows where, where everyone in the world, specially relatives, are liable to see them. But why rolls? I like rolls. Long live rolls. I do not like cockroaches.

At Ekdalia and Singhi Park, they cordon off people like cows (not people who look like cows, but the act of cordoning them was similar to putting cows in sheds. No, I do not look like a cow). Though I have been told its quite an usual phenomena during pujo. However, what was more creepy was the fact that just a few hours before, I had watched a friend being turned into a cow in a play. Coincidence? I think not. Our existence is an illusion which is preventing us from realizing that we are all cows and after the famed nuclear holocaust, cows will be the only living creatures left for they are actually cockroaches in disguise. What we call cockroaches now are actually the real human beings. For do not they outnumber us all and behave as if they are planning a devious attack to wipe us from the face of earth?

The major Pujo headlines this year was the fact that both Rani Mukherji and Kajol wore sunglasses on Ashtami. Half of the world was scandalized at this apparent blasphemy in the name of Ashtami Anjali, the other half was busy admiring them. Of course, there is one section left, who do not belong to the world, mainly because of the fact that they do not really understand why it is news. Why is it news? Someone's hair got stuck in the blades of a table fan during Anjali last year at our para. Where were the scandal mongering journalists, I prithee? Does not this incident count as profanity?

They had a Pandal based on Central Jail. Durga, I am assuming is the warden. Unless it is Durga who is the innocent victim accused of some heinous crime she did not commit, Shiva is her lawyer, Ganesha and all her prison mates and the Asura is therefore either the true perpetrator of the crime or the warden. Unless it was the warden who did it. Damn. Why can't butlers be wardens? Then the butler could do it. Butlers always do it. That is what butlers are for. It justifies their existence.

A lot happened these Pujas. Most importantly, I fell in love. Some people do it madly, some idiotically, some precipitately. I? I do it in all three ways. For I went and fell in love with Gregory Peck. He is dead. But he is gorgeous. He has that aquiline nose I could kill to get into the genes of my future generations. For I have one which would put Indira Gandhi to shame. Does he have a son? A grandson? Does he look like him? I solemnly believe people as good looking as that should reproduce like crazy so that at least one kid turns out exactly like him. Though how Rakesh Roshan begat Hrithik Roshan remains a standing mystery, right after the great question of Who funds Dev Anand movies?

I also broke up with my long standing boyfriend of one year, who turned all of five this year. Reason being he prefers being carried around by my sister rather than me. Any person who prefers my sister to me has absolutely no taste at all. So we decided to end it this year. (I am not a pedophile. I would have waited for him to turn 21 before we got married. Its just that he was not maturing fast enough to realize the enormity of our relationship. Plus, he has a crush on this four year old. I can fight tooth and nail for my man but I cannot defy age. Youth calls to youth. I am nineteen, going on forty, with mid life crisis fast looming. I had no hope.)

Pujo this year was not only about failed romances with deceased men and alliances with babies. It was not only about Pandal hopping either. I hope to write more about it in my next post. Until then
Shubo Bijoya.

Mostly About Bellybuttons

2007-10-14T23:29:00.000+05:30

Disclaimer: If any reader actually thinks this entry will be perverted, explicit and a joy to an entire section of male population, I am afraid I will have to disillusion you. Not only is it only partly about bellybuttons, it mostly talks about male bellybuttons. There, you have been warned. Now proceed at your own risk.

A Saturday night is usually a very evil way of ending a week when you have

no life
no chance of midnight revelries
a broken down computer, mainly because you repeatedly curse at it

After weeks of slogging for *mumble mumble mumble*, I finally had a morning when I could sleep for as long as I liked, for I have been blessed with parents who actually think I need as much sleep as I can get (They live in la-la land). Which obviously meant that I had an entire night to myself to do anything I liked without parental control or sunlight (I personally am not very fond of sunlight. Its way too over rated anyway). Hence I gave up some of my most precious, treasured, cherished and rare to find free hours to channel surfing.

