Rivers I Have Known

Internet Memes, or Why We are Moving Towards Comfortably Dumb

2012-01-27T03:08:00.000-08:00

If you have spent any significant part of last year wasting time on the internet, you will probably know what these images mean:

The concept of meme, introduced, I believe, by Richard Dawkins, means an idea that replicates itself in the minds of other brains and spreads very quickly. The Internet memes, aided by the invisible superpowers of the net, have lit up its unproductive nooks like a forest fire. You can understand their almost addictive appeal- they don’t need you to do any thinking, any idea that can be described has a template of images to describe it in, the celebration is not of the new and the unique, but of the comfortable herd.

It’s not just the internet and not just the memes, anywhere you look you see a gradual dumbing down. The TV channels that used to show music ten years ago now show young people having cussing contests. The newspapers that once gloried in brilliant editorials today have nipple expose scandals as front page news.

I realize how judgmental these words sound, but that is not their intention. Being dumb is not per se bad; it may even have become a requirement. What if we have gotten as wise as is evolutionarily feasible, and now if we get any wiser we’ll be jiving our way to extinction like lemmings. Perhaps a herd mentality and a low intellect are precisely what are needed for humankind to continue thriving? It will certainly bring down suicide rates, destructiveness, wars, and all other dark spawns of deep thought. It makes me think of the dual society in HG Wells’ Time Machine. But no doubt its better for people to watch Roadies or browse 9gag for hours rather than plot murder, mayhem and/or self harm.

Hello everybody. Sorry for this pathetically bad piece of writing. I haven’t written in years and I am creaky. But I plan to write regularly, hopefully daily now, show I might be able to shed off the years of gathered mucus.

Thanks, all.

Tonight we drink to heartache

2011-03-31T09:19:00.000-07:00

Tonight we drink to heartache, and we can't get drunk enough

You crush each individual grape between your toes.

Your eyes are numb as you sense the juices flow.

And we curl our fingers around your momentary love.

We lay down in your coalstack but we are not warm enough.

You crush each individual grape between your toes.

Each lover kisses your drying blood to life before he goes.

We hold your head steady in your pool of eternal love.

We light ourselves a fire around the secrets that you grow.

Each moment is eternal that you crush between your toes.

And before you bury us we hold you long and deep.

Eternal is a moment in your drunken dreamless sleep.

tor kobita shombondhe amar motamot

2011-03-14T06:20:00.000-07:00

Tui hoyto bhabish je tui agun.

Tui hoyto bhabish je tui jhor.

Udiye niye puriye diye jabe

Tor kobita amar e shohor.

Hoyto tui nijeke bhabish pakhi,

Kon shokal-e ghum bhangabi shobar.

Hoyto bhabish ekla samurai,

Kobita tor motto torobaar.

Tui jetake bhabish sheko beesh

Ashole ta makha chirey-dudh.

Lekh tui tor joto icche, tobe

Acid bhebe chhetashne ar muut.

Ami Prem-e Aro Hasi Chai

2010-05-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

hasi maity-r jonno-

Morche pora

Pagla Heera,

Shomoy bujhi paltalona?

Sranto-olosh

Albertross,

Tai ki chhero nijer dana?

Krishno heere,

Tomay gheere

Jolche koto neon pakhi,

Jolche koto

Shonar pidim,

Konta feli konta rakhi?

Duiti hasi

Pashapashi

Ekti heera ekti meki.

Kolshi-r nyaye

Bhangle aamay

Prem debona tai bole ki?

2010-05-17T08:14:00.000-07:00

Din namcha-r anatomy
Aakash jure rokto bomi

Shohoj ruosh-e ghurche churi
Andha-mukhi, dhongshogami

Ar ekti raat bashor shajay
Ar ekta din haarai ami

to a commenter

2010-04-24T11:57:00.000-07:00

Buno Mainak said...
"good,intense,tight but cliche.overused words and images crowd together....we want sum freshness from ur pen,dear"

Your constructive criticism
Does not help me grow.
I am a rodent size person
With a whale size ego.

Treat this as an entreaty
from a much pampered friend.
If you like it, exaggerate.
If you don't, pretend.

For Almond Eyes

2010-03-12T07:32:00.000-08:00

I try to write
Inside my head.
I play with words all day.
I paint with them.
I sing to them.
But I cannot make them stay.

I tried to write
Of castles built
With matches, cards and strings.
Of hours spent
In slow regret,
And blowing perfect rings.

I’ve tried to write
Of why I sought
A downward curving smile.
And how we interred
A girl who dared
To love with tasteless guile.

Doing the math

Of collision paths,
And vows that sound sublime.
And motherhood
Tied hand and foot,
Sneering, biding time.

Of all of me,
Together to be
A small domestic army.
Of words that scald
My faulty world,
And blows that merely scar me.

Of Almond Eyes,
And all the lies
I’ve told to get this far.
Falling in love
With a man I thought
I’d been loving from the start.

I’m trying to make
These words behave
The way I’m perambulating.
Words are all
I’ve ever screwed
(But that’s me, deviating)

Almond Eyes
I want to write.
That’s all I’m trying to say.
I want to write
For you, my love,
But you take my words away.

Regressing.

2010-03-04T07:40:00.000-08:00

I’m the girl who does not care
If I’m gaining weight or losing hair
If my husband has a damn affair
I simply wimply do not care.

My boss is aloof & my colleagues are mean
Stuff in my fridge are turning green.
Not a single shirt is clean
I’m not bothered. I don’t care.

My boyfriend tells me I’m a mess.
I’m the cause for my parents’ stress.
My friends all like me less & less.
It breaks my heart. But I don’t care.

I know squat about corporate law.
Cigarettes are rubbing my trachea raw.
I cook bad enough to inspire awe.
I know I should, but I STILL don’t care.

So I turned fifty last week
So I’m getting wrinkles on my cheek.
So strangers tell me I’m a freak.
Do I look like I fucking care?

And my writers block is here to stay.
So the one thing I had has gone away.
And my first poem in months reads like juvenile crap.
And it doesn’t rhyme, by the way.

Hiralal-er Biyer Aage Ekta Kobita

2009-11-03T06:05:00.000-08:00

Kon hashi ta kothaay haashi, ulto-palta birombona.
Bus-er bhire hothath dekha buuk-er khaajer uttejona.

Udor theke pitthi hoye uttejona golaa-e othe.
Ghamchi ami, gilche aamay kolonkito toshok-khana.

“Biye-er porei meye-ra emon pichon theke mutoye keno?"
Aar kota mash, tarpore to kol-tola te aar jabo na…

Chobi ta ki chena gelo?

Prithibi-te Maash Khaanek

2009-10-05T09:35:00.000-07:00

Bristi hole shwopnoneer-e hurhuriye jol dhoke,
Nachte gelei achhar khabi, shamle dhori mon toke.

Baranda-r dorja khana pokko haather surgery.
Kaada jol-e paa dubiye raatri jege paayechari.

Rosh paayi na bhaath-er fyan-e, rosh paayi na bisna-te.
Rosh-er khoj-e shukno manush, nidra chhanchi majh-raate.

Aar jonmer jomaano beesh daag enke deye shorir-moy.
Sheera-ye sheera-ye beesh dhelejaai, hoye jodi hok bishokkhoy.

Raat puriye bhoshmo kurai, raat furaleyi ondhokar.
Ondhokaar-e huul futiye, jonmacchi barombaar.

Reality continues to ruin my life...

2009-09-11T02:37:00.000-07:00

Help! Help! Aliens!

They kidnapped my homework!!

Wish they'd take me too...

.

A slushy snow ball.

Aim tight! No! Look behind you!

Demented Snowmen!!

This planet can be

Magical , but only if

You have a tiger.

very many thanks to Kriti for the awesome link.

A Month Of Love

2009-09-09T06:11:00.000-07:00

Things are happening.
A lot of things are happening, even as you sit on your ass and browse through the internet and wonder where all the love is.
Love is. It simply is. And if its not, at this moment, making your life or breaking your spine or rendering you useless or giving you ideas or giving you the flu or laughing in your face, then you are probably the exception rather than the rule.
Love is out there. Doing things. And never more have I realized it since the last one month, when nearly all of my close friends have come to me with some love story or the other. So, names weirdly changed, this is what I have brought for show and tell…

My friend Sash, after years of bugging me to introduce him to my girl friends, has finally found love, in the avatar of a beautiful South Indian girl. His only problem- her family hates him, because he is from a different state and a different caste. My advice to him is to be thankful she is South Indian and not Hariyanvi, or her brother would be coming after him with not sarcasm and disdain, but a butcher knife. Good luck buddy.

The Gothic Angel, a young lady I admired immensely for her very noir style of writing, her dark, dark humour, and her love of morbidity, has stumbled out of the dark and damp into a sunny field of poppies that love can be. Being a very talented person, she expresses this new discovery deliciously, in poems and prose. But I hope she is still morbid. It would be a great loss to the world of blogging if she loses her sense of irony.

Happy, has fallen in love with a girl who is much younger than him and who doesn’t love him back, and he has been, I’m sorry to say, acting like a goat for the past many months. His Lolita has him twirled around her fingers. This week, he found out that she has been lying outrageously to him about most things. But he will not believe. No he won’t. I just want him to know that I’m really sorry all this is happening to him, but he needs to take charge of his own life. People can take advantage of you only as far as you let them.

The grasshopper, who had been ditched by his girl several months ago, insisted on staying in touch with her, contrary to my advice. He said he could not live without her, could not fall out of love. Well, it was fine till one day her new boyfriend picked up, and told him to bugger off and stay away from his girl. GH spent the next few days reeling with shock, humiliation, and misery. Let this be a lesson to all of you- never call up people who have ditched you, unless you want to invite them for your wedding.

My friend Kit lost her boyfriend of 8 years in a very avoidable accident. She was telling me one day on Gtalk about the doubts she was having about their relationship, and whether he was really good enough for her, and how she knew several people who liked her who were smarter, better looking, and more sensitive, and also how she really fancied a guy at her office. Well, he checked into her account that very evening, and went through her chat history. Well, you can probably imagine the rest of the story. No amount of groveling apologies could rescue their relationship and induce him to stay. Kit is today a very humbled, very lonely, very miserable person. Moral of the story- do NOT share your password with your already insecure boyfriend.

