JIL JIL RAMAMANI

மனதில் உறுதி வேண்டும்

2011-11-28T22:02:00.000-08:00

There are days when a song defines my thoughts to perfection. And then, there are days when a song changes the course of my day and the course of my thoughts.

On days like today, when I feel I am getting carried away by the people, opinions and things around me; when a time warp envelops my existence and I am not sure whether it is alright to be who I am or wether it is alright to want what I want or I am unsure of where I am heading; suspended in animation in a mould I want to break out of; when being independent catches up with me and I want to step back for a few minutes; when familiarity and family is so far apart and all I have is myself, all I need is this song to remind me of who I should be.

Bharathiyar intended this song for all of humanity. I only talk about myself.

Scarlet letters

2011-11-03T03:22:00.001-07:00

I love reviewing documents in track mode. The more the red changes I get to make, the more giddy I get with happiness. It is a sense of power, quite like what my second standard class teacher had over my home work notebook.

Tuppence

2011-10-18T04:50:00.001-07:00

I had a whole pear this afternoon after real long. My teeth feel like they have rearranged themselves and are settling down in their new houses. If you have ever had to wear braces, you will know what I mean.

Touché

2011-08-20T02:10:00.000-07:00

Colleague : Woah! There is a Hooters that has opened in Delhi?? Oh wait, no, that’s Bangkok.
Another Colleague and me : Hooters in Delhi?! Yeah right.
Senior : What is this Hooters?
Me : What? You don't know what Hooters is? Did you go to college?!

--

Senior : Take down this citation. Basdev v. State of PEPSU.
Me: PEPSU? What is PEPSU?
Senior : You don't know what PEPSU is? Did you go to college?!
Me : Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Daal mein kuch kaala hai

2011-08-04T03:06:00.000-07:00

Why was there an exhibition of home made chicken dishes at the museum?
Because 'Ghar ke murgi Dali barabar'.

Why did Voldemort throw a chicken at Harry?
Because 'Ghar ke murgi Duel barabar'.

Why did the sardar insist on dancing while eating?
Because 'Ghar ki murgi dhol barabar'.

Why did Steve Jobs turn vegetarian?
Because 'Ghar ki murgi Dell barabar'.

Why did Chip love home made chicken?
Because 'Ghar ke murgi Dale barabar'.

Why was Mattel's Oreo Barbie branded racist?
Because 'Doll mein kuch kaala hai'.

Ok, bye.

P.S. Inspired by discussion with @Crucifire on Twitter.

Deja Moo - I've heard this Bullet before

2011-05-26T13:18:00.000-07:00

I've been dreaming of owning a Bullet ever since in my 8th standard, a machismo overtook my school bus and I leaned my head out of the window to drool at it till it disappeared. Never had I seen a bike so beautiful. I named it Black beauty.

Nine years of wanting and lusting and waiting and now, I have my own bullet. I've had her for four days. I've only been riding around in first gear, because this is my first geared vehicle and I'm still learning how to ride it. I don't know how to change gears yet. In a weeks time, I shall learn, I shall get my license and I shall ride around town and out. Then again, I know nothing about maintaining a bullet. I'm looking forward to all the learning there is to do and meanwhile, it sure has hell feels great, like freedom. :D

I've named her Billo. Because the song describes a bike better than it does a girl. See, like...

"Har adaa teri jagati hai qayamat koi,

Har kadam par tu girati chalein bijli Billo..."

And I've decided to chronicle every bit of this experience - Billo the Bullet

Omen Penne

2011-05-01T00:09:00.000-07:00

Let's play a game. This one is called 'Spot the grumpy kid'.

(Images Sourced from http://www.flickr.com/photos/britishmonarchy)

This is why I believe that kids must be taught the art of posing at a very early age. Imagine what would transpire through Grace Van Cutsem when she'd be all grown up one day, and go to the Queen's house for some aamai vadai on a rainy Sunday evening, and the Queen would insist on dusting out the wedding album and perhaps even showing her the video. Or maybe, one day when her prospective employers are looking her up on Google,they would find an entire tumblr and a Facebook page dedicated to her".

(Image Sourced from : memelulz.com)

I personally think it's the frills that is making her super unhappy. I know one other girl who was pissed off like a dinosaur being fed shitake mushrooms when she was made to wear frilly bloomers as a kid. But of course, the best picture of the lot was a stolen moment.

Reminds me of Diana's flower girl, who tripped and fell, and was comforted by the Princess.

The Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T06:38:00.000-07:00

Indians are using every trick in the tool box to be associated with the Royal Wedding. The Gujjus got to make the cake. Next, Kurl On will be sponsoring the Royal Bedding and Amul will be making pedas for the first night. Perhaps, Mallya will sponsor the grapes.

#RoyalWedding was a promoted trend on Twitter (Promoted? Oh, the shame!). So many opinions, so much hype, so much criticism. In fact, they all seem to follow a similar format

The royal wedding was [insert source of immense pain] with [insert outlandish comparison] . Only, the [outlandish comparison] was full of/filled with/rife with [insert grouses against the Royal family].

For example, 'The royal wedding was a lobotomy with a coathanger. Only the coathanger was filled with gregorian chanting, gross misue of public monies, and a press storm.'

There, you have your very own opinion on the Royal Wedding, to flaunt. Peace.

When I'm sad, I have milk powder.

2011-04-22T14:05:00.000-07:00

No, seriously. For a few moments, you'd go to so much trouble to get that one bit of milk powder stuck behind your teeth, off with your tongue; that all your other troubles seem to fade in comparison.

Cheap, fast and easy

2011-04-20T05:56:00.000-07:00

At the end of five years, I do consider myself an authority on this subject.

Coming soon.

2011-04-17T16:18:00.000-07:00

Me : Maa, these last few days of university are really getting on my nerves.

Amma : You've been there for five years. Two more weeks won't make a difference.

Me : Yeah yeah, I've just been feeling utterly super bored lately.

Amma : All is fine? Concentrate on exams. Or do some painting.

Me : *whine* Nothing creative comes to mind. Blank. I really think I need some change, that's all.

Amma : *with all seriousness* Ok, we are looking anyways. We will get you married.

Me : ... .... ... ?!?!?!?!!

I hope the 'Coming Soon. Bangalore' is not a veiled 'Coming Soon. To a marriage near you.'

Yours,

Officially nervous.

A new favourite. Royal Enfield ad.

2011-03-07T10:33:00.000-08:00

Patience is a virtue that I'm yet to familiarize myself with. I can't wait for my Classic 350 to come home.

Tinkle tinkle little star.

2011-02-24T22:34:00.000-08:00

It happened to me. Like it happened to many other Indian kids in their early reading years. Tinkle.

Last month, when I was home and I took on the daunting task of cleaning out my bookshelf, I found my first copy of Tinkle. In my second standard, my father would take me on our Red LML Vespa every first Saturday to 'Maatha book store' to buy me a Tinkle Digest for the princely sum of Rs. 25. I would be standing there expectantly - a round kid in a white frock, barely reaching the counter, staring up at the many Amar Chitra Kathas displayed, with clothes clips pinning their colourful pages to a string. I would turn to my father and say 'Appa, ammachit kadhai book venum' (Appa, I want ammachit story book). But of course, I was being greedy. Amar Chitra Katha books was the reason I wished I had two birthdays a year, perhaps three. My favourite Amar Chitra Katha to date, is the one I got for my birthday in fourth standard, from my then best friend - the story of 'Vasantasena'.

Those were the days when all those kids from Mizoram and Assam, writing in with stories for Tinkle gave me an immense inferiority complex. I wondered how they were smart enough to draw all those pretty picture stories. Those were the days when I hated Anu Club and skipped the pages fast to Shikari Shambu or Suppandi or my favourite, Tantri the Mantri. When we went to Bombay and stayed in Andheri West, I threw a mini tantrum that I wanted to go see Tinkle's office. My Uncle got me my first Enid Blytons to shut me up. That was the beginning of yet another love affair.

To my surprise, when I re-read my collection of Tinkles last month, I found that I remembered the plot of every single story; even the 'It happened to me'. I was so overcome by nostalgia, that I decided to send a mail to Uncle Pai.

16th January 2011

Hello Sir,

Like million other kids in the country, I grew up addicted to Tinkle and Amar Chitra Katha books. I still cherish them and fondly read them once in a while. I owe you more than a mere thankyou for single handedly cultivating my reading habit and for keeping me out of trouble for the better part of my childhood. I got your email address from this page on Facebook - a fan page for you (which if you have not seen, you simply must).

We love you Uncle Pai!

Regards,

A twenty-two year old who still reads and loves Tinkle

I don't think Uncle Pai checks his mails. But just in case he did, I'm glad I told him how much I love him. I feel like an old friend has passed away.

R.I.P Uncle Pai.

Not every blog post has a title

2010-12-26T10:07:00.000-08:00

...and not every feeling has a name.

Youtube is blocked at university, I go viral with funny/interesting/DUDE, YOU MUST ABSO-FRIGGIN-LUTELY SEE THIS!!!!! youtube links as soon as I get home for the holidays and my best friends usually block me for a while around this period.

I was looking up this Harry Potter versus T Rajender video today on Facebook when I chanced upon the rendering of Mahisasura Mardhini. Now, I'm not particularly a fan of classical music, except maybe the violin. My only touch with classical music is the mandatory classes I went to as a kid and like every other good Tamil kid, I was given the limited liberty to choose a musical instrument. Because my father told me that my childhood hero, Abdul Kalaam played the Veena, I chose the Veena. I do wish I'd pursued the latter, but the former - the classical music classes, were a true nightmare to me and to the teacher. By the time we had finished Varaveena and Padumanabha, she packed up and left the country. Soon after, my veena teacher also sought asylum in Cinnci-naughty.

I digress. So, this was around the time when my parents figured I was growing up/taking too much space and I was duly kicked out of my parents room and given my own bed to sleep on. Like any other kid who has read too many books and believed every word that spouted from her grandfather's mouth to be the gospel truth, I believed that the 'poochandi' (Tamil Boogieman) lived under my bed.

Once my grandfather realized that his idle time pass of telling me Vikram Betaal stories with added masala gave me nightmares and if left unattended might lead to me spending my future earnings on shrinks instead of on good quality filter coffee, he figured it was his responsibility to fix the damage done. He gifted me the 'Mahisasura Mardhini' tape by MSS and I was given my own tape recorder (on which I also played my beloved AQUA cassette). 'Mahisasura Mardhini' was the song I played every night as I went to sleep for seven long years with a tiny neon orange, glow-in-the-dark Ganesha under my pillow. This was till I started watching horror flicks for kicks. Once the tape hit 'Ayi nija hummkruthimathra niraakrutha...tarpitha bhootha pisacha rathe' and 'Jaya jaya he mahisasura mardhini' echoed in my room, I would peacefully fall asleep.

Today, after nearly 8 years, I chanced upon the song again. Today, after nearly 8 years, it still somehow makes me feel very very safe. I didn't realize it till the song started playing on a background tab and within the first two verses, there was this warm feeling like I was being hugged tightly in a secure embrace. It's nice to know that some things never change. :)

The one with too many liqueur chocolates. Not.

2010-12-12T23:11:00.000-08:00

I've decided that even if I ever become a secret agent, I'd like to retain my initials. 'Stainless Stealer' sounds like one of those cutlery pilferers at parties. But, I like eet! In other news,

Q. What do you call a clause in the agreement that is COMPLETELY in your favour?
A. Santa Clause.

Q. What do you call a group of associates deciding to contribute and get the partner one Christmas present instead of many individual gifts?
A. A Christmas Cartel

Q. What did the angry Real Estate head tell the intern after looking at the messed up Title document?
A. Your days are numbered.

Q. Do you know what happened to the guy who ate the Judge's Christmas pudding?
A. He was held in police-custardy

Q. What did the lawyer say to the modestly endowed lawyer who was hitting on her?
A. 'De minimis non curat lex'. (The law does not concern itself with little things)

Q. Do you know why the lawyer fired his cook?
A. He was charged of Salt in batter-y

Eating Plum(p) cake by the kilo and watching out for the rows of Christmas lights on Brigade Road to come up every night when I ride back home from work. Louly internship. Bangalore. Did I mention plum cake? Ah, life.

Nein Danke

2010-11-09T15:17:00.000-08:00

Earthquake. Jodhpur. People were shaken awake to beds moving. Those who were awake were relating stories of walls moving to and fro. One girl figured it was an innovative ploy to wake her up when we banged on her door and asked her to get her ass down. We congregated outside the building for a few minutes and because it was 4am and it was cold, we decided it was ok to be buried under the rubble than glamorously freeze to death in a girl's hostel's worth of skimpy night clothes.