After wandering around aimlessly at a few Bachchan movies, I finally reached Star World where they were showing Kyle XY which is about some boy who is different from everyone else. Why? He has no belly button. Oh, granted he has this really super memory and he completed reading every section of some encyclopedia in just an afternoon, and, oh, he has these amazing reflexes, but I mean, come on, no belly button? How cool is that? Spiderman did that reflexes thingy and androids or whatever he is supposed to be have huge memory reserves. Everybody knows that. But absence of belly buttons is the most unique Superhero trait ever. They might actually call him the NO BELLYBUTTON MAN, for he would roam around masked but topless, the bellybutton-less, washboard flat stomach being his stock-in-trade. It also helped that the robot or whatever the lead character is supposed to be playing is gorgeously cute which held my interest wonderfully. But his bellybutton-less existence had me spell bound and I spent a major part of an hour wondering what would life be like without a bellybutton. Other than the fact that if one did not have a bellybutton, there would be just one lesser body part to pierce, nothing really came to my mind. Does that make the belly button a vestigial organ?

The next batch of channel surfing led to a not-so-obscure movie called Dil Vil Pyar Vyar which is basically a meaningless movie with too much of sentiment, something I abhor, but has a few songs by Hariharan. I realize Mukesh loyalists cringe at the thought of his classics rehashed, but personally, any song sung in Hariharan's mellifluous voice is magical and an entire experience in itself. Hence, I steeled myself to watch a movie I would probably whimper for the rest of my life at the memory of. Unsurprisingly for a movie with 14 songs, one soon came along with a skimpily clad Hrishita Bhatt and a horror called Jimmy Shergill who actually had the gumption to wear an orange floral shirt with white trousers and a white jacket. Mercifully, the camera did not concentrate much on him. It was too busy following Bhatt's bellybutton in and around the railway station the song was shot at. It was then I made an observation that Kyle XY would not be much good as an actress over in India.
Because he has no bellybutton.

It was over an hour when realization finally struck me. I mercifully went to sleep.

Falling

2007-10-08T14:17:00.000+05:30

Some day the wind will change and you will see me clearly
One day these dreams of mine will bring me to my time
Some day i will become what i am meant to be coming to
One day but that's a million some days from today

Lately the sunshine makes a different shape around
Lately my music has a different sound to show me
Lately i ask questions of the world but no one is listening
Tell me when i go to sleep what will the morning bring me?

Falling, falling, falling, or am i flying?
Flying, flying, flying, or am i falling?

Though this is perhaps one of the most beautiful and lasting songs I have ever heard in a lifetime of music, I never could fathom its meaning completely. Sometimes I thought I understood what it was all about, but the last refrain always jumbled up all meanings born in my head. Until, that is, I came across this.

The song has a whole new aspect now. And never was it more beautiful.

Reflections on my future

2007-10-07T14:33:00.000+05:30

Sometime last year, while having the all important decision of choosing a life-defining career option thrown at my head, to be resolved in a couple of days, I chose Economics as a graduation subject. Now, everyone who knows me realizes I am a trespasser through the complex nitty-gritties of the subject, not only because I wandered into it by accident, but because I am sticking to it by sheer will power and the fact that most of my closest friends seem equally immune to its thrills and joys. Solow Model gives me no hope for humanity and I would rather worship the duo of Jeeves and Bertie rather than Hicks and Slutsky, notwithstanding the fact that the name of the latter partly borders into an adult context.
[For the uninitiated and the interested(why?), Hicks and Slutsky are famous economists known for deriving a couple of graphs no human could ever reproduce without losing a thick thatch of cranial hair and a couple of fingernails]

However, I do not vex over the question of my future, do not fear unemployment (specially since I have to read an entire chapter on it for the next term) and certainly do not worry about ending up as a vagabond. For while at school (it was school where I devised most of my hair brained plans, aided and abetted by one of my best friends and maddest companions, ad libber KS), I had devised a career option, certain to provide me with ample means to lead a life of luxury and have a twenty-four protection from all kinds of lawful segments of society. For should not terrorists be eternally devoted to the teacher of their young, fragile youth who accompanied them in their joyful gambols and taught them the name of their first revolver?

For KS and I have decided to open up a Kindergarten for Young Terrorists for specialized attention in their selected stream of study. Both KS and I believe that the molding of an young mind should begin early and if kids were born to bomb innocent human beings, they should learn to do so early, so as to prevent any symptoms of actually having a heart. We even charted a whole new course plan with a revised system of teaching alphabets to young kids using words and metaphors familiar to them with regular usage. Which brings us to the purpose of this post, the public unveiling of

The Revised Alphabets for Kindergarten Terrorists

A is for AK 56
B is for Bombs
C is for Cartridges
D is for Dynamites
E is for Enemies
F is for Fireguns
G is for Grenades
H is for Handguns
I is for Incendiary Bomb
J is for Jail
K is for Ku Klux Klan
L is for Laserguns
M is for Machineguns
N is for Naxalites
O is for Osama
P is for Pistols
Q is for Qaeda
R is for RDX
S is for Suicide Bombers
T is for Terrorism
U is for USA
V is for V2
W is for WTC
X is from Xenophobia
Y is for Yataghan
Z is for Zealots