Nirvana’s love story is straight out of Ekta Kapoor’s worst nightmare. He loves this girl and she loves him back, but she has been in a relationship for the past eight years, and though it has been long loveless and dead, she cannot leave him because when she was a child, her mom left her dad for someone she loved and now though she respects what her mom did, she does not want to follow her footsteps, and she loves her dad a lot and her dad loves this other guy and blah blah blah bleggghh. Don’t worry, none of this made any sense to me either, so I told him that the only way for him to swim out of this psychological quagmire is to hire somebody to have the girl’s first boyfriend picked up and castrated. I even offered him the number of such a ‘somebody’, but good advice is never appreciated. Sheesh!

Closer home, LGL has shifted to a new city, a new job, and has moved in with her (same old) boyfriend. And she is a much wiser little girl since her last post.

LGL is wiser by this grain: A stuffed bunny will take five minutes to wash, but 2 days to dry..

What The Hell Do YOU Know About Heartbreak, Little Girl?

2009-08-26T02:26:00.000-07:00

She used to say
It’s so girly to cry.
So I’m trying not to.
Trying.
Not to.
Cry.

She felt like home.
She felt like the mountains and the forests and the rivers back from where I come.

And you tell me, Little Girl, to make a nick in myself and let all my sorrow leak out.

What I’m trying to tell you, Little Girl, please listen, I’m not lost.
I’m not lost.
I’ve only lost my map.

For my friend the Grasshopper who cried all summer.

Photograph by Bokom.

Hagrid's Parents?

2009-07-19T05:13:00.000-07:00

This is Hagrid's father.

And this is Hagrid's mother.

So riddle me this Batman, How does Mr. Hagrid Sr. get his wife pregnant???

Drawings by LGL, according to scale and the descriptions provided by JKR.

My First Fireflies

2009-06-26T06:04:00.000-07:00

Rejoice, all ye faithful. She has returned.

And all of a sudden
I cannot see their faces anymore.
Though I can still tell them apart
By the sound of their laughs.

Treacherous ink has leaked
From the dying sky
Into the silent waters of the lake
And has smudged the trees
Into shapelessness.

From inside the sightless blue,
Some people we can no longer see
Are strumming a happy song.
One of us lights a match.

And we notice that
A nightful of jaded specters
Have turned into glowing cigarette ends
Hovering up
And down
And up.

This is when they come.
One.
Then two.
Then some more.
Till the tar is speckled
With tiny flying children
Holding lanterns,
Rushing out to play.

And finally,
Four weary delinquents
Get down to the serious business
Of making a plan for tonight,
In the shower of fireflies.

This is for Anik, Joy and Hasi, in memory of a deliciously lazy evening.
Photograph- The Lake, Kolkata.
Its good to be back.

A Clarification, and a Blue Fantasy

2009-06-02T03:53:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that I haven't even started packing my contraband into my secret contraband compartments, and the time for my departure is slowly drawing near, I am writing to clear up a ridiculously embarrassing misunderstanding.

Several people who have read my LAST POST have written to tell me they hope I have a delightful holiday with Aniket ( of Melody of Dissonance). Some have congratulated me on finding such a great guy. One reader expressed overwhelming joy that the authors of two of her favourite blogs are seeing each other.

While I certainly wouldn't want to debate the fact that Aniket is a great guy, apart from being a dearly loved friend, not to mention my arch-nemesis, methinks a clarification is in order. I am going on a holiday with Anik, my best friend, lover, and fiance. Anik is a name by itself and is NOT short for Aniket.

But this idea that Aniket and LGL could go on holiday together has ricocheted, as ideas tend to do when they unwittingly enter my brain, into several Blue Fantasies, of which I am sharing my favourite.

Blue Fantasy Scene of LGL and Aniket Going on Holiday Together

He stood at the very edge of the cliff, his face orange in the sunset, his hair blown back by the deafening wind. He turned towards the car and called out- "What a beautiful view, come and see! Such a place is worth dying in..."

She got down from the car and walked towards him pensively. "I'm so glad you think so, sweetheart.", she whispered.

***

She sat in the car, nursing the drink he had mixed for her, listening to his favourite CD. He had gone down without a single shout. Proud. He had always been proud. Pride comes before the fall, she smiled as she thought.

***

They found her at the wheel. Rigor Mortis had done its job and left. She was still smiling.

Holiday

2009-05-31T03:08:00.000-07:00

Anik and I are going on a holiday to the city of our birth. We will spend the first three weeks of June doing things we haven’t done in a long time. This includes visiting many of our dearest friends, loitering for hours at roadside tea stalls, sipping cup after cup of lemon tea near the Lake embankment, foraging for old books in the second hand book market, perhaps catching a good play or a movie, getting drenched in unpredictable monsoon showers, smoking weed on the banks of the Ganga, maybe chartering a rowboat and playing rock bang in the middle of the river, eating too much street food for our own good, getting more body parts pierced, getting high before having to meet uninteresting relatives, getting sloshed in the middle of the day at some disreputable bar, and ambling aimlessly along unfamiliar alleys while languidly indulging in some socio-political debate .

Among other things, this means that there will be no posts on Rivers I Have Known for the next three weeks. I will, however, be reading all your posts, though I will probably not have time to comment. I promise to be back with lots of photographs, poems, experiences, observations, and Anik-dotes.

Take care of yourselves meanwhile. Will miss all of you. Will miss Cat’s foray into the world of fiction, Deepa’s adorable creations, Karen’s paintings with words, Sweta’s world-wise observations, Kriti’s plaintive rants, Joaquin’s musical expeditions every Thursday, Goirick’s bitter-sweet nostalgia, Jason’s maggot-kissing photos and spooky psychopaths, Aniket’s sometimes innocent sometimes sinister stories, Anirvan's passion-play with words, Priyanka’s utterly libidinous poems, Crafty’s unbelievely cute crochets, Mahesh’s heartfelt stories, Sawan’s poems that are sweet and sad at the same time, Margaret’s earthy poems, Atanu’s beautiful use of words, Amit Das’s homesickness, Amal’s daring experiments, Arnab's ruthless murderers, Quaint Murmurs’ funnily sad interpretations, Preetilata’s strange way of looking at life, Pradiptaa’s collection of amazingly good poetry, Sucharita’s little angels, Sarmistha’s tongue-in-cheek annotations, Amit's lyrical hindi poems, Smitha’s comments on my favourite books, Kirti’s well-aimed advice in her letters, Shubhajit’s ventures into darker and darker cinema, Sagorika’s sparkling poems and prose, Sakshi’s bizarrely funny experiences, Satan’s Darling’s acrostics, ….’s deadpan humor, Chriz’s very gross and very hilarious essays, Nikhita's bitchi rantings, TFL’s dark tales, Gagan’s love’s labour losts, Cherry Blossom’s photography. Amith’s adventures, SSQUO’s oddities, and all the other magical blogs that I read. See you guys in three weeks time.

Hasi, Bokom, Shila- am really looking forward to meeting you guys.

Happy Monsoons.

Ciao.

Oh- by the way, because of the recent cyclonic devastation, we have decided to scrap our plans to hit the beach.

Watercolor by Dilip Chitre. Photograph of Watercolor by LGL.

Random Mean Things Spoken To Me By Men Who Once Quote Loved Unquote Me

2009-05-25T02:36:00.000-07:00

Alternative title to post- And Those Were The Last Words He Ever Spoke...

“You are a very, very nice person, really. I just wish you were, you know, better packaged.”

“You know, I would love to introduce you to my sister, but you need to lose some weight first or she’ll never take me seriously. She ‘ll think I’m having her on.”

“Just having read a lot of books does not make you a lover of literature.”

“Erm, is that cellulite?”

“I wish you were even half as beautiful inside as you are on the outside.” (To see what brought that on, read this)

“I don’t want to hurt you. I love you! I just think a deoderant would do you a world of good.”

“Woooh, I really need to teach you how to kiss, baby.”

“That is one uncultured girl.” (Ok, this from a bloke’s dad)

“She’s nice. But you have to keep aesthetics in mind when you choose a girl.” (Another dad)

“Whoa! Biceps!!”

“You know, if you let your hair fall to your face maybe you wouldn’t look so bad.”

“Did you stop growing in fifth grade?”

“Sweety, its ok you don’t have any talent. I still love you”

“Florentino Ariza was a pussy-whipped loser” (eight years on this still makes my blood boil.)

“I’ve never hidden anything from my mother, and it pains me that I now have to hide the dirtiness of your past from her now” (the dirtiness refers to the fact that I had a previous boyfriend)

“I’m not trying to change you. I just want you use the goddam fairness cream. Please? For me?”

Painting by Dali

A Moth In Love

2009-05-21T05:30:00.000-07:00

A moth falls in love
With a playful tongue of fire.
What is love but death?

To my dear, dear friend the Moth- Take the plunge yaar. I'll be waiting around with a sponge and a bucket of ice in case you get singed. :)

A Love Song For Bhati

2009-05-17T04:48:00.000-07:00

Bhati doesn’t know me.

Bhati wouldn’t care.

He looks in my direction

And all he sees is air.

His eyes are burning beacons

His eyes are so alone.

As cold as morgues at midnight

As motionless as stone.

Bhati doesn’t know that

A bird inside me tries

To home towards the beacon

Of his lonely, lonely eyes

He’s a quiet man, is Bhati.

But not one you can ignore.

In that solemn head of his,

Bhati keeps a silent score.

But I hear a thousand echoes

For the words he cannot utter

Like he’s at one end of a tunnel

And I’m standing at the other.

They branded him and caged him

They rubbed him raw and red

They roasted Bhati on a spit

Till his charred ol’ soul was dead.

But I would rain upon your wounds,

I would set you free,

If you’d only let me, Bhati,

If only you would see.