I didn't feel a thing.

When I put 'All the drama that you crave that you really want/That you crave, that you want, that you want, want' as my status message Dear God, an earthquake wasn't what I was asking for. Thanguberimuch.

In other news, no drama only in life. I almost feel obligated to rent out a circus for the sake of it. Iz bored.

(P.S.First and last time you'll see a LOLcat on this blog. Yes, that's how much 'I iz bord'.)

Walking in a winter wonderland

2010-11-04T04:56:00.000-07:00

While I was whining about my lost umbrella, about how 34C in October is sheer global warming, winter made it's backdoor entry into Jodhpur. The hair oil has condensed and I feel like a pervert having to shake the Parachute bottle and coax it so much to get the white thing out. Amma said only on Sundays. The hair oil I mean. But I like winters. I like being bundled up in layers of wool and feeling all warm and cosy. Except that my nose, which thanks to genetic conformity is oddly positioned and ostracised from the rest of my face, reddens in the cold all alone. 'Rudolf the red nosed reindeer' is not a good option this Christmas even if you don't mean it.

In Jodhpur, the days leading up to winter are always very eventful. Entire winter wardrobes are unpacked, the rasais come out, lizards freeze in spaz poses on the walls and go into hibernation and even your nostrils feel like they need moisturizer what with the cold winds that assault you the moment you step out, gloved hands buried deep in your sweatshirt. Crossing the road to 'Cool Palace' in the evenings, sitting on their terrace and having cheeni parathas and chai with a balcony view of the highway. Who would want to study for the exams?

Bangalore has an almost non-existent winter when compared to Jodhpur or for the matter Delhi. Bangalore has what one would call a comfortable winter. I like the nip in the air and the chill as I drive back home in the evenings. Monkey caps make their appearance and woolen saree blouses sold on Commercial street become the new fashion statement. The moment I wear a jacket in Bangalore, my mom asks me if I've fallen sick. There's a general laziness that pervades all existence.

When I was interning in Delhi, I landed up at my paying guest accommodation straight from Bangalore, without a rasai or a sweater to my name. They told me it would be cold and I carried a Nike jacket. To my Bangalorean mind, that was more than sufficient for winters. Never in my life have I been more thankful for a shopping market than I was for Sarojini then. The highlight of that winter was having a 'desserts only' dinner at Big Chill at Khan market with SJ and driving down Golf Course road at midnight in his car, at top speed with the windows down. I caught a horrible cold that night which stayed with me for the rest of my Delhi stay. No amount of hot chocolate could cure it.

So the last year when I was Mumbai for the winters, I made sure to ask a friend how winters there were. When she said 'Yeah, it's normal. Slightly chilly sometimes', I interpreted that to mean 'somewhat Bangalore winters'. I packed a sweater, another sweater for choice, a jacket maybe to wear when I was hanging out with posh people, a few scarves for statement, a muffler because they are warmer than scarves and a pair of gloves just in case my hands got cold when zipping around on bikes. (What? A single girl's got to have some choice). So, I landed at my accommodation on Marine Drive with a 23kg bag for my month long stay, most of which was winter wear and had to lug the bag up to the third floor of the ancient building. On one hand a Parsi aunty appeared out of the blue cursing me for making a ruckus and on the other hand, I was afraid I would lose my hold on the bag and it would slide down the staircase and kill her. It's pointless how they call winters 'winters' in Mumbai. Then again, when I was a kid, a pen friend of mine could not comprehend how it could be winter in India if I did not build snowmen or there was no Christmas. Now my penpals are sending me photographs of their favourite places covered in snow. I haven't seen snow ever and I obsess over it so much that my mother once gifted me a snow globe and I was fawning over it for a good long time. I love those things, snow globes. My childhood would be complete if I could spend one Christmas vacations making snow angels and building snowmen.

This year, I'm going to be spending the winters in Bangalore after a long time. I'll get to go to Nilgiris's Christmas goodies sale and buy marzipan confections for my nephews and nieces. Now that I think of it, I've missed Sweet Chariot's plum cakes so much. I'm looking forward to the long walks on Brigade road, the rows and rows of fairy lights, the glittery stars everywhere and the general Christmas-y happiness that engulfs Bangalore on the weeks preceding the New year.

It's become a yearly tradition that I spend the last week of the year and first week of the New Year sounding like Louis Armstrong, thanks to all the evening time roaming around without mufflers. It's my pre-New Year's resolution not to contract a cold this December. Even if it takes drinking a lot of warm water and having only hot water showers. This year, I will be wishing everyone Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, not a grizzly bear.

Scarlet and smooth

2010-10-14T12:03:00.000-07:00

I don't want their eyes to glaze over in fear and I don't even want their measly yellow tit-bits of gold. I'd rather that they just left me alone. They can have all the princesses on this side of the exotic East. Killing a dragon is the shortest route to glory it seems. It gets you a cover page illustration in a fairytale compendium. Fame, fortune and a blue blooded bride are ancillary benefits I'm told. My buddy says in a few hundred years they'll find me too. Hah. Good luck with that. I'm just a 96 year old Chinese fireball and there's all the time in the world.

India badnaam hua darling, CWG ke liye

2010-09-24T01:19:00.000-07:00

Cows - check, Casteism - check, Corruption - check, Saffron divide - Check, Poverty - Check. What else could we show them?

And this one for the my third language Hindi teacher who cut 1 mark in the 'indhi' oral test when I said 'Sher' meant 'Tiger'.

(For the Tamil-challenged. Singam - Lion. Asingam - Shame.)

Idli shaped hole in my soul

2010-09-11T06:15:00.000-07:00

Growing up in Bangalore in a non-Tam locality meant Tamil festivals are celebrated differently at home. We have no golu on Navrathri, no rice flour Karl Marx on Krishna Janmashtami. But thanks to my mother's love for cooking, the many aunts with varied culinary specialties and my enthusiasm coupled with that of around twenty-five cousins strong battalion's ethusiasm for eating, there is no dearth of sundal or seedai.

It begins in January after New Year when sakkarai pongal and Ven pongal is made on Pongal and vadais are inhaled with coconut chutney while the family around watching Solomon Papaiyya pattimandram on Sun TV after making Pongal in a mud pot as per tradition in the balcony. On Kaarthigai, the maavizhakku is made in the evening, ghee poured into it and lit at twilight and consumed as dessert after dinner. The brown, burnt crust was my favourite part and being the youngest in the family gave me birthright overriding any cousin's 'I call dibs!!' claims to it. Deepavali involves a breakfast of all the sweets made for the occasion including the exquisite and made once in a year somaas and paruppu payasam, mysore paak and kuzhi paniyaaram. A uber-grand lunch of soudhi, mor kozhambu, avial and special curd rice with dry fruits and pomegranate follows rendering one invalid for the rest of the holiday.

And then there was Vinayaga chathurthi. The two days I looked forward to in the year as a kid was one my birthday, because my mother would make nei-urundai and two, Vinayaga Chathurthi. Being limitedly religious only on Fridays and special occasions meant we only have a puja shelf at home instead of a dedicated room. The night before Vinayaga Chathurthi would see me seated on the sink in the kitchen, brass polish by my side, cleaning all the idols as my mother ticked off the items on the check list as the delivery guy from the grocery shop unearthed them from the huge bag of groceries he would go around the neighbourhood on his TVS 50 delivering. Not unlike Santa with the presents, only no climbing down chimneys or cookies and milk. Once the polishing work was done and the silver Ganesha idol shone to my mother's satisfaction, I was allowed to go to sleep counting baby ganeshas jumping over the clouds as my mom put on some old Tamil music and opened her cookbook.

I'd wake up in the morning to the heavenly smell of modakam. I'd hurry through my bath only to pop into the kitchen and look lustfully at the perfect, pale form of the modakams piled on top of each other in the Tupperware boxes. Watchful eyes would shoo me away but not before I'd stolen at least one modakam. An annoying sense of ethics would prevail and dictate that one should not eat food before the puja, I would coerce my younger cousin into having the stolen modakam, because you see, it has been stolen already and he is too young to understand the implications of how angry God will be if you eat his food before he gets to bless it and all that jazz.

And then, when it's time for the puja, the TV would be switched off, the tape recorder in the kitchen playing Illaiyaraja music would be silenced and I would be handed the puja bell to chime along with as my mother sung devotional songs. I hated the job of chiming the bell, it involved too much shaking of hands in coordination with music. And I would get glares if I spaced out in between and lost rhythm. So in advance, I'd glamourize the job, make it sound all-important, make sure my younger cousin thought it was THE thing to be doing during pujas. At the puja, when he'd be unnecessarily hopeful and raring to be handed the bell and I got handed the bell, in a graceful move, I'd promptly pass it to my younger cousin. Much to the annoyance of my mother, who would threaten me with dire karmic consequences and scold me, he would insist he really wants to chime the bell. Being sent to Carnatic music classes would have it's benefits and I'd soothe my mother by singing 'Mudakaratha Modakam' perfectly at the end of the puja year after year. It's another story that I fell in love with the song only because it mentioned modakam.

Now I sit in my hostel room, not having been home to celebrate Vinayaga chathurthi for five years now and googling 'Mudakaratha Modakam' to look up the complete lyrics. To all of you updating your Facebook status with modakam references, you who sent me wishes with pics of modakam and you who sent me poems on modakam by SMS, may the fine coconut fibre get stuck in your teeth.

P.S. The recipes linked to are what turned up on Google search. I'm currently in the process of strategical game-play towards proving myself worthy of being given access to my mother's recipe book or acquiring a pirated copy of the same. Authentic recipes later.

The shell must break for the bird to fly

2010-08-24T06:10:00.000-07:00

It was not like I wanted to leave him. I did not want to go away. Not now. Not when he needed me to stay with him. Not when he needed me to give him strength. I wondered what they would say - all those watching. I wondered if he would be alright. He tried to hold me back. I tried to stay. I knew I could not be with him forever. I was never a forever person. Being as fickle as I am, I could not bring myself to listen to his rational arguments. I decided to leave anyways. He let go.

Soft fingers brushed me away as I rolled down his cheek. I knew he would be fine.

Rowdy Rangamma FB.

2010-08-05T21:28:00.000-07:00

My most classy display of foot-in-mouth fetish yet, happened.

I created a facebook business page to display all my art stuff like wares on a virtual footpath for sale. Tired of thinking up brand names everytime I started selling some art, I put my name for business page. To tempt in clients, I sent invites to the page (my only solace being I didn't go the 'Send all' spam way). Quite unfortunately, it ended up in mailboxes with the subject line 'Sindhu Shankar likes Sindhu Shankar and suggests you like Sindhu Shankar'.

Yeah ok, I'm a narcissist. I change my Gtalk display pictures thrice a day (But that's only because i have so many nice pics, it can't be helped). I'm also very attached to my name. But this...this...*sigh*. With the alacrity of Pak government disclaiming any news relating to them hosting dinner parties for Bin Laden, I also issued a press note but to no avail. Love kept pouring in.

'I like you Sindhu Shankar. And I like the other Sindhu Shankar too.'
'Like Sindhu Shankar or die.'
'Nervously likes Sindhu Shankar.'
'My like is always with you'
'*gobsmacked and paralysed with fear and apprehension* Sindhu Shankar suggested you like Sindhu Shankar.... or you will be found in a ditch tomorrow with a rose in your lapel and wearing beautiful handpainted shoes that are now available at a special discount!'

If your name is not Suppuni or Muniyandi, can I borrow yours for the moment?

Ladies and ledas

2010-08-03T12:54:00.000-07:00

If doing Gregory Peck was the cure to common cold, wouldn't you pass him around? That's what I do with some tags. And others just get on my nerves like a Monday morning when Robert Pattinson would be the first face I saw and I had only 'Don't touch me Mr.X' song on my playlist and only Roohafza to drink. Very early in life I learnt how to spell hypocrite and that I am one. Feel free to tag along.

After having read many posts on the 'sins against gender stereotypes' tag, I cannot wait to add my life story also to the communal pool. Aspiring poster girl for Blue chaddi campaign sounds much-ier than what I imminently expect to do for a living. Mookuthi (nosepin) and weakness for sarees might work against me politically speaking, but I can make up for lost leda-ness by:

1. Exploiting tendency to play Bullet Baama
I aspire to ride a Bullet Electra 350cc very soon. I would rather drive down the three hours road than take the bus - this has much to do with general laziness though than love for the highway (refer 10). I love road trips, travel and the like. I don't understand all the hype about women riding bikes and women bikers giving interviews like they are the brain behind the twinspark engine just like I don't get all the hype about women juggling career and home. So what really, get over it.