However there still remains a certain trepidation as to some of the mentioned might come and kill us in our sleep (I actually am presumptuous enough to think Osama Bin Laden reads my blog) so I would like to clarify with them that KS and I are not innocent citizens and murdering us would be a great service to our nation, which, as an act, is complete contrary to the image you are trying to build of yourself. Hence, if you want to remain the feared and favoured few, the best decision you could ever make is employing us as the basic infrastructure in your economy. That, my friend, would be your greatest and most fearless act as a terrorist.

Bonky and Pongo's Day Out- II

2007-09-28T01:46:00.000+05:30

The all-pervading aroma from the door on the right proved to be a unisexual bathroom while the door on the left was stoutly locked, which led to an inevitable choice of the center door. The first room turned out to be a hall which had been converted into a sales counter. The compulsive shopper in me called out to look at the delights at display, books mostly, with cheerful titles like "Governor Generals of India during the British Raj" and "British Trade Policies (1870-1930)" . It was again the more practical Bonky who came to my rescue by reminding me that if we pooled our funds, we would only be able to scrape a few hundred bucks for a book we would end up gifting to our grandparents. Better sense prevailed and we moved onwards.

Actually we did not. The sales counter man doubling up as a security guard asked us to halt and said visitors were supposed to go the rooms to their left, the rest being private quarters. Our conspiratorial minds immediately went haywire, forming theories of a room where skeletons were kept, hung from the overhead chandeliers which where the last governor's wives' corpses after he had consumed them (cannibalism happens to be one of our many interests). However, remembering the fact that even Scary Movie 3 scared me out of my wits, we dutifully went leftwards where the treasures of Metcalfe Hall were laid in front of us in all its splendour and glory.

"Bricks?"

The query resonated throughout the room. All the room contained was glass cases with bricks laid lovingly and protectively in them. Wondering slightly at the hobby of the last resident of the Hall, we roamed around, trying to fake an interest in stones, if only to please the septuagenarian
looking wonderingly at us from his post at the sales counter. It was then that we discovered a brick derived from the foundation of Bethune College. (A query here. How do people acquire foundation stones? Do they dig the place up? Or do they take it out before the rest of the building is made. If so, then can it be technically called a foundation stone since it never was allowed to remain a part of the foundation?) College loyalists that we are, we made it the mission of the next fifteen minutes to hunt up the foundation stone from our college among the fusillade of bricks collected in the room. Sadly, the stock of the foundation stone of our college had apparently been low and the room lacked severely in any bricks ear marked thus. On a happier note, none other bricks were found from any other college and we left the place, disappointed yet pleased.

Bonky suggests an inventory to be made of the bricks we met there so here it goes:

some bricks from a temple
many other bricks from some other temple
ditto
ditto
don't remember much else

The next room had a few canvases with pictures of less known temples in West Bengal but a cursory glance was enough for them. What really intrigued us was a couple of spiral stairs at two ends of the room leading to a balcony giving a bird's eye view of the room (not that it needed it). The conversation which ensued between us brilliant and absorbing conversationalists went like this :

P : Stairs.
B : Guk.
P : (in case something had missed Bonky's eagle eyes)Two stairs.
B : Indeed.
P : You take the right and I take the left, I guess?
B : (as always the more practical one) The balcony will fall down under our combined weight.
P : (avoiding looking at the carved structures which were an excuse for supports) Not really. People must come here sometimes and use it.
B : Oh yeah? How many brick lovers have you exactly met during your lifetime?
P : (hazarding a guess) Sweepers do come, right?
B : Oh, lets do it. At any rate, we might be able to avoid looking at our results.

And on this happy note, we comported ourselves on the stairs when we deduced the main reason why the balcony had not needed ample support. The stairs had been made to fit Chinese women in the age when their feet had been bound in yards of bandages owing to the lack of shoes for size ten feet. Holding on to the banister for dear life and almost tip toeing on the stairs (which had hollows, which meant a wrong step could lead to a foot hanging mid air from one of the steps), we finally reached the balcony. The next conversation we had went like this

B: So, sweepers, huh?
P : What I can't fathom is how do birds reach a room where there are no windows?
B : Mysterious indeed. So, do we get down the other end?
P : Hey, descending was never a part of the contract!