An Acrostic and A Milestone

2009-05-14T23:11:00.000-07:00

A writer can only

Hope for people to read and
Understand what she writes.
Nevertheless, it gives a very
Definite high when she
Realizes that
Every single silly thing she writes
Does manage to find a

Few people who think it’s interesting,
Or funny, or sad, or
Lovely, or outrageous, or plain
Ludicrous. So today, this writer,
Overwhelmed by her
Wonderful fortune in finding such an
Eclectic, weird and fun bunch of
Readers, would like to
Step down and bow in gratitude.

Twelve Hours With A Highway

2009-05-12T05:53:00.000-07:00

There is something emancipating about being in a bus that's doing 140 kms an hour, on a highway that rolls on through deserts and mountains and shrub forests. The place you are leaving behind had no bars, the place you are heading to promises no extraordinary freedom, but still you feel like you are escaping, you are breaking parole, you are rushing headlong into adventure.

As your bus scurries like a terrified ant in and out of one of the world's most ancient mountain ranges, Gilmour and Wright sing in your ear-

Ancient bonds are breaking,
Moving on and changing sides.
Dreaming of a new day,
Cast aside the other way.
Magic visions stirring,
Kindled by and burning flames rise in her eyes.

The doorway stands ajar,
The walls that once were high.
Beyond the gilded cage,
Beyond the reach of ties.
The moment is at hand.
She breaks the golden band.

Every ten kilometers or so, the sky changes from sunny to cloudy to rainy to furiously sunny. The scenery changes too. Sometimes you see fields where mustard will perhaps grow later this year. Sometimes you see villages in the distance, and goatherds sing in some weird dialect as they guide their wards home alongside the road. Sometimes you see a lonely chimney that puffs black smoke into the yellow sky. and sometimes the desert takes over triumphantly, and you see nothing but miles and miles of unfriendly shrubs and thorn flora.

If you are lucky enough not to sleep through it, you might also get to see the sun set on the Aravallis, and a purple pall descend over the heated desertscape. Then impenetrable darkness, and sitting amidst twenty odd strangers sleeping fitfully, you are left with your own thoughts. You ponder upon the directionlessness of your life, and why everything is so scary, and how things change so fast and never go back to what they used to be, and how it's okay, it's always okay. And they still sing to you, those two, of burning bridges.

Bridges burning gladly
Merging with the shadows,
Flickering between the lines.
Stolen moments floating softly on the air,
Borne on wings of fire and climbing higher.

On A Wooden Bridge

2009-05-08T06:51:00.000-07:00

It's not yet too late
To wash my skin clean of you.
The water beckons.

Just Before The Storm

2009-05-05T00:39:00.000-07:00

Gray swarms the blue
Like angry bees,
The pregnant skies
Turn into seas.

The wind, he smells
Of joyous earth,
Of thirsty fields
Bathing in mirth.

Coconut trees, they
Dance and sway
To welcome clouds
That float their way.

Birds rush homeward,
Children dance
To the earth and sky
And their new romance.

Clouds in baritone
Voices sing,
A drop lands on
A heron’s wing

And then the skies
Start giving birth
Crash down in pain
Upon the earth.

Blurred and shimmery,
All at once
My world becomes
A cosmic dance.

This photograph was taken by my friend Bokom just before the first of the famed Kalbaisakhi (monsoon thunderstorm) hit Kolkata this Sunday. Wishing all of you a refreshing monsoon.

Secrets Die A Lonely Death

2009-05-03T05:52:00.000-07:00

A secret flame of steely ice
Cuts through layers
Of secret lies.

A secret lust,
Some secret fears
Choke to death
On secret tears.

Beneath the layers of secret lies
No one knows
When a secret dies.

Some secret fears,
A secret lust
Slowly, slowly
Turn to dust.

Secret flames on icy breath.
Secrets die
A lonely death.

This is a Painting by K.P.Reji. It is called 'Wait, Wait For The Next Move'. I'm sorry for the horrible picture quality, it was taken with my phone.
If this painting makes you write something- a poem, a haiku, some lines, whatever, please do share...

Why (Some) Men Touch Themselves In Public

2009-04-28T03:31:00.000-07:00

No, I’m serious, why?? Is it an inherent gender thing, or are guys taught how to do this in special classes when they enter puberty? Could it be sheer machismo, (I got it, so I touch it.), or a severe insecurity, (Shit! Why has it stopped moving?), or just an inexhaustable fascination with oneself, (oooh, I wonder if it has changed shape in the last 10 minutes)?

Or maybe it’s just a complete absence of consideration? Maybe it doesn’t even occur to a guy that it might disgust other people, especially if they are not male, to be watching him scratch his genitals in oblivious bliss. Maybe he assumes that since it would be the high point of his year to see an unfamiliar woman fondling herself, she would naturally feel the same for him.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to be offensive here. I’m not even generalising. See, I added the ‘some’ in the title just to be politically correct, (though we all know better, don’t we?) I just need to find the answer to a few questions. And just so this doesn’t turn into a girly rant, I interviewed 6 hapless males to get their POV. The mentioned six have only one thing in common- they are my friends, (and hence somewhat weird) but apart from that, the sample range is pretty spread out.

The guys, strangely, were not remotely embarrassed, but talked willingly and eagerly. Only one of the six admitted to be a conscious ball-player, and the rest could not swear to what they did unconsciously. All six knew at least one person who persistently scratched himself, and two knew more than five. But this is where the similarity ends. When faced with the question of why people who touch, touch, each had a different theory.

Happy, who refused to accept that he touches himself even in private, thinks it is an Indian thing, the same inconsideration that makes people burp or fart in restuarants, or talk loudly about disgusting health problems to complete strangers. But he cannot explain why it should be restricted to males.

Nick says it is because men do not care and do not think it is cool to care. They think- ‘Whoa, I’m not touching you, I’m touching me; so whats your problem?’ He further feels that men should be left alone to touch themselves and women should get used to the idea that it’s just something men do, and not a personal affront.

Buno feels the tropical climate is to blame. Men, he says, sweat more than women, and therefore their itch problem would be more acute, especially in summers. He suspects that most scratchers suffer from some form of skin disease, and should be treated with pity and understanding rather than disgust.

Nandu suggests that the problem is more deep-rooted. He feels it stems from male lonelyness and emotional void. Men, he says, need to be touched, need to be loved and fondled. They touch themselves much as a lonely dog tries to throw and fetch all on its own. It’s a means to obliviate the sadness.

Sash (yes, of the porn CD infamy), says that many of his friends touch themselves in buses and trains to attract the attention of commuting girls. They enjoy being glared at in digust, it’s better than being ignored. Some guys even hope that the girls might just get turned on by the free show.

Sid feels that unlike girls whose hands are slapped away from their private parts from infancy itself, boys are never really taught not to touch. They grow up watching their fathers, uncles and brothers doing it, and they don’t even realize when they’ve imbibed the habit. They don’t mean to offend anybody; they just don’t realize it’s nasty.

The Monster Boss confesses that he touches himself because he has a very swollen, very crusty, very painful, very throbbing case of herpes down there and has also recently aquired a hyper-itchy fungal infection as well as pubic lice, and laments that the problem is getting worse instead of better.
(ok, no, that’s just wishful thinking. He wasn’t interviewed. I haven’t found out why he touches himself.)

Men, I didn’t want to judge you or show you down or rant against you. I merely wanted to understand a very bizzare habit that has never failed to disgust me or any other girl I know. Doing this survey opened my eyes and made me a more accepting person. I will never again want to set flesh eating scarabs upon a pair of testicles being scratched before my eyes. I realize it is a need you have, just as we girls need to compulsively eat chocolate. (No Aniket, I’m not calling you a girl).

But you might want to think about why certain parts of the human body are labled ‘private’ and why some places in your city are ‘public’ and how much nicer the world would be for the women you love, respect, and care for, if the twaine ne’er met.

If you have any insights you want to share, please feel free to use the comment page.

Goodbye Spring

2009-04-26T06:41:00.000-07:00

Another April bids adieu.
Yet, every mustached face I see
Is still you.

Painting by Monet.

Crab

2009-04-23T00:24:00.000-07:00

Three more inches.

Just three.

Crab strained his eyes. He could just see the tufty bit of root sticking out of the earth, three torturous inches away. It had been two hours that he had spent on his back, wiggling himself towards that root. And he had covered a single inch in all this time.

The root was his salvation, the only thing he could grab to get back on his feet. To get out of this dark dark hole. Three more inches. Crab forced his entire body to concentrate... Wiggle, man, wiggle!

Stupid. He had been stupid. The hole had seemed so innocent. So inviting. There was bound to be food inside, he had thought, and he would find it. Instead he had found himself on his back, as helpless as a silly turned turtle, and with no possible way to get out, except that stupid root he still couldn’t reach. He wiggled with all his being, celebrating each millimeter won with a gasp.

Two! More! Fucking! Inches!

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a squirrel’s skull, yellow and fragile. So he wasn’t the hole’s first victim. But no way. No way. He wasn’t going to die here like that dumb mammal. He wasn’t going to die such a meaningless, ridiculous death, on his back with his legs waving, in a dark stinking hole with a skull for company. Wiggle, man!

He couldn’t die on himself now. He needed to see his lovely pond again, the pond he had spent his whole life in, the pond he used to think of with so much disdain.

And he never got around to telling that pretty pink thing with those cute tiny claws how much he liked her. What about his dream of building a house of leaves and shells on the east bank of the pond for her and the children they would have together? NO! Come on man! Wiggle!

ONE MORE INCH!!

And what about his biggest dream, to see the river all the ducks and frogs always talked about… Imagine a place where water moved on its own! And so much bigger than the pond! Crab was not going to die without seeing that river, no he wasn’t!! The skull grinned at him in encouragement. Move man!

Sweat trickled down Crab’s insides. His back was raw from the rubbing. His claws were numb with the straining. He seemed to be moving, iota by iota, only by the force of his mind. Then, suddenly, something touched his ass.