2. Carrying my own baggage
I would certainly welcome any help in carrying my 25.5 kg ~~sack~~ one-piece luggage when I go back home every semester. But I can carry it over five flights of stairs, load it onto buses, off an accident wrecked train through fields of mud by myself. If you have a luggage monster to manage as well, please, give chivalry a rest. I would be more romantically inclined towards you if you did not drop yourself, your luggage and more importantly my luggage with a dramatic THUD! If you address me in the tone you reserve for the abla bharatiya naari while offering to help me, I will sit on you. Additionally, if you prefix or suffix your coos with 'gudiya', I will throw a hissy fit that will have a radioactive effect on you and render your progeny deaf and mute. I can manage, thankyou. Really.

3. Flaunting Craft - F grades
If only my teachers had paid close attention to this grade on my marks card, I wouldn't have had to get a rap on the knuckles every Wednesday through middle school for forgetting to bring my embroidery thread. Standing outside class watching the guys learn to tie knots and that sort of worthy skills worked well for me. When making sets for plays and college parties, I leave the craft work to others. I cannot cut in a straight line, true story. And all sort of tie tying rituals that Bollywood says are integral to a marriage are lost to me. As much as I love guys in formals, I cannot bring myself to indulge in such crafty means to salvage anything.

4. Eating much.
I have very fond memories of our food trip to Pushkar. We ate. And ate. Sat around digesting. And ate. Seven dishes at one go for dinner. And the next morning saw us back and chirpy sitting around or rather, having five plates of food sitting around us and acquaintances at the next table gawking at us in disbelief. Yeah ok, we also make pacts to swear off Lays chips, go running, fray inch tapes within inches of death, eat Maxxum icecream guiltily and that sort of everyday shit everyone does. But when we decide to eat, we eat.

5. Avoiding 'Hai daiyya, mein sharam se laal hui' type exclamatory adventures
Yeah, no. I cannot blush like hello kitty unless it was for this once when someone asked me a question which it does no good for my image to reveal. Pink looks nice on guys and a pink teddy bear plays a guest role in the few nightmares I have. My only teddy bear had horns and was called 'Ghatotkach'. You get the drift.

6. Drawing women
I don't understand why this disturbs people so much. I've been asked more than once why I draw female figures, am I attracted to them? Because I'm good at drawing women, duh. Undeniably, women have more aesthetic bodies than men. Unless of course, you are talking about Surya. *waterfalls*

7. Not being a feminist.
Why is that every other woman I meet raises an eyebrow when I say I do not like being labelled a feminist?Equality and all that is brilliant stuff I support but no really, I don't like being called a feminist. Why? Never mind. I've spent about all my college life trying to explain myself only to be ridiculed by feminists for not being one of them. Bleh. I am not claiming I can make Hugh Hefner blush, but I wouldn't be the one avoiding him for what or who he does.

8. Boy cut aka Crop
I frequently get told off by visiting aunties (the ones who fall within the general age group and general social circle circumference to be addressed as such; as distinct from highly volatile related aunties group of hazardous elements; conceptually similar to visiting faculty). Before my mother can complete her 'Bade naazon se paale humare banno' line of conversation, I unleash terror. When I remove my helmet, they wait a few seconds for the hip length black hair I once had to come cascading in slow motion like a mini tsunami down my shoulders. The obvious lack of what is every other Indian man's fetish elicits grief in terms of how I will get 'pu alangaaram' (Ikebana on head for tamil brides) done with 'booi cut' hair. To change the topic, I might mention 'tattoo' and it's fun to see how fast eyes can go from being button mushroons to dish plates. And then of course, for final *djadjaang* digil (thrill) ending to set their pulses racing and BP rising, I must mention Bullet. I can be rest assured their sons are not going to be present at my swayamvar.

9. Video games
It is quite an established fact that only Chuck Norris needs to be modest. I kick ass at videogames that came out in the cassette era. Atleast I used to. I haven't yet made the transition to Counterstrike, Halo and the kind. Now if only my cousins were young enough to play them with me like they guided me with video games. Me still boasting about defeating one of them at Streetfighter six years back doesn't help of course. But I so did and how! I very much love Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Lee, James Bond, Godfather and other mafia type movies but only with good company. Yes, I will play Diner Dash with you but only if you are my niece or nephew's besht-fraand.

10. General disinterest and lack of incentive
I'm way too lazy to be feminine. I can do the needful if necessary, but why really. Like it's much easier to get comfortable boxers instead of go searching around for cute cotton shorts. Like it's much easier to have short hair than go hunting for rubber bands to manage hair in wind. Like it's much easier being cute in a next-door neighbourly round way than take all that effort to be hot and sesky. Like it's much easier being a leda than bother with the niceties of being a lady.

Colour colour which colour do you shoes?

2010-07-24T14:07:00.000-07:00

So, this summer, I gave a few of those good old Bata tennis (aka PT) shoes a makeover. And these shoes are now for sale! Click here to view the album.

Leave a comment or contact me for sizes and pricing info.

Burrito love and birds

2010-07-20T11:10:00.000-07:00

Punvati and I embarked upon the hallmark beginning of the semester journey from our university on the highway to the city, to Reliancemart to get bodywash, bedsheets and Kellogg's Chocos. As I was locking my room, Spazkumari made an appearance and insisted we do not get her junk food packed from the city even if she was to call us multiple times and threaten suicide in the face of near starvation. Like good friends, we supported her endeavour to eat healthy and went our way to the city, to fill our haven't-eaten-since-last-night-because-we-are-lazy-to-change-out-of-our-boxers-and-head-to-the-canteen selves with bhujia parathas.

So as I was trying to decide whether I actually liked the stars in the 'Planets and Stars shaped Chocos' and Punvati was convincing me that the free stationery set only meant bookmarks and was so not worth it, our phones beeped in synchrony.

Message from Spaz : Please buy me a vegetable burrito :-( I am PMS-ing and hungry and the canteen only has stupid maggi and I will cry otherwise.
Me : You asked us not to get you food even if you insist. No.
Message from Spaz : Read the message I sent Punvati you jail warden!
(which was - 'Please? I will bawl. I put the fear of God into the canteen guy for not having sandwiches. I ate a nauseating chaat. I tried! :-( '...)
Me : No. No food.
Message from Spaz : Would you kick a hungry (metaphorical) puppy in the tummy?!
Me : Clearly you are not serious about wanting food.
Message from Spaz : I'm drooling all over this cheapass phone! Look, please don't be mean :-( . I'll call them and place the order, you just pick it up :-)
Me : No.
Message from Spaz : Fine, be careful not to trip over my corpse on your way into hostel.

As Punvati and I stepped out of Reliancemart and were trying to balance our various purchases, the back of Punvati's shirt and my sleeve were nastily covered with bird poo. The sheer volume of combined crap on us, I could bet my life there is an invisible ~~teradactyl~~ pterodactyl with an upset tummy roaming the Jodhpur skies. Summoned by bad karma of course.

I never liked birds.

P.S. The pic above is a gift my neighbourhood nightmare(the one that calls me doo-doo) gave me with the prior promise that I display it in a prominent position in my room. Apparently to overcome my fear of birds. It moves with the breeze and all I can say is it is dastardly and is fornicating with my peace of mind every waking minute I spend in my room . Obviously this gives sadistic pleasure to my neighbour & Co. Grr.

P.P.S. Spazkumari on enquiring what I am upto and being told that I'm chronicling her life on my blog, had this to say: "Bitches, I'm charged 10 paise for each message. No detours. No sightseeing. You are going straight on a bullet train to hell."

*Sigh*.

Plop goes the weasel

2010-07-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

So, I was watching S05 E14 - 'The perfect week' of How I met your mother - the one with Ted's torturing of poor Kuk Pu (or is it Cook Poo?). Deriving inspiration from the pu-ns: "She was down in the dumps." "You smeared the Pu." "Did you get all the Pu out of your system?", this one for the Tams and brethren of any other language in which 'Poo' means 'flower'. I kid you not. Now that you know that important piece of information, sing these classic tamil songs. Out loud. :

Breaking wind - Poo vaasam purappadum penne naan poo varaindhaal.(The smell of poo is in the air when poo I draw)
Same as above, as weird fetish? - Poo pookum osai adhai kekathaan aasai.(The sound of poo blooming, I'd love to hear)
Diarrhoea - Poo-va poo-va poo-va poo-va poo-ve, poo-va poo-va poo-va poo-va poo-ve, poo-va poo-va poo-ve (Oh poo, oh poo, oh poo, oh poo....)
Constipation - Hey rasathi, rosa poo, vaa vaa vaa (Hey darling, rose poo, come come come)
Every morning. Like dawn. - Poo pola poo pola pirakkum.(Like poo, like poo, it's born)
Good Morning - Poo-kum malarai kaigal kulukki thendral sollum kaalai vanakkam (The breeze shakes hands with the blooming poo and wishes good morning)
When you swallow a gold coin like my niece did - Poo-vukkul olindhirukkum kanikkootam adhisayam (The 'kanikootam'? hidden in the poo 'ajooba hai' - Someone translate this one please.)
In an open field - Poo-vukkenna poottu kaatrukkenna roottu Gullaa Gullaa Hallaa Gullaa (What lock for poo, what route for the breeze, gullaa gullaa hallaa gullaa)
For the lactose intolerant - Poo pola poo pola pirakkum, paal pola paal pila sirikkum (Like poo like poo it is born, like milk like milk it smiles)
When like me, you are not an SJ Surya fan - Thottal poo malarum...(When you touch me, poo blooms...)

And a Tamil film 'Poo' has a song 'Choo-choo maari'. Any more gold?

P.S. Being stuck in a forest lodge in the middle of Sri Lanka did weird things to my family. My mom picked up Cosmopolitan. My dad touched a chess board after 23 years, challenged me and grandly lost after a long drawn two and half hour game. My cousin rendered bored by preceding activity, in her sleepy state provided fodder for this post.

P.P.S. Oh-oh, and an interesting post about why Asians shouldn't be mad at 'Cook Poo' in HIMYM.