For here, a forgotten fear of heights attacks one of the protagonists and she begins to find excuses to remain on the balcony until she loses enough weight to have her knight in shining armour arrive and carry her downstairs. She was wondering at repercussions of the plan when

B : Dude, I believe that is the secret room.
P : (Immediately closing her eyes) Can you see the skeletons? Is there muscle peeling away from the bone. Will I be able to sleep tonight? Oh, THE HUMANITY!!!
B: Yeah well, all I can see is more books. I guess that's the stock room for that sales counter. Who do you think buys these books? (The economist in her perks up) Is that like an inventory investment?
P : (giving a look no one should give a friend and a fellow sufferer in the cause of education) Will you please concentrate on how to get me down from here? In case you don't remember, we have a movie to watch in, like, three hours and neither of us likes the idea of watching a movie alone. Also, the food is in my bag.
B: Oh, come on. The most that can happen is that we break our necks here and die, our dead bodies undiscovered till two more jobless girls come around here. On a brighter side, death can't be that bad. After all, we did give miserable examinations.

The question of dying thus admirably settled, we proceeded on our way down. It was the classic RDB moment. We had faced so much fear in the name of the impending results, that we had actually gone to a point beyond fear. It was more with the hope of death in our hearts that we tried to fit in our big feet in the tiny foot rests.However, as it is during times when you actually want to die, we did not manage to break our necks and came down, with clammy foreheads and hands a mysterious shade of brown as the only memento of our great climb.

Our journey back from Metcalfe Hall was eventful enough, what with absence of trams, burgers for ten bucks each, visits to haunted churches, trying to find our way to a movie hall in the middle of nowhere, having softies, gazing enviously at young people for their youth and the fact that all of them had boyfriends (at 19, we are aging young), happily gazing at tall guys in blue shirts, green shirts and white shirts and of course, cheering loudly at the women in Chak de India when they beat up the guys at MacD. However, that is a tale for another rainy day and as far as Bonky and Pongo are concerned, the tale of their day out is over.

Next story in line is hopefully the results of using a candid camera at Elliot Park.

p.s. The cartoons are highly amateurish in nature since I have never drawn anything in my entire life and used photoshop even less. Their purpose is nil and will probably be removed someday. They are to be taken in a humorous stride and all evil critics commenting against them will have the curse of the backside itch put on them. If you are a nice critic, may you have a harem of your own :)

Bonky and Pongo's Day Out- I

2007-09-13T01:01:00.000+05:30

(This post is dedicated to Bonky, the person who has always inspired me to never follow my own decisions about dieting, but to go and stuff my face if I have the money, and, if possible, lend her some too.Hence, I openly proclaim that I will name my first child after you, regardless of its sex, if your husband murders you before it is born.)
It all started with the usual level of frustration with life for Bonky and me. Looking comprehensively at the fact that we were turning into amoebas, hated our graduating subject and had mistakenly arrived an hour early for our morning class on a warm, gentle Saturday morning, the next obvious step was walking dejectedly towards the college gates, wondering which stagnant waters would we end up being mosquitoes in. One of us opined (at this precise moment, I forget who, but it doesn't matter, both of us still think that) that we were total losers to be hanging around in the college for classes on a Saturday, when other people our age would be
a) sleeping
b) preparing for some date hours later
c) sleeping
d) getting rid of a hangover
e) sleeping
f) staring at the ceiling, blowing air bubbles and wondering what would be there for breakfast.

At this psychological hour, a tram crossed our path. We, pseudo economists and self proclaimed unicellular organisms when it comes to survival, think alike and think different. A tram with an unknown destination was accepted as our calling and we got up on the next one (we had missed our first inspiration while we were busy reading each other's minds).

This wasn't our first ride. We have had many such impromptu escapades from the humdrum menace of classes. Yet, the first foolish questions in a series of foolish questions happened to be, "where does this tram go" to a bemused conductor, possibly unused to absent minded, bespectacled, foolishly blinking young girls with as little clue of their destination as he himself. We got two tickets to the last stop, hoping against hope it would not be beyond traversed paths or recognizable tracts of civilizations. It was while we giggling away to glory at our daring, adventurous spirit (we are young girls who haven't been left alone beyond a fixed diameter around tuitions) that we suddenly found ourselves amidst a glory of British architecture and a bevy of business people amazed at the spectacle of two tripping teenagers staring goggle eyed at everything. The more erudite Bonky recognized the place as Dalhousie, the place which houses banks and churches with equal élan.