Crab didn’t allow himself more than a moment to feel relief and joy. His lower claw grappled with the root and began to maneuver his half-dead body. He didn’t stop to wonder where the strength was coming from; he merely remembered the instant when his feet touched soft earth. And then he was scuttling, out of that dark scary tunnel into the fresh, open world.

He could smell the pond before he saw it, orange in the sunset, his paradise of food and shelter. Sweet, sweet pond! Crab scuttled towards it faster than he had ever scuttled in his life. A fat pig, waddling homeward from her evening bath, stopped to toss him in the air and catch him in her jaws.

Little Girl

2009-04-19T04:19:00.000-07:00

We promised
That we would have a little girl
And we would name her
After your eyelashes
And my eyes.
Where do promises go when they die?
Where do little girls wait till they are called to be born?

This was my contribution to Catherine's Tapestry of Spring. If you want to see the uniquely beautiful anthology and hear this poem as well as seven magical others being read out, please visit Catherine here (link)
And if you want to read a poem on the making of this wonderful creation, you should visit Aniket here (link)

Limericks, A Dime A Dozen

2009-04-15T22:37:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, I had challenged Aniket to write a limerick. He took up the challenge, did a research on limericks, came up with not one but five(of which one he wrote for me), and threw the challenge back in my face.
I never thought I'd get around to doing them, but here they are finally... Ten of these are for nine very good friends of mine, one is for a mortal enemy, and one I just threw in for luck. Let me know if they are any good...

Anik sighs to himself as he thinks

I used to be able to drink

My evening would start

With not less than a quart

How did my appetite shrink??

**********************************************

Bokom’s a doctor but he is also a poet.

Though he’s so goofy you’d just never know it.

Of all medicine put to test

Laughter is the best.

So for medical science’s sake, don’t outgrow it.

***********************************************

“Let’s see you steal my friends”, he dared.

So in twos and in threes they were snared

And when I achieved this feat

Aniket had to admit

Friends are much more fun when they’re shared.

********************************************

The crap that they wrote was plain wicked

And they stayed anon, so it just wasn’t cricket.

But she showed them a finger,

And had they dared to linger

Jennifer would SO tell them where to stick it!

(This is re: Jennifer's recent trial with blog-stalkers. I hope this and the next one make you smile in mummified times, girl )

*********************************************

It's nice when she's away and you miss'er

'Cause a Mom-in-law's visit's like a blizzard.

Like she's sudden and she's cold

& She blasts through the household

And its all very unsettling for the lizards

(The above limerick will make sense to you only if your household comprises of both Mothers-in-law and lizards)

*********************************************

Anurag was surrounded by women.

The sole male in a feminine domain.

Amidst the cackling noise

In a guttaral voice,

He growled, ”But MY manhood is proven.”

*********************************************

I can't find a lable that will fit'er

She’s either sweet or she’s very very bitter

It depends on her mood

When Kriti’s good, she’s good,

But when she’s bad she’s actually better!

*********************************************

Sash bought a CD without checking its name

It turned out to be porn & no video game

Sash just couldn't desist,

He made love to his fist,

And sighed, "Someday I know I'll do this with a dame.

*********************************************

Deepa was sketching an angelic child

Which suddenly looked up at her and smiled.

Deepa jumped out of her skin!

The kid said with a grin,

"Why don't you make me a tad more wild?"

*********************************************

A young punjaban wanted Hasi for her lover

She was pretty and funny and very clever

But Hasi could not decide

If he liked her. Besides,

Where's the thrill of the chase if you can just have'er?

*********************************************

LGL's boss was obsessed with folders.

If she misfiled one li'l thing he'd scold her.

So she tricked him for a bet

Into the folder cabinet,

And left him locked there till he mouldered.

(Heeah! :D Sweet fantasy)

*********************************************

(And finally, something for all my Bong friends. I wrote this just before my exams.)

Moshla-maakha maach-gulo ke bhajte fele jei pan-e

Juddho korte jacchi mora, gorbe fole ei gyan-e

Bhoyonkor shobde moron

Beer—dorpe kore boron

Maach-er moto shohid hobo, emon ta to nei plan-e.

*********************************************

A Very Recent Thought

2009-04-13T02:18:00.000-07:00

The more time

I spend

In this world,

The less I want

To bring children

Into it.

My First Blog Award! Yay! (Title Shamelessly Copied)

2009-04-11T04:56:00.000-07:00

After months of envying bloggers who have so many, dropping all sorts of hints to people, wondering if anybody would notice if I just stole one, and finally telling myself that blog awards are ridiculous, meaningless, and juvenile, I’ve finally got my first award!! Yaayyy! This honor is exponentiated by the fact that it’s from Aniket, my arch-nemesis and a genius in his own right (don’t slip on all the butter, AT), and all the other awardees are very very illustrious bloggers.

Apparently, there are several rules about what I’m supposed to do when I get an award, but since I don’t remember any of them, I just put up a picture of it on my blog side, and now I’ll give it around. But before I begin, I need to say that the first person I’d like to have awarded would have been Aniket himself, since his Melody of Dissonance is one of my favorite blogs, but then he’ll just award it back to me and this will go on till eternity and we’ll never be able to put up any new posts again. For similar reasons, I’ll refrain from giving it to my co-awardees Jennifer, whom I love, and Catharine, of whom I’m in deep awe.

(I realize I’m being ridiculously serious about this, but please humor me, it is my very first and I’ve waited very long for this.)

And so, this crayonny award goes to *drumroll*

Quaint Murmur for Quaint Murmur, because this blog is so lovely it’s addictive, and I’ve wanted to give it an award from my very first visit.

Shubajit Lahiri for Cinemascope, the baap of all film blogs, because his reviews are so crisp, funny, and no-holds-barred.

Kriti for Kreation, because this blog kicks ass. (and also, I was afraid she might hurt my family if I didn’t give it to her quietly)

Shubhadeep for Writer’s Column for his magical descriptive powers and the fact that he can bring any scene to life with just a word or two.

Anurag ‘Happy’ Pandey for Happinessss, because his expression is brilliant and it would be a pity if he stopped writing

Anil Sawan for Colors, because he knows how to put into words things I didn’t even know I was feeling.

Mainak ‘Bokom’ Pal for Vindi+Alu=Vindaloo, because his insanity is delicious and I wanted to incentivize him to keep up the madness

Deepa for Deepa's World of Art because her prose sparkles with colors and makes me smile every time.

Ok, you guys get to copy the award onto you own blogs, if you want to, that is, and you need to give it around to 7 other people or something, and you need to keep me in mind when you next get an award from someone else.

And I’d like to take this opportunity to acknowledge the patience and perseverance of Shantanu Das, a new blog-friend who has spent the last two weekdays reading every single post I’ve ever written, and writing deep, meaningful, page-long comments for each one. To him, I want to say:
JIYO PAGLA!!! Kheer Kha!!

Insomnia

2009-04-07T23:36:00.000-07:00

Near my window

Silvery white flowers

Nod sleepily.

My neighbours' windchimes

Sing to each other

Of a coming Storm

But for now,

The wind herds the clouds

And straight in my eye,

This big, angry moon

Just wont let me sleep.

I Really Really Wish

2009-04-06T04:18:00.000-07:00

I could have a software that would go through my mail, locate all the forwarded mails that are not funny, naughty, or disgusting (it would simply have to search for key-words like love, friendship, God, cancer, happiness; and diabetes-inducing pictures of babies, teddybears, and puppies), delete all such mails automatically, block the sender from mailing/chatting with/scrapping me FOREVER UNTIL ETERNITY, and send a mild non-life-threatening-merely-paralysing-for few weeks electric shock through the internet back at all the sadistic creeps.

If i can't have that, then dear fruit of god's loin, please let me have a feature on my mobile phone that will permanently lock the SIM card and also render unusable the handset of any person who sends me another forwarded sweet friendship message in the middle of the night, or any other time for that matter.

Its a long week ahead.

A Moment of Respite from the Summer

2009-03-30T23:14:00.000-07:00

People who have been following my blog for some time will know that deep down, I am an adventure-loving person.(if you are new here, you might want to have a look at this post). I adore adventure, as long as it happens to other people and they send me photographs later.

My buddy Bokom and his friends Madhusree, Barnali, Soumi, Debpriya, Dipankar, Arnab, and Frah went all the way to Sandakfu so that I may sit in my office cubicle and drool over these fantastic photographs .I thought it would be good to share them with those of you who are being baked brown by the Indian summer and who cannot do more than hallucinate about sunkissed snowy peaks, ice-cold mountain brooks, and pine trees sparking in a sudden shower.

For your information, Sandakfu, located near the bengal-sikkim border, is the tallest peak in West Bengal. The tiny brook you can see in some pictures is called Srikhola (khola meaning river). Photographs have been taken by Mainak, a.k.a Bokom.