The vacation that wasn't

2010-07-05T04:24:00.000-07:00

Maniratnam films are best watched in Tamil. In theatre. Also, male eye candy material minus moustache results in major trough in the Hype cycle of sex appeal. Case in point - Prithviraj as Dev in Raavanan.
Suspension bridges are romantic.In the rain, only half covered by an umbrella that wants to fly away with the wind.Swimming in the rain is yet another 'now that we are elevated into higher happiness, lets now get mushy and make awww noises whenever someone says something remotely cute'-mood inducing activity. Me in the mood is rare as me getting to swim in the rain.
To ride a cycle again up a mountain slope and not be out of breath makes one revel youth. To immediately after such gloating, crash land in a bush by the roadside on the way down because one forgot to check the brakes before renting the bicycle is a classic case of 'Pride comes before a fall' and material for youtube video. I always end up in these 'Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall' themed moments.
Being an aunt ought to be listed as the best job in the world. You get to buy a 3 year old chocolates and not worry about the cavities. You get to make up crazy bedtime stories to cater to both 5 year old boys and 9 year old girls at the same time - about Barbie and Benton having gingerbread kids whom Rumplestiltskin kidnaps and threatens to eat up, only to be rescued by Shrek Or maybe a Dora-Noddy version of the Ramayana. Shopping for kids clothes and comparing frocks to see which one has more frills can get more irritating than Justin Beiber. Kids are bleddy choosy nowadays.
The loss of a favourite book is harder to get over than discovering the guy you have been crushing for over a week is decidedly gay. More so when like me, if you have scribbled comments on the margins and between lines. On the book, not the guy.
Package trips can be good fun too. One revelled in the luxury of the best of ocean-view rooms, being chauffered around, eggs made to order every morning ( I felt like Sally from 'When Harry met Sally' and a complete idiot reciting my order every morning - 'Srilankan omlette please...hold on...with two eggs, make it spicy, no meat, extra tomato, folded with mushrooms, with toasted bread, no butter and some mustard on the side') black coffee perfected to your tastes by the maître d', et al. Thankless as one is, one still ended up making a resolution to come back to SriLanka sometime to stay local and see local.
Old Tinkle rocks. New Tinkle sucks. Old Tom & Jerry rocks. New Tom & Jerry sucks. Bengalooru has changed a lot. Bangalore hasn't one bit. Also someone please tell me where I can find videos of 'The Crystal maze' that used to come on TV in late 1990s.
How much ever one gets excited when the pilot on the flight landing in Bangalore announces 27 degree weather, gloats about evening walks in the pleasant drizzle and shows off minimum 25 degree summer temperature on Google weather widget to Delhi and Mumbai friends, one has to at the end of vacation come back to university like everyone else to 45 degree desert sun. Such is life.
You can hate 'Waka waka' now. But you will love it. Eventually. Now I just hope a hostel-mate doesn't take a sudden fancy to it and start playing it on loop for a week. That's a sure shot way to make me HATE a song and permanently remove it from my playlist - a fate shared by Ishqiya and Scarborough fair.
For friend to turn cousin, it takes too much hardwork, a lot of luck, a genius-level alacrity in match-making and Mylapore maami type marriage market navigation skills. For cousins to over time turn good friends, one thinks is time for brilliant fun. Like when a 21 year old and an 18 year old build mann-kovils (sand temples - south-indianised version of sand castles), fortify them with stones and decorate them with flowers and shells while an audience of sun bathing firangs on the private beach look on amused . But when the said cousin does a brilliant high jump and lands on one's architectural wonder, all accumulated fondness disappears.
Dear South Indian elder, wearing a saree and getting nose pierced is NOT conclusive proof of one being auctioned off in the marriage market. It could very well be a penchant for tattoos and piercings - something I don't expect you to understand and a love for sarees - something I didn't expect you would find amusing and comment on me for a change being a girl. My Bullet fascination is quite distinct from my Kanjeevaram silks connection thankyou. (Dibba, stop imagining Kamal haasan on bike from Chachi 420. I'm not anytime soon going to be riding a bullet while wearing a saree).
To have friends with same foot size, especially when one has been endowed with big feet (unfortunately you see, a girl with big feet does not benefit from urban legends as guys with big feet do) is a great blessing indeed. Even better when one is addicted to painted shoes. A range of shoes hand-painted by me over the summer is soon to be up for sale. Pictures and details on Facebook soon, watch the space.
Kitty party groups ought to be included under the list of terrorist organisations. To be unmarried and to be invited to one is like being invited to your own funeral. Hordes of aunties pinch your cheeks, mentally assess the worth of gold on you, unnecessarily inquire how long it would take for you to finish your studies and whether you have plans of studying further while trying to find common things between one and the son. In a final hand gesture almost akin to a spider slipping bribes to a government official fly while softly murmuring 'come into my parlour will you', they slip their phone number into one's hand and insist one calls them twice a week.
For as far as I can remember, sunflowers have my favourites. How can you not love something that yellow and happy. The second place is now tied between blue water lilies and .birds of paradise.
It is human nature to miss home when at university and miss university when at home. Glad to be back to scouting for the best seat on the first day of a new semester, flipping to the holidays section of the new curriculum booklet, shopping for six subject notebooks, new academic concerns and headaches, walks in the rain and best of all, back to cracking PJs that can kill and cracking up over them.

Also, I'm quite bored now of reading the same genre of Indian fiction and the same authors for over a year now. Whoever suggests brilliant new books gets nothing, I'm quite broke as of now having contributed all I had towards my Bullet which is soon to be booked . Maybe a ride on my bullet when I get it. E-karma is a good thing though you know.

What a long day!

2010-06-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

It's summer solstice today. In addition, it has been one of those highly disgusting days when you feel like a squished worm has permanently stuck itself with chewing gum to the heel of your fancy footwear.

Earlier this week, against all moral codes and higher ethics that binds a roadtrip-lover and backpacking-aspirant , I shamed myself by agreeing to go on a package tour.

Appa : So I talked to the travel agent about the Singapore-Malaysia trip.
Me : They can process the visa fast enough I hope?
Appa : Yeah, that's not a problem. They have no seats left though.
Me : Oh, ok. What about Plan-B, a trip to Darjeeling?
Appa : A strike is going on in Darjeeling, we can't go now.
Me : Ahan. Ok. Plan-C, Sri Lanka?
Appa : Hmm... one more thing, did I tell you I won't get an NOC fast enough? How about we go to Wonder-La this weekend?

(Cycle gap-la autorickshaw :Yes, my father is that adorable. He has Plan-B, Plan-C contingent measures even for vacation plans. And he thinks taking me on a roller coaster will make me super-happy, which it does though. Happy Father's day appa! You're a sooper-dooper, magic-tricks-performing, bullet-kickstart-teaching, MGR-song-dancing, Facebook-warring, Surangani-instead of lullaby-singing, Spirituality talking-while 5am walking, rockstah dad! I louwe you much.)

The vacations I was looking forward to before getting back to university vanishes into thin air like that one grey hair on my head that teasingly reveals itself and disappears just when I get the mirror out to look for it. And then, I make a call to me local Royal Enfield dealer hoping to indulge in some retail therapy and finally book my dream ride (The Jodhpuri auto and ambassador will have to wait).

Me : Hi, I (finally convinced my dad after years of pleading, begging, finally saving up enough to prove how badly I want it, getting a friend's bullet and showing him I can put the stand, start the bullet, move it while sitting on it and all the theaterics so that I could one day call you and say I ...) would like to buy a Classic 350. Could you tell me what's the delivery period for the same?
Dealer : 10 months maa'm.
Me: What?? Didn't you say it was 6 months when I called you three weeks back?
Dealer : Yes, but that was last month.
Me : Alright, I'd like to book one this week, I'll need a quote. What's the exact on-road price?
Dealer : It's 1.5 maa'm.
Me : What?? Wasn't it 1.2 just yesterday? I checked on the net and all!! (*cheater cheater, pumpkin-eater* background music in my head)
Dealer : No maa'm the Classic 500 was always 1.5.
Me : Ah! I'm asking about the Classic 350.
Dealer : We aren't taking orders for Classic 350 anymore maa'm.
Me : Why?? They aren't withdrawing it or something are they?
Dealer : No. In fact, they got so many orders for it that they decided not to take anymore. They are over-booked.
Me : Ohh. *gulp*

Cousin (background se, can almost hear her grinning) : Nano?
Me: Grrr... No no.

There goes my dreams of owning the Classic 350 atleast by next vacations.I don't know what to do now. Should I succumb to my parents bait of going for the Nano? I get to take it to university. Under strict orders from parents due to my accident-prone nature (No. Not on two wheelers. Touchwood. I have accidents almost exclusively, much to my chagrin while innocently sitting in autos and trains), the deal is that I don't get to take the Bullet to university if I get one. *Sigh* So much confusion is happening. So many trips I could go on in the Nano with friends, in my final year of college. But then, I'll feel like such a traitor, I want my Classic 350 too!! And the Nano and Bullet are deals that make each other mutually exclusive.

Go ahead, call me a spoilt brat, but I could do with much free advice please. Halpppp.

The Papercut virgin

2010-06-10T10:39:00.000-07:00

The pen is mightier than the sword said Baron Edward Bulwer-Lytton. But the fine edge of the innocent-looking paper romancing against your finger is apparently dreaded 'ouch-chouch-chouch-ouch' time and is wont to make you cringe. I wouldn't know. I've never got a paper cut. Maybe the office supplies love me and I never did anything in my past lives to incur their wrath.

I was talking to B the other day when he went 'Ouch! Spitwicks, I got a bloody papercut!'. I did not know what it was. I was made to google and wiki it and had no choice but to concede then, that it existed and B wasn't faking a paper monster bite.

So adding to the list of things to do when we get back to University, (which by the way include making Spaz Kumari wear her pencil skirt heels and matching bag, Poignantrose say 'Yo Bitch!' in her ghettoest possible voice - because she says its so her), Revelsign is all enthusiastic about giving me a papercut.

But B having introduced me to the concept thinks it's only fair he gets to give me a papercut first. So it's like papercut virginity. Who do I lose it to?

I suggested having a mizuage of sorts - bidding system like they did for the Geishas. The highest bidder then becomes the danna and gets to give me my first papercut. I got called greedy for that. B suggested I lose it to someone special like him. I considered the possibility of a run-away type climax ending' to the Memoirs of a Geisha version running in my head but 'bwahahahaha-ed' in the end.

So Revelsign, I think it's going to be you. Be gentle, pretty please?

Five four zaaar twenty. Five five zaaar twenty-five.

2010-05-05T21:09:00.000-07:00

In my first year of college, possibly because I was a very strong-headed, idiotic child and because of a long series of misunderstandings, I ended up hanging out with this group which consisted only seniors. My bunch of friends all passed out one by one. I made a few more inseparable friends over the four years at college - in my batch and juniors, but the original gang will always hold a special place; for it was with them that I spent my absolutely kick-ass first year of university life and more. Today, is the last exam for the final year students and the last one of my seniors from the original gang passes out of university and I'm feeling quite lonely about the entire affair.

When I come back next semester, there will be no one to call at the last minute before a moot to go through my written submissions, there will be no one to call and go 'Oye, I'm booking your project OK, don't give it to anyone.', there will be no one to indiscriminately borrow bare-acts and textbooks from and forget to return, there will be no one to ask for a treat as and when whim demands and no one who will sit with me at the next Intra moot court competition helping me pick the best moot for me to go to.

It's people around you who influence who you turn out to be. My identity has undergone a sea change from the first day of law school to today when I'm about to enter the final year here. And most of it is because of long walks with one guy and many trips to 'Cool Palace' - the adda across the university, with another. Love you Sargam and Rishabh.

I'm back to being friends with the first friend I made in college and I'm glad, I made peace with my neighbour and can't think of one good reason why we weren't this good friends before except that she calls me 'doo-doo', I ended up being close friends with DVD who was mad enough to accompany me on an impromptu weekend roadtrip when everyone else was busy and one junior I met ironically through another junior I don't talk to anymore is now a friend I can't do without - she is like xkcd comics personified.

Speaking of how time has flown, Tahini reminded me the other day 'Dude, we've been best friends for five years man. Shit, we are old.' It does seem like just yesterday that Tahini convinced me of the wrong answer at the law entrance coaching classes and we got talking. Which leads me to think, I wonder where I will be in five years to come. My 16 year old self could not even have begun to imagine the number of people who have influenced me over these five years - academically, non-academically, romantically, emotionally, intellectually.

No matter what kind of job I'm going to land up in, where I'm going to live, who I'm going to end up with , I'm sure of a few things - I will love my family beyond anything else and have their support in anything I do, I will have Tahini - one of the few people who I can say who fit the 'forever' tag, I will be with 'the guy' - one who is atleast eight on Tahini's ten point scale of perfection, I will have the handful of close friends I have made through college, hopefully more good friends like them and I would still be trying to set up DVD with any other single guy friends of mine.

It seems like my entire life so far has been building up to the five years to come. If they are anything like the five years that went past, I'm actually looking forward to it. I have a feeling they are going to be the most eventful and fulfilling yet.

Q. What do you do before an important exam?

2010-04-29T08:38:00.000-07:00

It has been a tradition for seven semesters at law school already and I'm not about to break it now in the eighth. I blog on the night before my exams.

It's something about my blog, it's just like my room here in the hostel - it feels all safe and comfortable, yellow to the point of blinding your co-worker behind you, two cubicles away(sometimes I think I should have an office-friendly version of the blog). So when my Direct taxation notes 'intaxicates' me to the extent of skipping straight to the point of a hangover headache of mammoth proportions, I head straight to my Blogger Dashboard having not an iota of shame that I haven't blogged in the last two months.

Speaking of hangovers, the last weekend was an extended epic end-of-semester weekend with a grand Taj dinner on Thursday night (thanks to our seniors Sameer and Bali), two parties back to back on Saturday night and yet another on Monday night, which were hosted by the seniors passing out and all in time for us to feel sufficiently guilty before the exams. I happily slept through the two parties on Saturday, waking up only when mom called on Sunday morning to ask how the party went and at the end of the conversation left me wondering 'Seriously, what in the world were my parents up to when they were my age?'.

Amma : Ok, go have breakfast now.
Me : No, my friends are yet to wake up, I'll go later.
Amma : Hmm...make curd rice for them.
Me : What?
Amma : No, it's a good hangover cure.
Me : *now wide awake* Err...ma...and how do you know this?
Amma : Umm...you see it in the movies.
Me : Ma, which Tamil movie suggests curd rice as a hangover cure??
Amma : *nervous hehehe* I must have come across it in some book or the other, leave it.

Now, my mom is the kind who reads Ponniyin Selvan, Paulo Coelho, Danielle Steele and Sidney Sheldon - none of who I'm sure talks of thayir-saadam and hangovers in the same breath. Forgive me if I'm slightly suspicious. One more thing to harangue my mom about while sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor watching nei-urundai being made.