Traipsing around like little girls, an eye opened for food shops, it was not long before we saw a supposed minaret at a distance. Close inspection proved it to be the General Post Office. Following Rikki Tikki Tavi's motto, we went and found out all we could about it, which was not much. Though we did find a couple of cute guys we could stare happily at, our lack of post office etiquette rose a few eyebrows. Our girlish exuberance at the sight of the stamp corner and a computerized section was not well received and it was not long before we were looking somewhere else for luck and interest.

More aimless wanderings and a roving eye brought us to a building covered with beggars which proclaimed itself to be Metcalfe Hall on a disused pillar. Having heard the name in one of my rarer non-orkutting browsing of the internet, I dragged a bewildered Bonky to the bird defiled exterior, with its impressive rows of columns and wide staircases one could play hopscotch on (we did try to, as a matter of fact).

The interior was not very impressive at the beginning. A huge notice loomed proclaiming the legend that we needed to get permission of the security guards to look around, not that we saw any scope of doing anything illegal there, except, maybe, practice our cheerleading skills. Perceiving our hesitance, a man, posing as a security guard (oh, come on, why would Metcalfe Hall need security guards?), rushed us off upstairs, the ground floor being cordoned off for the birds, we presumed.
However, things started looking up with our ascent. Our journey was assisted by sweeping, wooden, carpeted stairs while the walls were adorned with pictures of Victoria Memorial in all its splendor (we suspect those pictures had been photo edited a bit, Victoria Memorial never looked like that ever since coloured photo films had been invented). Muffled footsteps accompanied us to a landing with three, yellow, paint-chipped doors.

Which door did we choose? Did the day bring forth further minor adventures? Were there any more philosophical musings? Did we discover a dead body sprawled across the middle of the Metcalfe Hall with an oriental knife sticking through its heart? Find out later in the sequel to Bonky and Pongo's Day Out.

(OK, fine, I am too lazy to complete this.)

Onion Soup for the Drunkard's Soul

2007-08-25T22:39:00.000+05:30

(Dedicated to the only professor who thinks I am of Tamil parentage)

Have you been stopped receiving indirect hints about the membership openings at Alcoholics Anonymous? Does a half empty glass appear half full to you when you are on your penultimate peg? Is the first thing you desire every morning a black coffee? Can you actually pretend to be sober while you are stuffed to your gills? Then, hold your drunken breath, you are not being true to the code of the drunkards, the oaths and protocols of the distinguished few who have managed to immerse their whole lives to boozing and staying inebriated in all their waking hours, if, they can be called awake. So here is another vignette, chosen carefully and written with the toil and sweat of a few sober people, in an attempt to rouse the world to the joy of staying sloshed and never to put down the cocktail until you are being dragged homeward bound.

The Reformation

J.D. was a drunkard. He also was in love. Usually one begets the other, but he managed to perform both individually, with neither of the sets intersecting each other, though, of course, the lightheadedness associated with his drink did create an illusion of his beloved having more beauty than the Lord had bestowed on her. But the illusion helped and thus, every day, in every way, after his fourth peg, J.D. realized what he really needed was a woman in his house, in front of his favourite armchair, with limpid eyes to gaze into through the end of a glass and eager hands eagerly bringing in soda every half an hour. The future was not unthought of either. He already had plans to open a brewery with his eldest son while his youngest son would own a vineyard. In fact, everything was settled upon except for the asking of the woman's hand. Our brave protagonist did not cringe there either. Without the assistance of any additional alcohol to his regular amount, he went and braved it, the odds not withstanding.

However, the girl's acceptance had the predictable condition, she wanted her future husband to abstain from all alcoholic drinks. The reason behind this seemingly lay in an unhappy childhood consisting of a drunkard father, a long suffering mother and midnight brawls in front of their home with the renegades of the night. She refused to foresee a similar future for herself despite J.D. 's forceful recital of the midnight brawls being sources of general knowledge, usually regarding natural history. It pertained, she was not very fond of natural history, due to having a Ph.D. on it.

Such was the power of his love for the girl that J.D. actually contemplated taking up sobriety as as a natural form of existence. J.D. had never drunk to lessen pain, there had been no sorrow gnawing at his heart. He drank for pure pleasure. Intoxication came to him as inspiration comes to a writer. The artist in him took delight in discovering different forms of drunkenness, and, though not a well known fact, he had even composed and published essays on this. It was to explain this and beg for understanding and pity that he landed up, late one evening at his betrothed's.