Happy trekking :)

25 Lifelong Friends

2009-03-26T22:52:00.000-07:00

There are some topics that are so close to my heart that I don’t write about them for fear of going on and on. But I guess some things are just destined to be. Jennifer tagged me to make a list of 25 writers who have influenced me most. Now I’m a person whose life has been about her books. I was reading before I had learnt to walk. The way I think, the way I live, the way I talk, the way I write, the way I dream, the way I love, have all been shaped by the books that I’ve read.
It’s difficult to limit myself to 25, but I’ve tried, and come up with this list of people whose books I find myself going back to again and again. The list is not in any specific order, except for Marquez, who’ll always come first in any list of mine. And oh, though they’ve influenced me in no small way, I’m saving the Bengali writers for another list, another day.
The following list includes the names of 25 of my favorite writers and those books of theirs that I’ve read and loved. But I’m not writing about why I love them. If you’ve read them, you’ll know. If you haven’t, I just hope that some day in your busy lives you'll find the time to do so. And then you'll know.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez – (One Hundred Years of Solitude; Love in the Time of Cholera; Of Love and Other Demons; Chronicles of a Death Foretold; Strange Pilgrims; The General in His Labyrinth)

Milan Kundera – (The Unbearable Lightness of Being; Life is Elsewhere; The Joke; Farewell Waltz)

Ian McEwan – (In Between the Sheets; Amsterdam; Atonement; Saturday)

Arundhati Roy - (The God of Small Things)

Alexander McCall Smith – (The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency series)

Jhumpa Lahiri – (The Interpreter of Maladies; Namesake; Unaccustomed Earth)

Joseph Heller – (Catch 22, Closing Time)

Helen Fielding – (Bridget Jones’ Diary; The Edge of Reason)

Hector Hugh Munro (Saki) – (All the short stories)

Melissa Banks – (The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing; The Wonder Spot)

J.R.R. Tolkiens – (The Lord of the Rings)

Pablo Neruda – (all poems)

Amitav Ghosh – (Hungry Tide; The Glass Palace; The Circle of Reason; Sea of Poppies)

J.K. Rowling – (The Harry Potter series)

Harper Lee – (To Kill a Mockingbird)

Ogden Nash – (All poems)

Alex Hailey – (Roots; Queen)

Franz Kafka – (Metamorphosis and other stories)

John Steinbeck - (The Grapes of Wrath; Travels with Charlie)

J.M. Coetze – (Disgrace)

Arthur Golden – (Memoirs of a Geisha)

Yann Martel – (Life of Pi)

Sue Townsend – (The Adrian Mole series)

Vladimir Nabokov – (Lolita)

Roald Dahl – (All the creepy short stories)

Upamanyu Chatterjee - (English, August)

John Updike - (Rabbit, Run; Rabbit Redux; Rabbit is Rich; Rabbit at Rest)

I tag:-
Quaint Murmur, because her writing is so beautiful there is no way she’s not a reader.
Happy, because I midwifed his lust for books
Chirpy Paro, because she loves to talk books
Aniket, because I want to know what inspires a man to write so deliciously
Shubhodip, because I know a bibliophile when I see one

A Walk in the Rain ...( OR, How Mistaken Self-Perception Can Freeze Your Sorry Ass)

2009-03-21T05:41:00.000-07:00

It was raining when I stepped out of the office last evening. Not hard, just a windy spray.
My first thought was - the autowallahs will charge double... and then, another tiny voice outshouted the first- you are a writer, a romantic, a born poet, of course you'll walk in the rain, you'll walk to the bus stop and take a bus, and feel the rain invigorating every corner of your tired soul...
So that was that, and the professional-with-a-poet's-heart turned her face heavenward, smiled and the black-blue sky, and began her walk in the rain.

Except, it was windier than I thought, and very soon the gentle hum of the drizzle turned into the roar of a downpour, and i was drenched through my thin summer-y kurta. The roads had water-logged, and walking was replaced by wading. The slush of garbage, usually at home on the sidewalks, had taken the opportunity to discover what the middle of the road might be like. There was no bus at the bus stop, and I had to wait a good quarter hour for one to come along, meanwhile the wind numbed me to my intestines. The bus was very very crowded, everybody was wet, and the smell in general was that of wet underwear and rotting vegetables. The bus belly-crawled through the city, picking up other hapless individuals in drenched throngs, and I was so late that I missed F.R.I.E.N.D.S, and what more, the calling bell gave me such an electric shock that i was thrown backwards.

This got me thinking. There is often such a gap between what we like to think of ourselves, and what we really are. Sometimes we fall through the gap, sometimes we leap over it, but its there and very often we don't even notice.

I, allegedly an agent of chaos, like to think of myself as someone who is neat and organized, and so I bought myself a really groovy planner (the first 28 pages of which I've already filled with equally groovy sketches).

A very dear friend of mine, a gentle Rabindrasangeet person whose only exposure to music in the English language till last year was, for some reason, Seal's Kiss From A Rose, suddenly saw himself as a hard rock addict, and took it upon himself to progressively listen to all ... err.. music? under the hard/metal/death genre. I suspect its for the same reason that at the age of 28, he has begun experimenting with cannabis and woodstock like concerts (free booze dope & sex, folks).
But even as he head-bangs wildly, something inside nags him constantly- what would ma-baba think if they knew?

Another very close buddy, a self-proclaimed misogynist, went through a heart-ache and suddenly began to think of himself as a suave lady-killer. He began socializing, turned into quite a party animal, and was thronged by women of all ages who promptly fell in love with him (women love misogynists). Unfortunately, he is still women-shy at heart, and would probably have be shunted to an asylum somewhere if I weren't there to save his neck.

Another friend, who was very much a Saas-Bahu lover, suddenly began to believe herself a cultured intellectual, and made a project of going to see all the famous plays that were going around in her city. Sadly, a conversation with her made it very clear that she couldn't make head or tail of what the plays meant, and was for most parts bored. But she still goes. It's how she sees herself, see.

An inflated self-perception can take you higher than you were ever destined to go (I cleared CS, didn't I?). A deflated one might hold you back your whole life. A wrong one, however, just keeps you miserable, directionless, and continuously at odds with your real self.

Or, in my case, very very wet.

PS- my apologies to the aforementioned friends , who I know will recognize themselves and be vehement in their disagreement of my analysis. You guys are probably right. It's time I stopped seeing myself as a scholar of the human nature.

One Afternoon at the Seminar

2009-03-17T05:59:00.000-07:00

To escape the monster's black jamun mood , I rushed into joining a 15 day seminar, but this was truly a case of running out of the frying pan and into the fire. Its a miracle I managed to come out with my sanity intact, (ok, whatever little i had in the first place). There were 42 sessions, and each was a serious contender for the most boring two hours of my life. Boring as in desk-crashingly, fist-eatingly, murder-inducingly BORING!

But it had its moments too...

One sleepy post lunch session, the faculty, who was a very learned man in his owned field (please don't ask what, I dozed through all the introductions), a young balding, unsmiling goat, literally shot into the hall and without any opening words, any greetings, any acknowledgment that the 34 of us were there, he began to bark out of his notes. We stared at him in mute horror, his focused energy so completely at odds with our state of stupor, Finally after a quarter hour of this horror, someone's prayers must have payed off, because the faculty, Mr. Sipani, suddenly shot out his seat (he tended to move like a ricocheting bullet) and shot towards the white-board.

The white-board happened to hidden by the projector screen, the roller being just above the board. So, in a blast of energy Mr. Sipani released the projector screen, which rolled up so fast that the roller was knocked out of its fixing at one end. The unfixed end happily oscillated a full 180 degrees and hit the switchboard on the wall, next to the white board. A blinding flash of sparks,and off went all the tube-lights in the hall.

We held our breaths in stunned semi-darkness, but the roller wasn't done in its path of destruction. It pendulummed right back and hit the white board this time, smashing its frame and blowing it off fixture at one end.

Both the roller and the board had finished oscillating by the time we figured out what had happened, and once we did, most of us fell to the floor laughing, tears streaming down our faces... Mr. Sipani was taken aback for an instant, but he springed back and barked at us "ENOUGH!". Then, to our unanimous surprise, he began writing on the ruinied and hanging whiteboard. But that aura of seriousness and terror had fled the class. Mr. Sipani had lost his audience.

He had his revenge though... At the end of the class, the big freak asked to see the attendance sheet that had been passed around for our signatures, read out all our names, and promised to block the certificates of the 9 people who had taken proxy, and all those who had helped them with it.

Do tell me if you liked the diagrams.

Benjy Button- Curiously Deja Vu

2009-03-10T05:30:00.000-07:00

Ofcourse it was a beautiful movie. And of course Brad Pitt was stunningly nuanced in his portrayal of a man whose body ages in reverse. But throughout The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, the one name that kept flashing in my mind like a siren was - FORREST GUMP- FORREST GUMP-FORREST GUMP...

The similarities are obvious. Benjamin, like Forrest, grows up ( or is it down?) in a transient environment, an inn in one case and an old age home in the other. Both have mothers (adopted in BB's case) who love them fiercely. Both go to a war and both look death in the eye and survive. Both fall in love with a childhood friend, and both have to wait a lifetime for that love to be fulfilled. Death is a familiar and friendly presence in both movies, and both movies use a motif (a hummingbird in one movie, a floating feather in another) to tell the story.

The comparison is natural. And its also a bit sad, because Benjamin per se is a lovely movie. But if you want to make a movie in the Forrest Gump genre Mr. Fincher, it had better be as good as Forrest Gump. And cute as he is, Brad Pitt is NOT Tom Hanks

The good part? Cate Blanchett's very graceful body-work, and the fact that Pitt actually gets hotter as the movie progresses.

Ps.. People, if you wanted a real review, it might be a good idea to visit Shubhojit..

A Spot of Self-indulgence

2009-03-05T05:23:00.000-08:00

I’ve been Tagged!!! Till recently I had no idea what that meant, but I know now. It means I have to write 25 things about myself because some veilla bloke wants me to. Now I’m not about to pass up this chance to inflict a meaninglessly self-indulgent, boring, and uninspired post on the rest of you, so here are 25 things that I am… (this style of giving myself bizarre titles was shamelessly stolen from Quaint Murmur, who does a much better job of them in her very lovely blog)

Addicted freezer wall ice scraper & eater

Weird people cultivator

Bedroom wall mural artist

Baby observer

Useless stuff shopper

Parties & weddings dreader

Almirah & study table agent of chaos

Dog fearer

Tattoo & Body Art aficionado

Non-fiction literature avoider

Irreligious. Heathenish, even

Blog readership poacher

A closet nudist

A drinks-to-be-cool person who secretly abhors the taste of alcohol

Homo-philiac

Firebrand anti-male chauvinist

Hard rock- phobic

Tone-deaf sing-alonger

Bus-drama spectator

Teddy bear lover

Falling hair counter

Funny dancer

Food adorer

Procrastinator who never finishes her assignments. Ever.

One Sure Way

2009-02-28T00:33:00.000-08:00

…to ruin a breezy sun-kissed spring morning is to open the local section of your morning paper, and come upon a report about a man who killed his two daughters, hacked their bodies into small pieces, and went on to stew them. This is when suspicious neighbours set the police on him, thus preventing him from proceeding with what I assume was his dinner.
Sheeesh! I can’t believe I pay to read this stuff!