*Sigh*. Home. I haven't been home in the last one year except briefly for a a few hours in November when I landed in Bangalore only to repack my bags and be herded away to my cousin's marriage - which was good fun and then to Mumbai, which was also immense fun. I'm really looking forward to the long vacation in Bangalore this time though. It's been long since I behaved like a grumpy three year old when my dad wakes me up in the morning, long since I went on a walk by myself at 5am - iPod in ear, long since I chided mom for only brewing tea and being discriminatory about the only coffee lover in my house - me, long since I read Open Sesame on Saturdays while my dad read the headlines off the Deccan Herald over breakfast, long since I took off on my Activa waving bye to mom while she screamed at me to drive with both hands or else..., long since I drove down the highway without a helmet (Dad, ignore this bit OK) wind in my hair going wheee at the evening drizzle that Bangalore is famous for in the summers (Then again, if weather in Bangalore is romance, Jodhpur is passion. I'll always miss both), long since I drove past the kids from the school I studied in waiting for the school bus - who all still know me and I don't know how, long since I drove past that horrible signal at Vidhan Soudha to park at the Karnataka High Court, long since I hung out with friends after a long day of internship, long since my Dad admonished me for spending more time with friends than him when I came home, long since Tahini dissected my love life over late night calls or over a cup of coffee at Kalmane Koffees. It's been too long.

I've been having a countdown on my gtalk status message much to the annoyance of all my Bangalore-loving friends not in Bangalore. It lists one place or thing I miss about Bangalore per day.

Davangere Benne Dose, Christ college (where Tahini studied and I hung out), Malleshwaram 8th cross - Gulkand, Venkatappa art gallery, Blossoms book shop, Nilgiris, Infinitea, Shivajinagar bus stand,Gandhi bazaar, Vishveshwaraiya Industrial Museum, Town hall, Lalbagh, Gangarams, Vidhan Soudha, Comm street, Kalmane Koffees, Cubbon Park, Brigade Road, Corner House, Jayanagar 4th Block Cool Joint, The Garuda, Sweet Chariot, Hallimane, Russell market, Church street , Iyengar bakery, Strand book fest, Ravindra Kalakshetra, Vidyarthi Bhavan, Bangalore Habba, 24hrs CCD Mysore road, Ambedkar Bhavan concerts, Taj cafe, Casapicola are places I've put up so far.

I think I'll get back to studying so that I get a nice, cushy job in Bangalore. Pray I do at least so that you won't have to read me verbally make love to Bangalore every-single-time the exams are about to end and I'm about to go home.

P.S. Other than my school friends and law school friends, almost every other friend I had in Bangalore is either married or not in Bangalore. In the interest of not spending an overtly boring summer, in the larger interest of keeping me cheerful, kindly be nice to me and make Fraindsheep if from Bangalore.

P.P.S. No, I'm not interested very much in Louvesheeps right now.

Blast. Past. Orphan notepad files.

2010-03-05T22:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my laptop (which has been threatening to crash since last September and which I hope crashes soon for then I'll get a new one) threw up yellow post-it type messages - 'Your drive is full. Delete old files.'

So I decided to delete some of my old academic stuff when I came across an old, orphan notepad file titled 'Laws of survival'. It didn't quite look like it belonged in the folder named 'Semester IV Political Sc. notes'. I opened it.

It was a blast from the past. It was the record of a snippet of conversation had one winter evening between six friends on the stairs of the academic block back in those times when I was struggling hard to justify to myself that it had been the right decision to come to law school (the other non-option having been pursuing art as a career) and trying to figure out how to get by the five years of law school without too much drama. While contemplating our experiences and law school life in general, we had come up with these 'Laws to follow if you want to merely survive at law school' :

1. Don't be first, don't be last, don't volunteer.
2. Trouble travels in groups. Be a part of it, never alone.
3. Don't get mad, get even.
4. It's tough if you are blond. Dye or die.
5. Professors are trouble built to Government specifications. Maintain prudent distance.
6. If there isn't a rule, there will be one.

Like all awesome wisdom stuff, this still holds good if all you want to do is merely survive. But then, times have changed, I have too and now in fourth year, I can safely say, so has law school for me.

Foot in mouth fetish

2010-03-02T20:34:00.000-08:00

Interesting conversations happen on my side of the floor of the hostel. For the sake of anonymity, lets name the conversationalists Girl X and Girl Y. Earlier, it was only Dibba's Dabbaisms. Now it has caught on to all five of us like the plague.

1. So, there is this Girl X in the hostel who was talking on the phone so loudly yesterday that everyone on the floor could hear. Girl Y was in a not so discreet manner poking fun of her when....

Girl X: Grrr.It's like having you as a third party in my conversations.
Girl Y: What?! It's like having two parties in my non-conversation!

2. Girl X : I want to go with you guys on the trip to Jaisalmer too! I want to see elephants!
Girl Y : They only have camels in Jaisalmer.
Girl X : Why? Camels and Elephants families have blood feud or what? If one is there, the other won't be there??

3. Girl X : Dude, these army guys get too many benefits.We should all marry army guys.
Girl Y : Then they will go away to war or something and we will all have the benefits. *sigh*
Girl X : Yeah, then we will be friends with benefits.

4. Girl X : Bananas are ugly. *pause* Like pigeons.

5. Girl X : (while having to share a bed with girl Y on a trip) "It feels like I'm lying in a coffin. Only it's slightly weird having you lying next to me."

6. Girl X : (@girl Y who is lying in front of a sketch of a boy which resembles a classmate) I see a foot coming out of your mouth!! What a foot fetish!
Girl Y : Eugh!! His foot is the size of a dinner plate and I have such a small mouth.
Girl X : What a 'foot in mouth' fetish!

7. Girl X : Don't ask me why.
Girl Y : No tell me why.
Girl X : I told you, don't ask me why.
Girl Y : No....why? why? why? why? why????
Girl X : Arre...don't be like Girl Z - Only she goes "Why? why? why? why?"
Girl Y : Girl Z only goes sexexexexexex, not why-why-why-why.

8. Girl X : I feel light today.
Girl Y : Anti-gravity X! *pause* OMG... don't hit the fan!!

9. Girl X : Two friends are sitting in a park. They are bonding over a moment of silence. What would you call it?
Girl Y : Hmm...don't know, tell...
Girl X : MoU
Girl Y : Memorandum of understanding??
Girl X : No, Mounam of understanding!
(Mounam in tamil means silence)

10. Girl X : So I told her she should use the pick-up line "I'm the small package big things come in."
Girl Y : Dude, read that line again!

11. Girl X : Don't call me too firang for saying this but the first time I heard them singing 'Jai ho 'from far away, I thought they were saying Tally ho! really enthusiastically. And I wondered why.

12. Girl X : Only we can find our own dead skin.

13. Girl X : (After a camel ride) Dude, my camel was burping in bubbles. Like it went on burping and burping and burping...like a 'burping camel'. But her camel was so silent like it was oppressed or something.
Girl Y : You should call them BC and OBC

14. Girl X : A flask signifies turmoil. Boiling water within, you don't feel it on the outside. Inner strength and all.

15. Girl X : I feel so dry. It's like you could pickle me and put me in a jar.

16. Girl X : (about a particularly irritating professor) She has no brains! Not even one!!
Girl Y : Why is her head so Solid ?!!

17. Girl X : I don't like cats. They are so snobbish. Like Delhi-ites.

18. Girl X : What's his name again?

Girl Y : It's something and something else. You know, like a name and a surname.

19. Girl X : Off with your head!

Girl Y : That's what you should say when you don't want to go down I suppose?

20. Girl X : That camel looks so peaceful ... like it's humming something to itself.
Girl Y : Yeah, it's singing "My humps, my humps...you love my lady lumps."

21. Girl X : I am filled with the milk of human kindness, a quart in every vein. A gentle soul I am.
Girl Y : Let's cut off Z's leg!!
Girl Z : We all just talk like we're stoned all the time don't we?

P.S. The conversationalists are Dibba, Divi, Revelsign, Ramu bhai and me. For those who know the five of us, guess who said what?

So help me God

2010-02-24T00:35:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I was that person who was religiously combing the LAN for Mehndi Hassan ghazals because a classmate rated Mehndi Hassan over Jagjit Singh. Yesterday, my day began with 'Poo vaasam' and I embraced my pillow as 'Scarborough fair' played in the background. Yesterday, I was a self confessed lyrics snob.

Today, 'Amplifier' tops my list. I nearly blackmailed a Punjabi friend in the UK into giving me the 'Bounce Billo' track because I couldn't find it online or with anyone I knew. And I'm listening to Usher and R Kenny. For the lyrics!

So help me God.

Something wicked this way comes

2010-02-20T00:38:00.000-08:00

The Mehrangarh fort is a beautiful fort. In fact, if you asked me which one place I would choose to go to in Rajasthan for the last time in my life, I would choose the Mehrangarh fort (and then, Udaipur if you give me two). Many a hauntingly memorable evening has been spent sitting on the ledge by the canons, friends by the side, kachoris in hand, playing 'I spy Om hotel' - picking out random landmarks from the blue bed sheet spread beneath.

So when a poster was put up on the notice board outside the library that Macbeth would be staged at the Chokelao gardens in Mehrangarh between the 13th and 24th of February, Divi and I decided to go. Our first attempt miserably failed when the baniyas in us dealt a shameful defeat to the connoisseurs in us, in a duel induced by the exorbitant Rs.300 the auto-wallah was charging us for a to and fro trip to the fort. We silently ate fried maggi at 'Cool Palace' across the road from the main gate of the University and walked back to our rooms.

Yesterday, we convinced ourselves to travel by the University bus halfway and cough up half the amount for auto and made it to Mehrangarh fort. Having reached early, we were sitting outside the fort, dangling our legs over the Jodhpur city, making dinner plans.

Enter Schoolbus.

The area was filled by a gaggle of high school kids in uniform, chattering away to glory and trying to act 'cool' in a way you would understand only if you loved the phrase 'too cool for school' back when you were in high school and thought rolling up the sleeves of your sweater upped your cool quotient by a gazillion. In a chorus we went "Oh no, they've come for the play!"

I'm totally in favour of outside the classroom education initiatives and school outings. In fact, the highlights of my high school life involved a very awesome English teacher who I think was responsible for the many plays we went to at Rangashankara and more. But a group of 13-16 year olds for company when you are looking for a magical Shakespearean evening set in what you consider the most romantic setting is a recipe for disaster.

Thus spake the second witch "Something wicked this way comes."

Soon it was time for the play to start. We settled ourselves comfortably on the big fat cushions and blessed them for having thought of the sturdy backrests while the kids sat in front sans the comforts. Between admiring the chokelao gardens, the beautiful lighting and reliving familiarity with the "Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble", the constant presence of heads with two plaits and ribbons in my line of sight suddenly screamed inside my head "OMG, I've crossed the line!" That thin line of grass that shines between the edge of the carpet which the kids are sitting on and the cushions we are seated on.

Just a few years back, I was among the mass of ribbons, being cool and all attentive during the play and shush-ing fellow classmates - following every line. Now here I am, reclining on luxuries afforded only to adults and mother of God, allowing myself to space out during Macbeth to contemplate on life, age and the reality of it all. Next to two stoned yet highly-attentive audience, one explaining bits of the play to the other while I wonder how Lady Macbeth's dress is standing up without any visible support and I'm slightly miffed but not vehemently bothered that they mess up my favorite bit - Act IV Scene I.

Exit Adolescence.

Not bad after all if this is what it is to be a grown up. Prithee, peace.

Juris-prudent-ia

2010-02-02T20:47:00.000-08:00

Question : In determining a nation's rank in political civilization, no test is more decisive than the degree in which Justice is defined by the law is actually realized in its judicial administration.Examine.

Answer : LOL.

I wish I had the guts to write that as an answer in the Jurisprudence test this morning. Instead I wrote a four page long winded argument on how that statement is absolutely true and how if the judicial administration carries out what it's law defines is justice, it can establish itself as a politically civilized nation and basically reproduced every statement on 'justice' I had read since the beginning of the semester.

And then I could not resist myself. I wrote one para in the end on how I don't think this test could be the decisive test to determine a nation's rank in political civilization. Now see, if there was this hypothetical country and in this country an 'eye for an eye' concept of justice was the definition given by the law and the judicial administration followed this to the boot, it might still not be an accepted notion of justice in other parts of the world. So in fact, instead of helping your nation's rank in political civilization yadda yadda, it would actually work to your detriment right? No? Maybe I'm (mis)understanding it out of context?