It was his future mother-in-law who received him, informing him that her daughter was away. Seated in a very feminine living room, with more drink sloshing in him than he was used to, the motherly concern shown by his fiancee's mother regarding his pallid looking skin and a distraught expression made J.D. break down into fierce hiccups, an emotional outlet to his real feelings. Not being able to hold them any longer, he cried out all his troubles and worries and begged the woman in front of her to have mercy on his pitiful state and ask her daughter to reconsider her decision. It was the eerie silence of his audience which woke him up to the fact that this woman herself was a victim of a drunken husband and was not wont to sympathize with his case. It was while he was trying to find a tactful comment about the weather when she quietly spoke, "It wasn't her father. It was me." While J.D. blinked away his confusion, she explained her husband had always been a strict teetotaler and it was she who had been addicted to the glass. It had meant a painful childhood for her daughter who adored her father, who disliked his wife's little luxuries. An impressionable girl, she felt her mother to be in the wrong and sided with her father when it came to the question of the habit of drinking and found the act reprehensible. However, her father having died due to natural causes a few years ago (possibly because he did not drink, everyone knows alcohol kills germs), it was he his daughter attributed the drinking habit to, too ashamed to confess she had a drunk mother. She finished her story by offering a glass of whiskey to J.D. who rose to the occasion by asking for two.

It was while consuming his fourth glass while the lady was on her fifth that he realized he had met a kindred soul. Not only did she gulp down whiskeys with the fine artistry of a camel, she had a rare, shining, truthful spirit, who was not ashamed to own up that she drank, nay, was actually proud of it. He compared her to her daughter, who not only deceived him, but also disliked alcohol, classifying her as a lemon in the garden of paradise. It was on his seventh glass that a sudden realization shook him to the core and he saw what a fool he had been going to make of himself.

J.D. and his once-upon-a-time future-mother-in-law are happily married today with two adopted sons, both of whom, though young, show a healthy interest in the making of alcohol. Though their father does not allow them to consume it till they are of age, it is clear that his dreams for his sons will surely come true.

Which FRIENDS character do i resemble?

2007-08-24T11:10:00.000+05:30

Okay, so this may be a waste of time and space and effort, but I am most like Chandler!!! Yay me!!

My Superhero Alter Ego

2007-08-23T01:34:00.000+05:30

Your Superhero Profile

Your Superhero Name is The Mammoth Zombie
Your Superpower is Complements
Your Weakness is Handshakes
Your Weapon is Your Solar Rusty
Your Mode of Transportation is Elephant

What's your Superhero Name?

How did they know an elephant is the only living being physically able to carry me- except the blue whale, that is. Gawd, Blogthings has a satellite above my house!!!

The Railway Children - A Very Personal Reflection

2007-08-17T02:16:00.000+05:30

At 19, when one is supposed to be reading Dostoevsky and ruminating on Kafka's works (I attempted to do both with very minor success), I still remain in denial that, at this age, The First Term at Malory Towers does not really make an appropriate reading material. Maybe I just chanced to retain the child in me or, more plausibly, the child in me has kidnapped the part of my brain which should feed me information about my mental and spiritual growth and is doing cannibalistic ritual dances on it. However, the moot point is, one of my best beloved books happens to be a children's classic and I type this reflection proudly, sheltering under a hope that my readers, a population of possibly five people at most, will agree with me.

For people unfamiliar with the book, Edith Nesbit's The Railway Children is about a family of three children and almost perfect parents whose life is transformed after their father mysteriously disappears. They face the fear of poverty, change homes, and, the most wonderful bit of all, get acquainted with the railway running near their new cottage. How their lives are intertwined with the railway and the friends they make there, their adventures and misadventures, and how it all becomes a process of growing up is what the book is about.

This is not a review. I cannot be presumptuous enough to review a book I loved as a kid, still love when I am pretending to be a kid, and hope some day my kids love it too. Though if my kids are anything like me, they would certainly prefer The Criminal's Manual to Lock Picking. This is just a very unsuccessful attempt to share the sheer magic of innocence and charm of a lost tribe of childhood. This is about a time when kids actually went and explored places when they had nothing to do-an Enid Bytonian era of childhood. A phase unknown to most people. Though what attracts you most is that there is no heavy morality, no adventures with smugglers who are apparently found at every nook if you are a band of at least four kids and a dog with ESP. At least that is the impression Enid Blyton gave me. For heaven's sake, 21 adventures!! All they did was make a plan to have a picnic, and whoa, suddenly there is a bunch of thugs looking for hidden treasures or Uranium five paces from there picnic spots.

