The Mindless Musings of the Single, Bored 21 Year Old

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dearest,

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

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

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

Will you still love me if I wrote poetry?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Rather Randomly

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.

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Chronicles of Part 2 Exams- The Examgiver's Fear

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.

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

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.

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Notes From Early Mornings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Rants, Birds, More Rants and Stuff

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

I have never really known why my father would take me to shoot balloons at an young, impressionable age. It has been 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.

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The last ode to teenage-ism

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.

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It is That Time of the Year Again

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.

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Weddings and Funerals

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)]

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Filler

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.

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Because I am Not Sleepy

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.

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My Ramble-Scramble Pujo Post-I

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.

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Onion Soup for the Drunkard's Soul

(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.

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Rahmania

Who will I tell my life story to if not to everyone on the internet?
oh, and if you are interested in funny stuff, don't read this.
My devotion to A.R. Rahman's music began in a very roundabout way..
It all started with Veer-Zaara, Having hated Shahrukh Khan for about my whole life, I typically ended up having a crush on him (my crush list grows weirder as I grow older and includes Karan Johar, Ranveer Shouri, Prashanth {the hero in Jeans} and Rupert Grint, and oh, for about one and a half hours Joy Mukherjee). So there I was, in what I concluded was real love and decided to see all the SRK movies ever made which incidentally included
1) Chamatkar
2)Karan Arjun
3)Koyla
4)Shakti
which led to Dil Se, and I was floored, not by him, but the music, and what had been a liking turned into an obsession.

A.R. Rahman grew gradually into a mania for me. The effect his music has is probably indescribable, but I will try for once. Have you ever heard a tune, wordless tune, which has brought a lump in your throat because of its tragic beauty, that you try to listen to it again and again so that you might envelope your whole soul into the music, so that your mind is the music itself? Unless you are in love with music, you won't understand what I mean.

A.R. Rahman's music is probably the closest thing to love I have ever experienced. Unsurprisingly, ever since this obsession, I have never had a crush on anyone, ever. All I ever wish is to meet him once and thank him for everything he has given to music, for making my life so much more better.

And here starts another long, long wait for the album Guru to release. I wish I was a Tamilian and lived there to have access to all his creations and understand him. But Rahman is unbeatable in one characteristic, his music can portray emotions even if they are wordless, so language, somehow, is not much of a barrier.

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