But then again, they don't give me marks for begging to differ with Professor Sidgwick quoted from page so and so of V.D.Mahajan's book on Jurisprudence. They give me marks if I mention those names and they jump in ecstasy if I can reproduce the page number as well.

Meanwhile, Diggi, my daily dose of entertainment via SMS just sent me this

In a maths exam, Santa was dancing instead of writing the exam. Why?
Because someone told him there was marks for every step.

Such is life.

P.S. Dibba was kind enough to explain the concept to me on chat.

Dibba: it's a little difficult to explain i think, but here goes... the term 'ranking' doesnt mean 'how acceptable is your message?', it means 'however crappy your message may be, how good is the administration of your state? how clearly is your message transmitted?'

for example

11:05 AM we dont agree with france on many grounds... they have civil law and a non-adversarial system, socialised medicine, etc

but

we would say that their rank of political civilisation is higher than ours because

whatever their message is, their law is, is is transmitted with less distortion than ours

11:06 AM to the citizen (end user)

me: right...

so its basically all about coherence and efficiency

not matter of the message

i get it now

Dibba: now this is NOT a correct example because france has different considerations, etc... not a poor country, not even federal system etc

but in pure theory, yes

thats what it means

11:07 AM because 'politico' refers to 'state'

me: ok..understood

thanks a ton!

Dibba: np

me: mind if i blog this too?

Dibba: hmm well this is my understanding after reading stuff in the lib

you should prolly cross check

11:08 AM me: makes things clear to me, lets see if we get more explanations on this without books

Dibba: okays

go ahead :)

Of feed limits and other thongs

2010-01-09T05:05:00.000-08:00

There are some people who worry that if they don't eat the food, it would go to waste. And then there are people who worry of exceeding the feed limit and then, food would go to waist. Heres wishing the latter Merry fitness and a happy new rear.

I pigged on Theobroma croissants and the I-must-be-dead-now-this-is-heaven MOD doughnuts with custard filling in Mumbai. And while I was at it, I got tricked into getting my nose pierced. Yes ladies and gentlemen, tricked.

There is this influence on my life called the Divi. It is a very covert thing that operates silently. Now Divi had known for weeks that I was quite besotten with the idea of getting my nose pierced and was apprehensive about how it would look on me and was having cold feet about the entire thing. Now Divi one day, took me to Hill road for a good shopping spree.Fourteen pairs of slippers and a quick run through of Globus for a black dress later, pointing to a little shop called 'Le Bijou',

Divi : Hey look, that's where my friend got a piercing from.

Me : Cool. I wonder if they do nose piercings...

Divi : I guess they do. Oh, you MUST see this thing they have on display there. It's a male thong with a zipper down the front!

Me : Woah...let's go in!

And while I was looking around the shop for the curio, Divi had enquired whether they did nose piercings, chosen a stud for me, asked the guy at the counter to load the gun and that m'dears is how Jil Jil got her nose pierced over the counter. When she was staring wide eyed at a particularly shocking white male thong with a zipper down the front.

Don't get me wrong, full credit to Divi for making me get the piercing. I am in love with my nose stud - so much that all I do is stare at the side of my nose in the gym mirror while I do the treadmill. (All you guys who call me a poser, did you know, the anagram of 'Nose piercing' works out to 'Nice grin, pose.' HA!)

My nasal insecurities and present reconciliation are another story. Let's talk thongs. Male thongs. White novelty mens thongs with zippers down the front.

Apparently, "if traditional men's boxers and briefs are like meat and potatoes, then novelty underwear is like cotton candy". (Candyman at your service? I am just scarred for life.). My limited knowledge of economics which I gleaned from learning definitions by rote for the exam pays a guest visit now and tells me demand for a product involves some kind of willingness to buy in the market. I am curious, very curious.

Dear male readers of the blog, would you dig them white thongs with zippers down the front? Female readers - Watchoo thinking 'bout these thingumajigs?

Bastuds! I will throw you on the street!!

2009-12-24T01:49:00.000-08:00

If on a later date, some test on facebook reveals I am an anti-Parsi aunty person, I will know where it all started. In Mumbai, in the last 24 hours.

I currently believe and am afraid, I will continue to believe Parsi aunties are a dangerous species as distinct as possible from Parsi uncles, Parsi girls, Parsi thingumajigga boys and Paris Hilton. No, not endangered ... DANGEROUS.

PARSI AUNTY = YAP AS I TURN/ IT YAP. US RAN.

Last night, around 1 am, Nu coughed a violent cough. It rearranged the things inside her head, and she hit upon a thought that she had to have Bachelor's icecream. The thought gnawed at the insides of her head much like the bacteria gyrating against her throat. And it spewed forth ( No, eww, not phlegm) - "Sindhu, Bachelor's jaana hai kya?". Now if she hadn't told me before about Bachelor's Icecream Joint, I swear I would have thought it to be a seedy beer bar - the kind where Suketu Mehta met Monalisa in Maximum City, which I was reading.

I tried to convince her she had a cold and it was not good for her throat. I was exacting revenge for her having made me drink a glassful of Parsi dairy milk two nights back when I had a cold that threatened to make the authorities consider placing the Niagra Falls sign onto my nose. A glassful of hot milk before you sleep my dears is a disgusting thing. More disgusting than having to swallow cough syrup. It refuses to go away till the toothpaste soothes your tastebuds with its minty freshness the next morning.

So while I drifted off to sleep and drooled over Suketu Mehta (no, not like 'Omigawddd he's hawttttt' 13 year old's drool. Just the normal drool while you sleep boring (antisocial)life of a legal intern drool), suddenly, I opened my eyes to darkness under a brown, furry something covering my face. With a yell of protest, I threw it off only to find all the girls in my room in the PG in various stages of getting their clothes on. But I am sharp. And I know the ways of the Nu. She had convinced everyone while I was asleep to accompany her to Bachelor's. I grudgingly went along on what would soon turn out to be the night I discovered the fury of the Parsi aunty.

It took half an hour of pleading with the guard, emotional blackmail "bhaiya iski birthday hai aur aap humein jaane nahi de rahe ho. Birthday ke din kharaab karoge kya? Waise, aapne isko wish bhi nahi kiye." Of course, I was the birthday girl.

A half hour, three classic chocolate shakes, one mocha chocolate shake, one strawberry shake and a sandwich later, we got back. Now I must tell you a little more about my PG. It is one of those many buildings in Mumbai which look like they were built in the 1600s, like if two people stepped onto their staircase together, the whole thing would come to a grand collapse, like if you walked with more than a lady-like gait the building would punish you by turning the floor under your feet into rubble, like it is haunted. 2am in the night and I am at the back of the sated retinue returning to our modernly furnished barracks within this stone building.

A volley of curses assault our ears before we can digest the shock and swallow the ball of fear that is pulsating against our throats. A mop of curly hair with a frail white body clad in flowery nightdress marches towards us and shouts "Bastuds!! I will throw you out on the street!! Haven't you learnt manners?! Stop. Stop when I'm talking to you" , a string of abuses directed at our parents mostly and something about "chhava" floats in the musty air near the staircase. A huge scene ensues wherein the caretaker of the PG has to rush down and hush hush the nightmare in a flower print nightdress.All at around 2:30 am.

The next day, as I sit unassuming in a corner of the office room quietly taking notes as the senior lawyer talks to a client, the Parsi aunty, white, shock of black hair, only in a flower print blouse and skirt barges into the room . As my heart pops into my mouth at the sight of the Parsi aunty in my office, I wonder if she has come right down to my office to complain about my late night comings and goings to my boss (I wouldn't put anything past this Parsi aunty!) . With an authoritative ring to her voice, she announces that she would be needing the room sharp at four as she has to meet some clients there. My senior whimpers something about 'boss', 'permission'.She shrugs him off, sabre tooth menacingly glinting as though she would swallow us alive and digest us in her little stomach if we didn't vacate the room by four. She shuts the door with a bang and I jump, almost breaking into a sweat having relived the scare she gave me last night in the haunted looking stairway in my PG, only to realise, this was yet another Parsi woman.

Shock of black hair, tendency towards sunflower prints and a larynx much powerful than you would attribute them to possess is the very definition now of Parsi aunty in Mumbai.

* Sigh *

In the Mumbai, all over India

2009-11-24T09:48:00.000-08:00

Half past one in the morning on 14th of November 2009, the Mandore express going from Jodhpur to Delhi derailed 40 kms off Jaipur. Most NLU-ites having finished the exams and heading homewards to Delhi for vacations were on the train. One student, Sonal Singh, a first year, is among the dead. It was never reported why the derailment happened, whose mistake it was or even what actually happened.

A week has passed since I left Jodhpur. Now I am in Mumbai for my internship. And meanwhile, I visited Delhi, Chennai and Madurai (and Rajapalayam too, if you know anything about unpronouncable little towns in Tamilnadu).

I took the Mandore express from Jodhpur that fateful Friday night. I reached Delhi, thanks to Sargam who helped me catch a bus from Jaipur after the train derailed. On reaching Delhi, Tahini hugged me. Two days later, on reaching home - Bangalore, my mom hugged me. Two more days later, when I reached Chennai for a marriage, my entire extended family hugged me.

And four days hence when I went to our native town Rajapalayam for the reception, every grandmother or near-grandmother in sight hugged me, pinched my cheek, kissed my forehead, cooed how they had seen me as a two year old kid, how I had grown so much (excuse me, but wouldn't it be a problem if I hadn't grown at all?) , how I was the kid in their marriage videos dancing to my then favourite song 'chikku bukku chikku bukku railu banthu', how I was the kid who stole appalams* (yes, unfortunately caught by a nosy videographer who probably was insane enough to think it was cute and didn't exactly foresee the trauma it would cause me at this age when revealed in front of a battalion of nephews, nieces and younger cousins. Much like parents who click naked pics of their kids and save them as potential artillery in albums for posterity) and how 'colour'** I had been when I was two years old and had dark-ified over time. I had the 'studying in the naarth' factor which contributed to my inclusion on the list of 'rarely-sighted species' along with my 'Doobai' cousin Murugan*** and my UK-return aunt who weren't spared either.

By the time I got my hands on the koththu barota**** and idiyaapam*****, I had been roundly showcased and introduced to everyone who I had not seen in the past ten years and who I can safely assume I wont be meeting in the next ten years.

By the time I realised I hadn't slept for four whole days for more than three hours at a stretch, I had been put into one Kanjeevaram silk saree after another, decked in Joyalukkas jewellery, had sacred ash on my forehead on a permanent basis and had visited quite a few temples. I wouldn't have been surprised if at the end of the week I had forgotten how to walk in Nike shoes and learnt how to eat properly liquid payasam off the banana leaf like any good Tamil girl.

Before my aunts could delve too much upon the length of my hair and how the fact that I leave it open most times provide little scope to make a flower arrangement on my head, it was time for me to leave for my internship. So digesting the two meals the Air India Madurai-Chennai-Mumbai flight gave me, I drifted off to sleep reading Chetan Bhagat's Two States, sympathizing with the Indian marriage woes the book describes.

Marriages are good fun as long as you are not the one getting married. Whoever thought of the concept of marriages had a social orgy in mind for sure.

*appalams - It is the same as poppadams. It is the subject of Intellectual property rights dispute between Tamilians, Mallus, Kannadigas and the Telugu people as to who invented it.

**colour - No no, don't think VIBGYOR. In South Indian terms, one is 'colour' means one is fair. Yes, we Indians are racist.

*** Attention Attention. My cousin Murugan is Nallavar, vallavar. Naalum therinjavar.Karunai kadal. (Good man. Virtuous man. Sea of pity). Neer vaazhga, kulam vaazhga! - Inserted on request of Murugan himself. (On a serious note, may his shoe laces untie. He reads my blog but never leaves a comment.)

**** Koththu Barota - Distinct from paratha as it has many layers. Speciality of Madurai. Mashed up Barota with spices and masala.

***** Idiyaapam - Rice noodles with spices or sugar.

P.S. Ramsub and I are in Mumbai for our internship. We are new to the city. Would be great if you guys could leave a comment telling us places we could go to and places we could try out. We are both foodies and would love to try anything new. So pretty please :)

Befuddled my mind.

2009-11-10T08:15:00.000-08:00

I am decomposing.

Like the gulab jamun left forgotten in my hostel room when I went home last vacation, I am decomposing. Half the exams are over and half my head is gone. Gone like a freight train, gone like yesterday, gone like a soldier in the civil war, bang bang. Which is why I simply cannot study Interpretation of Statutes and which is why I am unable to comprehend this chapter lying open before me for the past two hours - 'Aids to interpreting statutes'. The mental agony of imagining a deranged HIV positive statute making out with another statute and spreading AIDS with a vengeance is simply not helping.