Mind it, I love the Famous Five. Its just that I am mildly jealous of their luck.

What they do is what mostly every kid dreams of doing. The kind of dreams the BFG blows in the twilight hour. Stopping a train from accident, saving babies from burning buildings. Yet, more than bravery, what touches me is the other emotions explained here. The terrifying doubt of failure, the embarrassment at being felicitated, yet, an anticipation for it, the self recrimination, the childish attempts to make good, an undying belief in the goodness of others and the ability to love selflessly.

The Author's favourite character Bobbie wins my heart very time I read it. The unselfish love for her mother, the maturity of the young mind, the generous and impetuous actions and a brave little heart creates a little girl, not nauseatingly perfect, but lovingly real and beloved.

The story itself holds no mystery. There is no thrill of a suspense, no part where you grip the book in chilled anticipation. The charm of the book lies in the hearts of the children, who live in a world of their own, where their is imagination, adventures and friendship which blends easily with their trials in real lives-the boredom of lessons, the lack of playmates, the strain of work and, of course, the absence of their Father. Thus a book is made, where children are children, not young moral heroes, where they make mistakes and learn from them, where they have accidents, where the mother is a wonderful figure of motherhood, morally upright but with a sense of humour, where she is both understanding and generously loving, where, after all said and done, she is a beloved mother, like mothers everywhere.

Why do I suggest the book to a world of adults out there? I don't. Its a part of my childhood and hope it was a part of yours.

Ode to my Mathematical Economics Professor's Class on a Thursday Afternoon

2007-07-07T19:54:00.000+05:30

Thou might be teaching thine students a thousand words of thine expertise
But dost thou never realize how utterly futile the purpose of education is?
Whence comparing our existence to the cosmos beyond the boundaries of all imaginations
Dost not thou comprehend, how entirely insignificant set theory is to the universe?

Dost thou have no inkling that man was created to enjoy His gifts
Not question, ponder and contemplate on them
Why are not thee satisfied that we are able enough to drag our sorry selves to college every day
That thou have to complicate all matters by adding derivable functions to them?

For what does it really matter in our inconsequential lives
That linear functions are odd or even,
When no one will remove the dust from our graves
A hundred years hence?

The Deathly Hallows

2007-07-07T02:26:00.000+05:30

Possibly the most faithful of all love stories begun when someone lent me “The Philosopher’s Stone” for a week to peruse and ponder upon. Thus spawned my one sided love affair with the most brilliant and ingenious of human creations ever ( For people who think the most brilliant and ingenious of human creators ever is Tolkien, Shah Jahan or Paris Hilton's dress designer, I agree with you all. Each to his own). My young, teenage, perpetually unattached heart, felt a whole gamut of emotions, from exhilaration to resounding grief, in the span of seven years as I followed the hormone ravaged, angst filled, replete with desires for revenge and other unmentionable stuff adventures of the boy-man Potter. Needless to say, this devotion affected my reality, where I ended up defining my ideal mate as thin, bespectacled, hopefully scarred and with lots of issues against life. So here I am, 19, loveless, and waiting for the final bugle call- will He live?

When the announcement did come through that my life was soon going to be complete with the release of the last book, God was in heaven and all was right with the world. In sheer bliss, I fascinated all the neighbourhood window-peerers, which includes the next door grocer, garage hands from the garage opposite and the twelve year old brother of a former beauty queen, who, thankfully, now reigns somewhere in suburban America, by a pseudo jhingalala dance, which uses hair brushes, sofa sets and remote control sets as props . After all, what could prevent the solemn union between the beloved and the lover? Was not I a true fan? Did not I despise the movies for insulting the very foundation of my reason for existence? Did not I pray every night despite being a confirmed atheist for Ron and Hermione to come together? Did not I know where “armadillo bile” is mentioned in the entire series (For those who do not know, Harry spills it in the fourth book to eavesdrop on Snape and Karkaroff)? Could the powers that be prevent a union as holy and hallowed as mine and the Deathly Hallows?

Turns out, it could.

To think Romeo and Juliet thought they had it hard.

With pecuniary conditions equaling the amount of calories received by prisoner of wars, I hardly had much of an option left but to broach the subject of an additional payment for his virtual son-in-law to my father. When the daughter of the house spends most of the money she earns trying to replenish the calories she loses while turning pages of heavy books, it is the duty of the patriarch of the family to fulfill her spiritual needs, namely buy the stuff lying beyond her budget constraints.

