The World of ad libber

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.

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BTW

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

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

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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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