On a happier note, after spending the first half of my birthday in a nervous fever, I finally got my result (ICSI final), and boy did I kick SOME BUTT!!! At last I am a Company Secretary.
Such glad tidings, however, have completely miffed my boss, the Monster, who seems to have been waiting to gloat at my failure, and to affirm his conviction that of course girls have less brains than his pet dog. Having been robbed of this opportunity, he wears a face as black and as sour as jamun, and tells anyone who would listen- “The exams were really much tougher in my time, only the very best got through. These days anybody can make it through CS. Anybody.”
Yeah, well, you can’t have everything…

Thumkas at Dusk

2009-02-22T05:24:00.000-08:00

My friend Happy has recently had a close encounter of the third kind. At a wedding, he found a eunuch being ostracized by everyone, and being the wonderful human being that he is, Appy not only stood up for the person, but also danced with him on the dance floor. I read about this in his blog, where he refers to the person not as a eunuch but as a transgender (Happy is nothing if not politically correct, although he is not as observant in regard to biological accuracy.)

Albeit on a much more mundane plane, I too had an interesting encounter on my way home from office last Saturday, when a group of four young prostitutes got on my bus. How do I know they were prostitutes? Well, for one thing, that’s exactly what they were calling each other (rand, not prostitute).For another, one of them kept grabbing & lunging at another one’s breasts, amidst raucous laughter and unrepeatable obscenities from the other two, Then there were these glittery bindi-like things they were wearing all over their faces…

In all of my two and a half decades, I’ve never really seen a prostitute up close. I had imagined them, from various literary sources, to look old and weary, half-eaten by diseases and by the wickedness of their world. But these girls were young, quite healthy, and if I ignored the horribly gaudy make-up, two of them were rather pretty. And here I was, sitting in the same bus as them. Boy was I thrilled! My age-old wish had finally come true.

Once I got used to all the noise they were making, I began to notice the reactions of all the other passengers. Two middle aged ladies sat with faces so frosty that I involuntarily drew my jacket up close. The gentlemen too kept their eyes averted, but sneaked a glance or two occasionally. A young office-going girl next to me shrank physically in her seat, trying her best not to attract their attention. The bus driver kept up a lively flirtation with them, smacking them with the back of his hand, and getting thumkas in return. The conductor, however, was not so indulgent. He kept grinding his teeth and threatening to have them thrown off the bus. The offending party, however, was not a bit intimidated. When the conductor demanded they pay their fare, they sang back at him “raat ko ghar aake kiraya le jaaiyo” (Come get your fare from us tonight)
As the bus approached my stop, I got up to go to the door. The girls, standing very near me, obviously thought I was vacating my seat for them. This brought on a volley of loud and happy approvals, “Thanku! Thanku! Thanku!!”, and one of the girls gave me a thumka on the hip, while the others blew kisses at me. I beamed back at them, but I don’t think they could tell (my face was covered and I was wearing shades).

As I walked towards the connecting bus, my head was still whirling. I had been thumka-ed and air-kissed by a bunch of sex workers. Not bad for one day!

Ps- Anik claims they were probably not prostitutes, as prostitutes rarely drew so much attention to themselves in public places. I say that’s exactly what they were, young prostitutes going out to a movie on a Saturday afternoon, showing the world a finger for what it thought of them. You decide and tell me what you think.

A Silent Explosion

2009-02-19T03:10:00.000-08:00

This is what Didi and Soumik-da have been up to all winter. I thought I'd share the joyeous fruits of their labour with you.

A Weekend Full of Cinema

2009-02-17T22:31:00.000-08:00

What can be more tedious than to have to come to office after a long looong holiday? The answer to that is- Having to go to gym after a long looong holiday. Anyway the l.l.h. is finally over and Anik is gone and I'm back at my desk, doing the most tedious job of all... answering 15 different variations of the question "What did you guys do?" (We joined the Ram Sene and beat up other couples, especially if they were irritatingly dressed and insisited on speaking bad 'cool' english).

Apart from that, we watched a lot of movies, some of which had been on my wishlist for a long time. The movies were (in the order we watched them in) :

1. Doshor (Rituporno Ghosh) - We couldn't figure out what the director was trying to say, what his message was, and why indeed he made the movie in the first place.The only saving grace was Ritu-di's presentation, which is soothing to the eye, and Konkona's intelligent acting. Otherwise an irritating movie.

2. Dil Kabaddi( Anil Sharma)- This movie has its moments. But the trouble is, if you try to mix a sex comedy with aantlami, the result is generally acidity. Hackneyed plot. Well-worn treatment, sad acting, low grade comedy.

3. The Dark Knight (Christopher Nolan)- Appy told me this was one of the scariest movies he has seen( and coming from a gore connoisseur, that’s something) , AND HE IS RIGHT! All its scariness comes from the sheer evilness of the Joker. Hats off to Heath Ledger. Villainy doesn’t get better than this.

4.Amelie (Jean-Pierre Jeunet)-This is the most beautiful movie of the lot. It’s sparkling in beauty and intelligence and laughter. The story is as heartwarming as the cinematography is stunning. A very adorable movie (in Bokom’s words – nongra rokom-er bhalo- dirty good). Thank you Appy for this one.

5.There's Something About Mary-This is a funny movie, but most of the humour is of the toilet variety, loud and crass.The story too is inane. The one thing that stays with you is Cameron Diaz, very young, very fresh, very beautiful. It’s good timepass as long as you don’t try to involve your brain too much.

6.A Wednesday( Neeraj Pandey)- Another let-down. While the story is very un-hackneyed and is told in quite a wrinkle-less manner, the movie as a whole is full of tired clichés. The same honest cop brutal cop inefficient cop routine, the very unreal conversations, and the Commissioner’s conference room which seems to have been taken straight out of a Hollywood movie. As a thriller, it falls way short of brilliant. The only saving grace is Naseer’s and Kher’s acting.

I’m currently reading Maximum City – Bombay Lost and Found, by Suketu Mehta. Hope to post you on that very soon. Till then, take care.

The Silver Lining

2009-02-12T05:27:00.000-08:00

Here in Jaipur, the Divine Army goons have announced their intention to force unmarried couples who are seen together on Valentine's Day to marry on the spot, then and there.

So, to save an ocean of expenses, planning, harassment, anxiety and time, Anik and I have decided to walk hand in hand all over the city on that day, and if we see any ram/shiv/vishnu/ bramha sainiks, we are going to lock lips more violently than dry pigs who suddenly discover mud pies.

I was going to write about Dev D which I loved so completely, but Shubhajit has beaten me to it,and I can't say it better than he can, so please take a look at his review.

Have a safe Valentine people (remember when the only festival which was dangerous enough for people to be wished safety was Diwali?) See you on Tuesday.

How To Sleep With Someone Else's Wife And Get Away With It.

2009-02-10T01:23:00.000-08:00

My friend Sid has an interesting pursuit these days. He is trying to lasso a married acquaintance. The lady in question is thirty, has a six year old child, and her husband lives in Belgium. She became friends with Sid through a professional contact, and gradually it became obvious that she was open to the idea of something a little more than friendship. Man, Sid thought he had really hit the jackpot, but sadly, even after months of going out for dinner and outings together, my buddy has gotten as close to his boudi’s bedroom as Jennifer Aniston has gotten to become Angelina Jolie’s best f.r.i.e.n.d.

What is he doing wrong, Sid asked me, and what can he do to get some action before she hits menopause? So here is my advice to him, and to anyone else who is secretly interested in sleeping with a married lady and not getting in trouble:-

1. Be young and have a good body.

2. Be funny and intelligent. Be good company.

3. Show her that you care for her and are interested in her for who she is, rather than the sex that she might have with you eventually.

4. On the other hand, don’t make her think you are madly in love. This will frighten her because she’ll think you might do anything, even confront her husband.

5. So if she asks “Will you forget me after my husband is back and I can’t see you anymore?” , say “ How can I ever forget you sweetheart? Life will be difficult without you, but I’ll have to go on. I’ll bear even this torture for you.”

6. Don’t boast about any achievements to anybody. I know this is tempting, but remember, your safety and hers lies in total secrecy. Moreover, she’ll trust you better if she knows you won’t tell anybody.

7. Don’t frequent her house. You don’t want the neighbors to get suspicious and talk to her family.

8. Don’t underestimate the kid. Don’t display any affections in front of her. You don’t want her to tell her Daddy over the phone “ Sid uncle kissed me today and he also kissed Mommy” or “ Sid uncle and Mommy played carrom all night and the door was closed”

9. Do NOT fall in love with her no matter what happens. If you fall in love, man you are screwed worse than a highway whore.

10. And last, be prepared for nemesis. One day, you are going to be middle aged and married and your wife is going to run off with a younger man (and maybe with all your savings too). You can’t escape your Karma dude.

Road Rage

2009-02-08T21:17:00.000-08:00

This morning Soni ji gives me his phone and asks me if I can make out why it isn't working. The keypad is locked. I unlock it and give it back to him.

Soni ji swerves the auto to a dangerous standstill. " You can fix this in a minute??! And it doesn't cost money?!!!!"

It turns out that every time his keypad gets locked accidentally, Soni ji has to take it to a cellphone mechanic, who keeps it for three hours, makes a show of fiddling on his computer, and bills Soni ji for 300 bucks. Apperantly, this has happened thrice.

Soni ji, moustache quivering with rage, yells in my face, "Uss marammat wale ki to mai marammat karta hun!! Saala mujhe ch*****a banata hai! MUJHE!!"
Long gap, then "Sorry Beta, thanks"

I'm sorry too, Soni ji. It takes a lot of thugs to make up a world. Don't let it get to you.

Anikdotes- Pink Hearts, Red Faces

2009-02-06T21:44:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend is coming to Jaipur on the 13th of February to spend a couple of days with me. Now, our recent experience tells me that if you are an average person, your reaction to this would be “Oh my god! He’s coming all this way to spend Valentine’s Day with you!! That is so romantic!!!”