The stage layout was perfectly set. My dad was dreamily reading a book the life and times of Jute factory owners after the Scandinavian literature breakthrough (or so I presumed). My mum looked equally dreamily into space, possibly wondering on the merits of marriage to men who seem only to care for tragedies and troubles rampaging the world only if its taking place at least a few thousand miles away from their door steps. Fingers crossed, I asked them about the possible loan, with full assurance of a future pay off of a thousand rupees, zero interest scheme. My mother had an instant aneurysm. My father, meanwhile, is a steady sort of a person with the patience of a man who has seen inflation steadily and seen it whole. He calmly asked whether my new found economic knowledge actually concurred that it was a sound budget policy during the period of economic depression my family was facing (which, may I add, we have been facing ever since my sister and I have been old enough to demand for our financial rights). After all, with ambitions ranging from being research assistants to professing on the nitty-gritties of economics, all of which pay a salary equaling cost of prison fare per individual, my claim of returning the money back was indubitably questionable. It finally ended in a stalemate where my dad took a look at my mother and opined her expression was similar to a Russian peasant who had just been intimated that his goat had crossed the path of the Czar and went back to peruse his book on the Japanese opinion of the state of anarchy raging in the Texan lands (or so I presumed again). My mother, realizing the demand of monetary assistance in the face of an unequal supply had been refuted, if not in a very direct manner, resumed her contemplation on the wisdom of marrying men who had hearts big enough to worry about the political state in Timbuktu but could never care enough for the fact that the plumber needed to be called in.

I have a feeling, this time, my reunion with Potter will be with a much thumbed, broken spined library book with traces of tears all over it, reminding me of the fact that He is in the habit of keeping concubines.

Now I truly know the pangs of love and separation. Ignorance had been truly bliss.

I know, weird ending.

The End.

Fish Faced Follies

The blog has retired...

How to Kill a Cockroach

MIHYAP Contest #1

Mr. Bhagat, A Word Please

Still Around

Betrayer kotha kare

Because I Had Been Thinking About It..

Bits and Pieces

Update

Umm...

The Chennai Story

Rain and Other Elements

Among other things

Filler 3

Sort of a bucket list

The Nights Before Examinations

My Goodbye Post

Filler

Why

The Mindless Musings of the Single, Bored 21 Year Old

Witching Hour Wishes

More tags- ho hum

Advice to the Unheeding

A Murderer Breathing Down My Neck

Because my mind is plotless

Sabbatical- part 2

Since I will be away

Pride and Prejudice- The movie

Domestic Issues

For Austen aficionados

The World of ad libber

Chronicles of Part 2 Exams: The Student says Pheww

Chronicles of Part 2 Exams: The Results of the Toil

Titles have never been my strong point- Yet more tags

Since it is midnight and all I am doing is surfing IMDB for Iranian movies.

A Second Quest

My Ramble Scramble Pujo Post-3

My Ramble- Scramble Pujo Post-II

Rather Randomly

My Bomb Post

Tiggery Pokery's Joy

How Economic Models are Made (or What Heads of Institutions I will be Applying to Should Not Come Across

A Hurried Update

What ho

What I Could Do With My Life- The Way of the Economists

Chronicles of Part 2 Exams- The Examgiver's Fear

Who has got a new tag?

Now, Who Really Gives a Damn What This Post is Titled

Chronicles of Part-2 Exams: The Voyage of the Blog Reader

Chronicles of Part-2 Exams: Bollywood, the Student and the Free SMS Scheme

And yet another tag

A Quest

Yet another tag

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

Notes From Early Mornings

BTW

The Last of the Tags

Rants, Birds, More Rants and Stuff

The Dudes Abide

Damn My Cursed Memory

The last ode to teenage-ism

It is That Time of the Year Again

Weddings and Funerals

Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones - Another Rambling Non-Review

Dead Turtles

The Year That Will Be

The Month That Was

The Perils in the Life of the Indian Student

Hallelujah

The Terrible Two and the Mystery of The Reluctant Child

War and Peace

Reflections on Oranges, Death and Om Shanti Om

Filler

Because I am Not Sleepy

Ode to Too Many Failed Attempts to Solve an *expletive* Maths Question

Herbert- A Rambling Non- Review

The Personality Defect Test

The Personality Defect Test

Your Score: Brute

Ode to Too Many Failed Attempts to Solve an expletive Maths Question