My Nokia 5800 *let me pause to show off. It is awesomeness personified. Yes thankyewkindly.* Brain quiz application is giving me an inferiority complex by making me solve mathematics when I turn to it in need of distraction. I, for the life of me, cannot seem to solve the simplest arithmetic problems that I could when I was in class two. Now I have to minimize the game and get to the calculator before I lose my sanity. Tragedy. Tragedy.

I turn instead to anagrams and spend some fruitful time lost in its depths.

Divya Srikanth - Vain, trashy kid. (True that.)

Divya Ramesh - Diva harms ye! (Yes, with her rock bottom, you will wish you were never born to hear it - PJs)

Soumya Ramasubramaniam - You! Am Sam - Samurai barman. (Almost all of that fits in, except she wouldn't take it lightly if you called her Sam)

Meghana Sharafudeen - A unashamed fang here. (She bites. Like actually bites. Even her mobile she bites.)
Sargam Jain - I'm Sir Ganja (Heh. Not the psychoactive drug :D )
Harish Iyer - Hairy Heirs (He just went 'wallah' )
Mithila Ananth - Hath Lint Mania (Heh. :D)

And now that I'm done, I hear the maggots coming. I am decomposing, and I, for screaming out loud, cannot stop digressing from studying for the damned Interpretation of Statutes paper.

P.S. The guy in the auto is NOT naked!

Kitsch Slapped

2009-11-02T23:49:00.000-08:00

Like Environmental law, Waiting for Godot movie, cheerleaders in sarees at the Cuttack ODI, our President and Paris Hilton, my blog too was getting straitjacketed stereotypical cliche. I mean, I was bored. To the extent that I stayed away from it and avoided any good samaritan who suggested that I post with an emphatic 'Umm...writers block, yes, that's it.'

Fashionable? Yes, maybe. Truthful? No.

To some extent Twitter is stealing the thunder. I wish I blogged as much as I tweet.

And then, Swarathma came to Jodhpur for the RIFF festival. Yes, they got a map of India, got a magnifying glass, could not find it, logged on to Google maps, did a search for 'Jodhpur' and landed up here. So I got a chance to show off this Bangalore band to my friends. And to say the least, they LOVED it.

In addition to their awesome music, Divi was taken by Vasu's gold shoes with pink laces, Tahini was enamoured by Sanjeev wiping his bald head (entha hotness) in between songs, Subhash was ogling at Montry drumming and mentally getting off on their guitars ( he got to play one when we got to meet them off stage after the concert), Ramsub was dancing away, Suk was quietly watching us all go mad and Kacky even now breaks into 'E-Bhoomi' at frequent intervals and I do a double-take hearing Kannada words spout so perfectly from his mouth. We all got their CDs, mine autographed by Vasu and Jishnu. And then, their album cover started haunting me.

The colours on the cover, the kitschy awesomeness of the insides got my art gene on overdrive and started having devilish kitschy rabbit babies inside my head, diverting me from the more pressing needs which the Public International law moot demanded to the infinitesmally more important ones of making a new template. With Vasu singing 'Jaana kahaan hai mujhe' and 'Suno re suno saare' in his not so dulcet tones in the background, reading Swarathma's blogposts on their songs and design endeavours, was only further inspiration to start yet again on the kitsch fetish.

All due *respect* to Swarathma (may their tribe increase),fond memories of Jil Jil Ramamani character from Thillana Mohanambal (the 'Jillu enna kolladha' scene being my favourite)movie - the name of my blog henceforth and obeisances to Phatichar, whose blog I have been reading first post to last for the inspiration to write short stories again.

On that note, Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting a new look and a new blog albeit an old one. And a new 'Back from the dead' category for all my 'I'm back' posts.

I don't do Mondays.

2009-09-24T02:09:00.000-07:00

Sunday nights, water fights, birthdays, so many seasons of Coupling to watch – so many reasons to end up sleeping at 4 am and setting 4 alarms hoping to wake up in time for class.

(7:50 am) Alarm 1 : Trinngggg.
(8:00 am) Alarm 2: Trinngggg.
(8:05 am) Alarm 3: Tringgggg.
(8:10 am) Alarm 4: Trinnngggg.
(8:15 am) Divi : Wake up!! Class!!

You are late to class by 5 minutes and miss the roll call. You discover you have two moots for this week. One with a 72 page fact sheet and the other with a two day deadline for memo submission. And a test. And a project submission.

You approach the professor with fellow mooters appealing to his sense of justice and good conscience saying 72 page moot problem is ginormous for a Court room exercise. You end up having to do the 72 page moot anyways.

Sitting through the third class for the day. One hour. Yhtrf5gggggggggyuyh7jj6rf5t4hjy76 – you bang head on keyboard in frustration halfway through. Not like the abused keyboard needs any more damage anyways. (My ‘E’ key fell out ages ago and I try to save grace by maintaining its now a touch key.)

An hour later it strikes you that instead of working on Moot no.1 or Moot no.2 or studying for the tests or making those impending projects, you should instead revive your blog – that relationship that is at the throes of death for lack of interest and attention. And you type a blog post on how the week sucks already. And it’s just Monday yet.

An equally depraved classmate in the next seat cleans her green gilded glasses, slips them on her nose, peers into your laptop, reads what you are typing and asks you if you will post this as a guest author on a blog. Yes, the most exciting thing that could happen to you today.

Just when you wonder whether at the end of the five years you will be a withered McD French fry like the one Dibba left lying on your room floor last night - like in the Hansel & Gretel story to guide her around when she is spaced out, the crowd of fifth years outside your class burst with ecstatic cheer and sunshine that abruptly trespasses upon your misery and you wish to throttle them all. One for all that happiness that should be declared illegal on Mondays and two for the placements they are celebrating. * I will never get a job. Ever.*

Edging your way along, hands on the wall in the new found depths of depression, you turn to the class at hand and hope the desert winds would blow a pissed off scorpion into your professors pants and the class will be cancelled for the week. You thoughtfully nibble at the cheese toast you are hiding beneath the desk. You get thrown out of class for disrupting the decorum by nibbling on the cheese toast and sharing it with the aforementioned girl with green gilded glasses. That’s another attendance gone with the desert winds. And thanks to your generosity, the other girl also gets kicked out. Two's company.

You sit on the stairs outside the academic block, sipping an ill-gotten diet coke (you almost feel like a conniving maven from Macbeth by the time you have convinced the security guard at the gate to let you out for 5 minutes without a gate pass) from the dhabha across the road, staring at camel carts passing on the highway outside and wish the flies infesting them would assume a battle formation and infest the erogenous zones of every professor who cut your attendance for petty things like giggling or being overcome with lust at the sight of a cheese toast and nibbling at its end.

By when it all gets over for the day, the nerve ticking on your cheek is erupting into a speech bubble like from the Calvin comics you are surreptiously reading on the laptop pretending to take notes. In an irritating nasal voice that echoes around your head it goes - “ Hi, I am your last nerve. Your Monday is getting on me.”

You don’t do Mondays? I don’t do Mondays either. Not even Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Fridays are an exception though. On Fridays, rainbows stop being black and white.

Two pennies or more

2009-09-01T01:00:00.000-07:00

I got a package a last week.

The package had a tshirt and a letter. The t shirt had an intricate sketch on it on the back, with 'Hakuna Matata' lettered within the design. It was from a stranger. The letter said it was a spontaneous act, instinctive, no particular reason it was being sent and that he would appreciate it if I called him and confirmed I had received the package safe.

(I dropped my camera at the last Geoffreys party. This is the max clarity that the sadness that is my mobile camera can come up with. Hidden somewhere in that is 'Hakuna Matata)

I did call and thank him and I decided,this was a nice gesture, nice enough that my friends and I did not dismiss the person as a creep. That's the first time I have received a gift from an absolute stranger. Lit up my day. Thank you ~~benevolent~~ stranger who prefers not to be named.

Have you guys ever done something like that before? Sent someone something randomly or received something from someone you didn't know?

Thou shalt not blog publicly

2009-08-28T11:51:00.000-07:00

Three girls go to a dhabha. No, this is not a spin-off of the three men go to a bar - because it is immoral for girls to go to a dhabha by themselves where the dhabha in question is one frequented by them, albeit a seedy one. The problem is not even that they were smoking openly in public in the seedy dhabha, the problem is they did so in the absence of male companions. And oh, did I mention??? One of the girls wrote a blogpost about it. :O :O :O

Alright yeah, you considered my blog dead for a month, I was lazy to blog. But then, there came along this bunch of itsy bitsy tiny weenies with typing abilities, bursting with pent up frustration commenting away on Ramsub's blogpost 'Thou shalt not blog publicly'

High on friday night, running out of porn (Cyberroam installed in our university, no downloads you see), oh yeah, heres a girl talking about rights. Firstly she dares to defy, then she writes a post about it and God forbid, we all find her attractive but so out of our reach. How dare she? Lets all hate her. Lets gather in a room, sit around a laptop and talk about boobs and cleavage. Lets collectively abuse all the girls who dared to interfere with our Friday night entertainment. Lets talk about sexuality till we wank ourselves dead hoping that somewhere along the line, the girls get ashamed of themselves, withdraw into a shell, curl up and die rather than speak against our golden words or utter anything that remotely sounds like rights again.

Doooood, lets call ourselves the male chauvinists man, just coz this girl calls herself a feminist. She's not in town man, she can't moderate the comments doooood, lets have a free for all man. Let us take down that guy from the other law school who dared to intefere man. How dare he say anything about our university? We will tirelessly make sexist comments about the girls in our University man, who is he to interfere?

So clever. So smart.

All the porn deprived menfolk gofugyaselves or better go wear your pink chaddis and waddle your ways to Muthalik.

To think these guys are from among the guys we know and talk to on a regular basis, sickening.

Friend : "ppl wil just heckle u too u know these guys are not wirth it. u blog and all very nice. But nothin good wil come of it. they wil not suddenly feel ashamed of themselves."

Friend : "wat i think sucks most is these are guys who we have had amiable interaction with if not friendly, for 3 years. "

Never been more ashamed of the company we keep. Never been more tempted to turn feminist.

Baby got back (pain) !!

2009-07-07T07:21:00.000-07:00

While Sunderajaperumal entered the Vaigai river amidst chanting of 'Govinda, govinda' (no, not the Kailash Kher, Sarkar Raj version) , I was busy dealing with my dog's death and cursing the hot (but not) thingumajig of a male nurse assigned to my mom when she was hospitalised, for not providing adequate hot water.

While the 'Jaago Re' campaign was a huge success and 500 million voters flipped the bird, I was interning at a law firm, finding new love in airline arbitration matters and trying to convince myself that taking Business law as my honors subject was indeed a sane decision.

While CLAT-2009 was postponed due to alleged Question paper leak, I was steadily getting irritated by having to travel 14 kms in 1.5 hours every morning in peak hour traffic on Mysore Road. I used the time to sight-aduchufy Royal Enfields at the signals, drooled and day dreamt of someday owning my own and sticking a lawyer sticker on the back.

As LTTE chief Prabhakaran’s body was recovered and subjected to a million identity tests, I was having my own identity crisis - torn between who I am and being the ideal daughter of the house.

While the news channels marqueed the super-intelligent 'Singh is King'- type headlines as the elections came to a close, I was hooked to the Sudoku yet again and busy making myself comfortable on the balcony swing with a cup of filter coffee.

While Dera Sachkhand Ballan head Sant Niranjan Das was attacked in Vienna, I was so hooked to ‘Ene jogi haine jeene hawa kardi’ that I played it on loop on my iPod as I tried to shed the weighty concerns that rice for lunch had inflicted upon me, in the new Reebok gear bought at awesome discount after scouting the city for factory outlets.

While the TV channels replayed footage of the dutiful wife proclaiming "my Shiney is innocent", I was vegetating seven feet away on my couch, trying to find the meaning of my existence in pyjamas, just having woken up at 11am, with the magic Tupperware box of steadily vanishing murukku on my lap.

While the swine-flu swept the nation, I was busy regaling my mother with my mad on-a-shoestring-budget-escapade to Udaipur with Divi and convincing my mother that living in a hostel does not automatically make a non-vegetarian out of every vegetarian kid.

While racism and Australia raced across the front page, I was indulging in some heavy duty flirting – International level. Being single has it’s perks, stop being envious (yes, you Tahini) :P

While the 20-20 world cup was on, I was gifted a Tantra tshirt for being an ignoramus-grande’ when it came to cricket . Cricket fascinated me when Mohammad Kaif used to be on the team – I find him super hot. I can sit through one match, but that’s about it.