Knowing that several of our common and individual friends look into my blog now and then, I’d like to use this space to make a declaration – Anik is NOT visiting me because it is Valentine’s Day. The reason he is coming on that particular day could mean anything- it’s a second Saturday (meaning no office for me); he got a cheap air-ticket on that day (Friday the 13th you see); the week after is my birthday; the week before is our anniversary; its been three months since we’ve met- anything, anything but Valentines Day.

Why is it so important for you to know this? Because ever since he unwittingly booked a flight on that fateful day, Anik’s life has turned into a mortification. You see, Valentine’s Day is totally out of his scheme of things and he would rather turn celibate and abstinent than have it thought of him that he is shallow, silly, nyaka, sissy, materialistic, moronic, and wannabe enough to believe in something as meaningless as Valentine. Anik is NOT a Valentine- believer any more than he is an adulterer or a wife-beater.

(My apologies to all the romantic gooey eyed readers who adore the concept of Valentine’s Day. The above rant is entirely our personal opinion that had to be made public in order to preserve our reputation as mean grumpy cynics)

And while we are at it, happy first, buddy.

Ps- Hasi, please do not post reminiscences of what Anik used to do on Valentine’s days before he met me.

Auto Wisdom

2009-02-05T22:35:00.000-08:00

Soni ji's pearl of wisdom to me this morning- " Beta dekh, jo light teri kismat me likha hai uspe to tujhe rukna hi parega. Kya light ko kosegi kya khud ko kosegi"

( If a red traffic signal is written in your destiny, you'll have to stop at it, no matter what. You can't blame the signal, and you cant blame yourself)

A Word of Warning

2009-02-01T05:26:00.000-08:00

I know this is a bit late in the day to tell you this, but here's another reason you might not want to watch Slumdog Millionaire. There is one scene in which the little kid protagonist jumps from a hole into a pool of liquified human shit because he has been locked in the toilet. Then he clambers out covered head to toe in shit and runs through a crowd, smearing everybody with glory. (I would have put up a picture, but mustard yellow is clashing awfully with fuschia.)

The above scene is guaranteed to make you retch at all subsequent meals for a week. However this does not apply to you if you are Pasha, in which case it is probably the most beautiful cinematograpic experience of your life.

On the bright side, this is possibly the first time that third world excrement is going to be worshipped by the US of A (at the Oscars i mean). It's usually the other way around, no?

Everybody Loves a Good Eve-teaser

2009-01-30T05:12:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I bashed up a guy in the bus. I slapped him twice, out-shouted him, and made him get down from the bus. This is the second time in two weeks this has happened.

I no longer expect appreciation for this. My parents and my boyfriend have made it very clear that they want me to desist from such dangerous behavior. Their lack of support apparently stems from their concern about my safety. Ma is going on about acid-throwers. Anik seems to be worried about a situation in which the eve-teaser actually hits me back.

Needless to say, I did not take their admonitions in a very accepting frame of mind. But in retrospect, I do appreciate what they are trying to say.

Jaipur is, to put it mildly, not a good place for women. Unlike the evilly reputed Delhi, where a guy can heckle you in public but you can heckle him right back and expect public support, or the more excitable Kolkata, where Anik tell me a girl has to raise her voice carefully because if she does, the janta will bash the eve-teaser to within an inch of his life, in Jaipur women stay down. If you raise your voice against an eve-teaser, there is a good chance that members of the public will support him and not you. You will hear comments like This girl has no modesty or what is a girl from a good family doing outside her home anyway? And of course, the eve-teaser not only gets away with it but can fearlessly hit you back or call you a slut or whatever. And there is of course the worry that he might mark you down and get back at you later, on the streets.

This disrespect for women, while it has some notable exceptions, is quiet an ubiquitous mentality in Jaipur. You will find it among the labour class, shop-keepers, and high-profile executives( eg- monster boss). I have a feeling it is older than centuries, and is too deeply set to really do anything about. My apologies to my Rajasthani readers, but this is from someone, who is doing Jaipur's underbelly everyday and knows what she is talking about.

Just the other day, I was reading about Chief Minister Gehlot's rant on the pub culture and public display of affection which are against Rajasthani culture. Mr. Gehlot, sir, why don't you do your state a favour, and instead of spouting political inanities, do something about the very real problem of eve-teasing in the city? Unless, of course, you feel that it is totally in accordance to Rajasthani culture.

Mooccho Obliged…

2009-01-21T21:44:00.000-08:00

Overheard at a school bus stop near my house.

Schoolkid 1 - Yaar suna hai Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi bahut boring gayi hai?

Schoolkid 2- Arre yaar uski first part bahut hi boring thi, lekin fir baad me accha rehta hai jab Shahrukh mooccho ho jaata hai

Schoolkid 1- Mooccho? Magar Mooch to uske shuru me hota hai na? End me thodi hota hai?

Schoolkid 2- Abe dhakkan mooch nahi mooccho! Mooccho ya ni ki strong.

Of Bhais and Names

2009-01-21T04:27:00.000-08:00

I've always been a fan of Sanjay Dutt. I've loved him in Munnabhai, Kaante, Vastav, and most of his other movies, and I used to see him as a man who has had to repent more than he has sinned. All my sympathies have been with him in spite of all that people say about him. But something changed yesterday morning while I was reading the morning papers and came across an interview of my hero.

Mr. Dutt was asked about his sisters' publicly negative reactions to his wife Manyata. His answer was - " Good women change their surnames to that of their husbands after marriage. I have no sympathy with women who cling on to their father's names even after marriage. If Manyata had told me she wanted to keep her last name, I would have been extremely offended and would not have permitted this in any circumstances."

My reaction was simply "EXCUSE ME???" I just couldn't believe what I was reading! The NERVES on this audacious bastard!!

His dig was obviously at his sister Priya who remains a Dutt though she is married. Priya Dutt has inherited her father's political mantle, much to her brother's chagrin.
I don't want to go into their murky family feuds. But I just want to put this on record that I believe this expectation that men have that of course their wives will take their names after marriage is a CROCK OF CRAP. And its disgusting how so many girls go along with this expectation, as if it is the culmination of all their dreams have their identity redefined.

Don't get me wrong. Most ladies I know use their husbands' last names. Most of my friends do too. In fact someone who I know is reading this post uses both her husband's first and last name (his first name as her middle name). But I sincerely hope, at least in case of women my age, that this change of name was a choice they made voluntarily, and not because of the expectaions of society.
A woman does not become her husband's property after marriage, so what is this deal about stamping your wife with your identity. What is wrong with her own? And if you feel you and your wife should have the same last name, why don't you consider changing to hers?

A point made out by many of course is that even if you are not taking your husband's name, you are holding on to your father's, so how is that any better. But look, my family name is the one I've had for more than two decades. Why will it have to change all of a sudden? To what purpose? A wedding is NOT supposed to be a transfer of property. A wife is also a human being, and she has the right to hold on to the name the world has known her by. Your name is your identity, or at least a part of it.

And it is a RUBBISH concept that a woman's family changes after marriage. Sure, her husband's family becomes her own, but there is no logical reason that she should stop being a part of the family she has known since birth.

People, the gender equation in our country is totally screwed. What has existed for generations is not neccessarily right or just. At least think about change sometime.

And oh, as you can probably tell by the photograph I've edited as above, I am no longer a fan of Mr. Sanjay "Keep your womenfolk in control" Dutt.

I can just hear Anik snickering "reactionary!". :-D

How NOT To Be A Bore

2009-01-11T04:25:00.000-08:00

A very dear and well loved friend of mine, (let's call him Moby) , has, I'm afraid, completely broken with me. The fault is, of course mine... Moby is the type of person who loves the sound of his own voice,and a week or so ago, after listening to a two-hour long monologue(over the phone), i fell asleep. I fell asleep while he was still talking.And i suspect he didn't find out for a good 15 minutes that there was nobody on this side of the call.

Nothing hurts the ego of a man who thinks of himself as a great orator, than to have his audience fall asleep so unceremoniously while he is talking. This is probably why Moby has not called or messaged me in the last 6 days. And this would also probably explain why he has chosen to IGNORE USER me on orkut. While nothing excuses my bad behaviour, I'd like to draw Moby's attention to a few points, (though i have feeling he is not going to be reading my blogs anytime soon). This is also for any other reader who wants to be sure people don't fall asleep while in conversation with them.:

1. DO NOT act like a know-it-all. It's supposed to be a conversation, not a lecture. An excessive show of knowledge get's on anybody's nerves.

2. Let the other person talk too. Don't take advantage of the fact that s/he is a good listener.

3. DO NOT name-drop. Subtle references to your own achievements will impress your listeners. Referring to the fact that you have successful friends will merely bore them. Moreover, if you overdo it, people will stop believing you. They'll start seeing you as a very sad failure.

4. Show interest in your listeners' lives. Don't make the mistake of thinking that their raison d'etre is to listen to you.

5. Don't talk like an asshole. If someone asks you what you think about a movie, do not go on for an hour about how the director /editor/ whatever was your junior in college and learnt all he knows from you, the ungrateful bugger. Just say whether you like the movie or not.

6. If you don't know nuts about something, don't venture to comment/ advise people on such topics. If your line is film-making, do not give career advice to people in the commerce/corporate line. If you obviously don't know anything about khisti khamari, stop trying to give gyan about it to people who do know. Do not scatter wisdom about sex if you are still a virgin.

7. DO NOT be an AANTEL. Nobody likes an AANTEL.

8. DO NOT repeat your life tragedies to people more than once. The first time, people empathise. All subsequent times, they merely act polite and pretend to listen.( Honestly MB, i still don't really know what that SRFTI caper is all about. Everytime you say SRFTI, my mind switches off)

9. Try not to be self centred and egotisical. That always helps. Don't talk about imaginary achievments. It doesn't impress people. It makes them pity you.

10. And last, whatever you do, DO NOT talk incessently(I mean with zero participation from the other side) for more than 10 minutes. Moby's best is 45 minutes. He does not know this, but many a times while he's talking, I've put the phone down, gotten up to make a cuppa tea, drunk it down, and come back to my seat without him realising even once that I've been absent.

I realise that I've probably hammered the last nails into the coffin of our friendship, but it was in a good cause. If this helps Moby or anybody to hold the attention of their audience in future, I shall not have written in vain.

Hope everybody had a happy weekend.

A Rainbow For Free

2009-01-08T22:07:00.000-08:00

If you drive along JLN Marg and go around the Gandhi Statue with all the fountains at approximately 9.10 in the morning, you will be treated to a rainbow amidst the fountains just as soon as you put the sun behind you.

This is probably not a big deal, but I looked forward to this view every morning for nine days while being ferried to the examination centre at the Commerce College. It was like chicken soup for my frayed nerves.

Oh , and now suckers who might try (though I can’t imagine why) to copy paste the stuff I write here will just have to copy it out manually if they want it so badly. I’ve fiddled it so you can’t Ctrl C Ctrl V me again… This is courtesy my friend Pragg., so if you want to find out how to do this you might ask her.

It’s 11.30 in the morning now and the monster isn’t here yet. Does this mean I can go home?

Re-start

2009-01-07T03:23:00.000-08:00

The good part about new year is that it gives you hope... one more chance to get it right, one more chance to make new promises, and the lovely, lovely hope that this time I'll keep them all... this is my year!!!

It takes about two weeks for me to get back to reality... It may be a new year, but its the same old me.

My resolutions this year include being regular with this blog. If i have any readership left, welcome back... Here's to another year of hope...

Did Anyone Say Marriage??

2008-07-28T03:11:00.000-07:00

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.

Ogden Nash (A Word To Husbands)

One thing that bugs me sure and often, is how a man and a woman can stay together in matrimony, year after year, decade after decade, when it is so obvious to me that men and women are not meant to stay together.

Marriage, as a concept, fails dreadfully. It involves the constant cohabitation of two people who do not share families, upbringings, perspectives and are not even of the same gender. It seems to be, from the beginning, a power struggle, one party doing its best to dominate the other party, which either gives in passively, or schemes and struggles to overthrow the power hierarchy in a bloodless (or even bloody) coup. They hold each other back; make their partners feel guilty for whatever it is that they enjoy doing, whether it’s shopping or beer. They are mostly incompatible. If one likes to sleep with the window open, the other cannot sleep unless it is shut and curtained. If one loves parties, the other avoids them like the plague.

And yet, the miracle is that marriage, as a practicality, is generally a brilliant idea. And people who are married will moan and complain and grumble, but they will, without fail, try to convince all their unmarried friends, children, children of friends, friends of children, that married is THE ONLY WAY TO BE. And though the two halves of a couple may be as different from each other as chalk is from a cheese pizza with pepperoni and anchovies, they still manage to develop an inexplicable friendship. And I think what keeps most marriages ticking for years, in spite of the theoretical impossibility, is not love or romance or even dependence, but this very friendship, this understanding that grows with cohabitation.
And since I began with Ogden Nash, I’ll finish with some favorite lines, also from Nash.

“…That is why marriage is so much more interesting than divorce,

Because it's the only known example of the happy meeting of the immovable object and the irresistible force.

So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and combat over everything debatable and combatable,

Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life,particularly if he has income and she is pattable”

Ps- I want to thank my ma and baba for not listening to their wiser instincts and quitting a long time ago. Today their marriage turns 28 years old.

A Bubble in a Bus

2008-07-24T04:39:00.000-07:00

This morning, I saw a miracle.

Actually, what I saw was a man and a woman on a bus. A very crowded, sweaty, smelly bus, full of mostly rustic villagers on their way to the station.

The woman was at least 35. She was fat. She was plain to look at, but she was decidedly urban. She looked educated. And she was married.

The man was scruffy. He was wearing dirty trousers and a five-day old beard. He couldn't have been younger than 40. And because I was sitting next to him, I could distictly smell stale whiskey.

They got on at different stops. They scuffled and shoved till they managed to find seats next to each other. And then, in that moving hell, they proceeded to create a little bubble of intimacy and tenderness, nearly completely oblivious to what the people aroud them were thinking, saying, or doing. In that bubble they held hands, whispered, touched each other, and the woman rested her head on the man's shoulder.

For an entire hour,the bubble remained unbroken. Then the lady got up. The man touched her hand, she looked at him, and then she got off and walked away briskly.

After a while, he got off too, and ambled away. And i sat there, in the little smelly bus, puzzling it all out. Middle aged adulterous lovers meeting secretly in public buses every day?! It seemed too bizzare to be real. Too out of this world. What could I call it except a miracle.

And yes, it makes me blanch to think i live in a city where the only possible rendezvous of clandestine lovers is a crowded public bus.

Mean on Monday

2008-07-21T03:19:00.000-07:00

Handsome Chocolate-Boy friend moans- “ Marriage? Marriage is ages away! I have too many other things on my mind, I can’t think of getting married. Anyway I don’t think there is really any girl who is meant for me.”

Me : Don’t worry shona, lots of girls around who are gorgeous AND dumb.

HC-B friend: They wont do for me. Amar tader poshabe na.

Me : They are the only ones who’ll do for you. You see, unless they’re gorgeous you wont think they are good enough for you. And unless they are dumb, really really dumb, they wont be able to stand you at all.

Soul-crushing, if unoriginal. Bitchy mood today. Monday morning. I rest my case.

Adventures are Injurious to My Health

2008-07-19T00:26:00.000-07:00

My friend Sagar, when he was jobless, used to be an enthusiastic rappeller. Rappeling, I found out from him, is the activity of scrabbling over huge rocks for no discernable reason.
My friend Kiran has discovered and unleashed the mountain biker in himself.Earlier, he restricted himself to football and the occasional clandestine fishing boat excursion off the coasts of his native Kerala. Now he saddles his bike and vrooms off to Leh from Delhi every other weekend. He also rafts and does various other scary things.
My jeej is an experienced para-glider/ bungee-jumper/ air-floater/ something of the sort that requires you to fall miles through the air. He is also tattoed all over.
My brother spent the previous month in a series of god-forsaken tiny villages in MP, voluntarily working for an NGO. He lived without electricity, toilets, phones/ network coverage, and in constant threat from naxalites, hostile tribals, and wild boars. On his way back, he bathed in the very dangerous Allahabad sangam, with half charred dead bodies from nearby cremation grounds floating past.

When I talk to these people, I hear them tell me how they nearly (always nearly) lost their lives, how they saved somebody else, how they enjoyed the most spectacular views, and how they are going back next week for more. Then they ask if I’ve done anything interesting lately, and I say “ I… ummm…. I…. oh, I’m reading a new book.”
If these people wrote blogs, such blogs would be full of cliff hanging, breath taking, soul chilling adventures, not boring home-office-friends posts. But of course they have much better things to do than write blogs. Go snorkeling for instance.

Actually, no. I do get my share of adventures sometimes. Some mornings, I accidentally get off my bus while it is still moving (!!). And once, not many weeks ago, a mad person chased me across the street a couple of yards with a brick in his hand (then he saw a foreigner and lost interest in me).

But there must be something wrong with me, because I do not tie ropes to myself and clamber over boulders, I don’t swim around in diving gear hoping to meet sharks, I do not jump into extremely unsafe looking rafts/ rope-cars/ skis, and I DO NOT jump out of airplanes, no way. Not only do I not do these things, I do not crave to do them. That must make me sub-normal. Maybe I am missing a hormone or an enzyme that drives these people to their insane hobbies. Yes, I would like the lovely views and stuff, but I’d rather spend my holiday in bed, thank you, and see the views on my computer when my friends send me the photos.

PS: What drove me to write all this in the first place? My colleague asked me this morning if I’d like to go rollerblading with her on Sunday(that’s tomorrow).

I said “ummmm, I’d love to but I have a book to finish.”

My Boss, The Feminist

2008-07-15T09:16:00.000-07:00

This morning my boss (hereafter to be known as 'The Monster') called me to his cabin and showed me a painting he had done.

I had to admit, it was good. It showed a naked woman, or at least a mass of shapes that could just about be recognised as a naked woman, in a claustrophobic rectangle, straining to get out.

As the other trainees fawned sycophantically, The Monster eyed my reaction. Then, maybe because he was worried I would think it was something out of the Kamasutra, he proceeded to explain. : "This, you see, is how i see womankind being suppressed by society. Crushed, caged, deprived of any freedom..."

The trainees looked as if they might wet themselves any minute in sheer servile delight. As he went on, I stared at him, nonplussed. Just a few months ago, on my first day here, this man, this very same hideously ugly bully, had told me (eyes darting gleefully all over my person) that in his opinion, women were really no good in the corporate world. They were inefficient, unknowledgable, grossly dumb (well, he used nicer sounding words but this is the gist of what he meant). He would never let his wife work, not outside home anyway, (Mrs. Monster is a qualified chartered accountant). Since then, I have seen him harrass female colleagues, female trainees, female subordinates, with the sole purpose of proving his supremacy over them. And now apperantly his heart is bleeding at the plight of womankind, and he has gone and drawn a picture about it.

Now what in the world is more vexing than a male chauvinist PIG pretending to be a feminist?

Desert Rain

2008-07-10T02:19:00.000-07:00

Pigeons

On my windowsill,

Its raining!

My friends in other states do not believe it rains in rajasthan. They go, "Oh, its a desert state, right? Of course you don't get any rain!"

No, we do not wake up to find our beds turned to rafts. We do not paddle on tyres to cross the road. We don't even have to wade through waist-deep water to get to office.

But we do get our share of the monsoons.

Yesterday morning i woke up to find that it had rained all night and the street in front of our house had turned into a mountain brook. And it was not as much rain as a bone drenching pour, continous, unrelenting, like being inside a waterfall. And of course the truant schoolkid in me danced a little jig "No Office dang pota dang dadang dadang dang".

It cleared up a little later, but i cocked a snook at the dry-washed morning. No way was i heading for office now that i was back in bed...

(my apologies for my friends in Mumbai/Kerala/the North-east, for getting so excited over what must seem to you a puny drizzle, but you have to admit, there is something sleepily romantic about desert rain)

Oh, by the way, I wrote the haiku up above.