While a ten year old identified Ajmal Kasab in the courtroom, I was buying my niece and nephews chocolates and reasoning it as a healthy hobby along the lines of chocolate connossieur-dom with my sister-in-law who I suppose was imagining dinosaur sized cavities in her son’s mouth. That’s the best thing about being an aunt – the lack of guilt. And my niece made my day by saying “ You are too young to be called aunty, may I call you akka?”. I was bonding with the next generation.

While Sarabjit’s review petitions were refused by the Pakistan Supreme Court, I with a lawyer friend was giving a talk on career opportunities in law to a bunch of kids in First PU. ( Two years left – gosh, I need a career!! How they know not how confused I was myself. And how young they are, how old I am!!)

While a genetically modified mosquito was being researched in the labs at Chennai, I was trying to swat the excessively possessive ones at Waterfall tea estate, Valparai that seemed to have developed a liking for my hemoglobin. Sitting on a swing outside a colonial bungalow, in the middle of a 2500 acre tea estate, at sundown, with a view of the mountains wearing fluffy frocks of white clouds, a slight drizzle – it’s potent if you listen to ‘Annie’s song’ by John Denver on your iPod. Tends to make one acutely aware of singledom.

While the CPI (Maoist) was banned, I was feasting on soudhi at my aunt’s place and wishing I could take her or the cook at the Valparai estate, back to university with me.

While Michael Jackson died, I was packing up to get back to University, moping around the house, wondering if I could fit that box of maanga thokku into my already-pregnant-and-bursting bag before it exceeded the 25 kg baggage limit GoAir had prescribed.

While the Section 377 judgment, I was all packed and thinking of how the judgment would make life all the more easier for at least two of my friends.

And now I am in hostel and have no idea what this morning’s headlines are on the Hindu. All I have is a back pain from trying to fit in the sleeping space my yet-to-be-unpacked bags have left in the room and my biggest concern is getting my cooler cleaned before the Ganges shifts base and decides to originate from my forehead on a permanent basis.

There go my excuses for not blogging through the summer. Now let's play a game. Let’s assume I have always been blogging and you have always been reading and skip the 'I'm back!!' soap opera routine.

Calling all Anonymous

2009-04-26T09:45:00.000-07:00

Hi and Bye.

Yes, just dropped in to say something.

This blog will remain in its present comatose condition for about another two weeks. You see, I have an exam (No, not the one where you lie down and the Doctor is a smoking hot specimen of the opposite sex) - the kinds for which I 'put the scenes' like I'm studying and end up refreshing my Twitter page or calling the tuck shop for Pyaaj parathas.

Hennyways, point being, I will be away from my blog for about three weeks now. One week study holidays. One week exam. One week waiting for the BSNL guy to turn up at my house (the address and location of which by the way says Bangalore - very misleading yes, I live halfway to Tamilnadu) and fix my "wi-fi" connection which only works if I sit with the modem resting on my nose.

So, all ye ANONYMOUS who were until now blocked on this blog, I give ye free reign.

About time, I am reminded bluntly by the dark forces out there is a world out there, outside the realm of 'Anonymous comments = No' world of my Settings page. Unmoderated comments provide an antidote to any ridiculous conclusions I might have arrived at in the course of not-so-many years of blogging here.

Anything you have wanted to say about my blog? They way I write? The way I don't? I suck? You love me? You wish I would send you a few pictures of me for your screensaver (which by the way was a real-life orkut "fraindsheep" scrap attempt. It happened to me.) ? You hate me and wish my shoelaces would untie after every five seconds of tying them? Head straight to the Comments section and leave your message.

I have turned Anonymous comments on and will not be logging into my Dashboard for a good three weeks.

ONLY ANONYMOUS COMMENTS PLEASE.

Say what you please. Looking forward.

Curse of the Laundry Goddess

2009-03-31T00:00:00.000-07:00

I loathe having to do the washing. It is right there on the 'list of things to procastinate' along with organizing my desk, cleaning my cooler and driving out those dust bunnies that gather in the ceiling corners. If I were to be truthful, I'd also tell you, this is the very list also known as 'Things that will never get done'. There is always another shirt or towel or pair of socks that inevitably get thrown into the empty plastic bucket that serves as a laundry basket here in my hostel room. I religiously work towards vacating it of its contents but its almost like my laundry basket is channeling the warped spirit of that vessel - that one which never went empty.

My “doing” of the laundry inevitably lends itself to mishaps of variety and quite some entertainment.

On weekends, almost every soul at law school dresses up and pretends the troubles of the world don’t exist for a few hours. It’s nice to be oblivious to law books, moot courts and the intricacies of jurisdiction of tribunals. Well, I wore this really great blue top. It was wonderful like an inky-blue sky with silver stars - all sparkly and sexy. Turns out it is like a glitter fairy that leaves its little slivers of silver joy everywhere.

As though it were the spirit of Christmas personified, it spread itself infectiously to my laptop screen, my bed covers, the middle of the Anna Karenina Ramsub gifted me (heart Ramsub) and even the inside of my chappals (okay for the fashion conscious, aah no actually, just to gloat - my brand new red Levis flip flops). Those were cleaned easily, so no harm done.

This morning, as I was throwing shirts and socks and denims(yes, those same ones my mother would have classified as a biohazard if she could) into the washer, I also tossed in my blue top from the weekend. I didn’t think anything of it. The beautiful memory of the book that sparkled when I opened it in class, under the sunlight that glinted in from the window,was long gone - until after the mandatory three hours that the washing machine in the pantry of our hostel coughed up the well-mixed mass of soggy clothes ( the spin does not work - our machine believes it was meant to be a tabletop mixer, and therefore goes into these sulk-spasms wherein it refuses to accept its fate as a washing machine), stating it was 'finished' with its contents, and I opened it up to begin the transportation process to the bath stall where I wring them within inches of despair.

It was like a fairy's glitter wand went out of control and everything it touched was blessed with those little silver dots.

The problem is, the silver things cling on like leech to the clothes. They refuse to be swept away or even Colin-ed away. I could almost see them happily opening their silver lipped mouths to sing ' Disco...disco...Shiny disco ball...' in a background chorus. So when I wear my white shirt to the moot court or when I pick my sober university sweatshirt or even a pair of shorts in the rare eventuality that I visit the treadmill-place, when the light hits me just right, I'm transformed into this silver spectacle. Very professional. I know.

For a long time, I was not even aware of the existence of "Ezee" - for winter clothing. I thought dry cleaning was the be-all and end-all of winter clothing woes.

But last winter when row after row of happily-washed winter clothes waved at me as I passed them being hung up to dry in the hostel corridors, I was determined to do my part of cost-cutting and dumped a load of pwetty sweaters into our washing machine (yes, that one with multiple personality disorder) and it came out all washed alright, but in the most pitiable state, as though the evil machine had tortured the sweaters into submission (which by the way, I still consider as an alternative explanation to my blatant ignorance).

I think it's some sort of karmic cycle pedalling its way to completion.

Not too long back, as a kid, I used to make sure I got the most disgustingly dirty things stuck onto my canvas shoes and revelled in the designs that colour chalk powder made on my school uniform. Of course, Chiclet and Boomer was all over, everywhere - in bits and pieces.

Or maybe its all this complicated conspiracy of sorts.

Maybe, the Laundry Goddess is in with King Midas in this one elaborate plan to make me give up on doing laundry. Maybe the conspiracy is being funded by the evil dhobhi who visits our University for business purposes. Maybe it's that evil washing machine trying to shirk it's work and hiring the Laundry Goddess and Midas and trying its hand at some Goondagiri.

One more load of stinky socks coming up. I shall show them all.

Ramsub turns 21

2009-03-25T21:34:00.002-07:00

Guess whose Birthday it is!! Yes, the erstwhile coke-guzzling, feminism-spewing,museum-loving,I-love-to-sit-next-to-in-class, I-miss-when-I-go-home, run-machine Ramsub's.

Happy Birthday Ramsub. Hope you have seen this already.

Your sins are forgiven

2009-03-14T23:02:00.000-07:00

Are you pervy too? Have you sinned? Well if you are or you have, just visit this site. You shall be absolved of all your sins like I have just been.

A few moments of stunned silence ensued as I opened this site and it loaded in the most dramatic manner, sound effects and all (Please, I beg you to follow the instructions and turn up your speakers for a more customer-friendly experience). The combination of kollywood action movie background score and mindnumbing questions riddling you about your sins could get even the most hardcore of serial killers to repent.

There is actually this list of possible sins a person could commit. Murder, rape, child molestation, pornography and oh - liars and cheats. As an all-covering clause, they decided to include guilt ridden people too -just in case you felt left out in such elite company. Jesus loves all. As a ‘guilt-ridden person’ and ‘liar’ I was put up there for St.Peters to decide, amongst rapists, murderers and the likes. Honored I am.

With a step by step wizard to guide you as you absolve your sins and arrows pointing and flashing one to continue, you would have to be an e-illiterate to miss this path to salvation. I almost expected the site to ask if I wanted to restart my Windows at the end of it all. Amen.

Red headed Mallu babies

2009-02-28T02:03:00.000-08:00

The other day, aunty X came bouncing over to our place for coffee. Not without reason.

” Did you know? The ‘ABC departmental store’ owner has had a baby girl.

About time I thought. His wife - the beach ball had been parading the streets snapping the heads off anyone who came her way. Bleddy pregnant mood swings. If just having a bloated tummy was the excuse, mama Y could have been granted the Presidency by now.

I digress.

‘The baby turned out to be having red hair!!’ yelped Aunty X, in a burst of relief at having spread the good word of scandal. ‘ You know, the only red colour hair fellow around is that boy who works in that road-corner garage.’

‘Nonsense.’ I opined from my corner of the sofa. ‘ It would have been in the genes. Yeah I know they are green-blooded mallus and have exhausted an entire oil producing nation’s reserve to keep their hair black…but you know, sometimes the genes skip generations. In fact, isn't one of their cousins red-haired?’

‘That is what you think.’ aunty X scoffed. ‘You new generation, your jeans and your genes….Appa! What and all.’

‘In that case…’ I endeavored, boiling the swirling words in my mouth into holy water that I spewed forth…. ‘ You’ll just have to ask the guy how often they did it. It might just be rust you know.’

'25 things' I don't wanna know !!

2009-02-13T20:32:00.000-08:00

OKAY! I’ve finally finally finally found something stupider than India TV’s alien-stealing-the-gaai reports.

It’s the ’25 things about me’ virus that’s doing the rounds on Facebook!!

Here are 25 reasons why I refuse to do it:-

1. It’s flooding my Facebook Home.

2. I don’t like the ‘Tell me about yourself’ slam book-type questionnaires by mail. I don’t like this either.

3. I don’t want to advertise to the world that I have a penchant for Lavender scented bubble bath (If you look at this and give me Lavender scented bubble bath for my Birthday, I’ll flay you within inches of death).

4. Most albeit all of these lists start with either ‘I’m going to be saying a lot about myself’ or ‘you are probably not interested’. Time for introspection – TRUE THAT!

5. I really don’t give a Gems-size damn whether you get a migraine in your car or HATE clubs. You should probably store Amrutanjan balm in bulk or apply to Pramod Muthalik for the ‘assistant-bully’ post instead of making pretty little useless lists on Facebook.

6. Its hard work. Tags are supposed to be fun. This is a Dementor in disguise.

7. I’m not one to go around gifting you a Japanese robot just because you don’t like doing dishes nor do I want one, so I shall refrain from advertising for the same (However, if any of you kind souls feel like gifting me a toaster, please feel free to do so).

8. The aliens could use it against me if they find out I’ve been manufacturing charms disguised as laminated pop-art which repels alien goo and therefore spoils their plans of world domination by submerging the world in green goo (Yes, like Hoggish Greedly – Captain Planet goo.)

9. My 4th Standard Computer teacher tells her 1st standard students not to do something like this.

10. My cyberlaws textbook echoes the words of my 4th Standard Computer teacher. (Given the amount of information I already have on the web, that’s superfluous. BUT, Whatever.)

11. I think lists are stupid (Ever since my Dad asked me to make a list of things I wanted from Netherlands and got me only the things on the list).

12. I don’t want to do it.

13. Lists are excusable time pass but only after other options like Minesweeper, Bored.com and vetti verbal jousts on online forums have been exhausted. And verbal jousts on online forums can be very entertaining.

14. It is against my religion. Sloth.

15. It is Stooopid.

16. Inhale, exhale, do some yoga or hoola hoop-ing if you will and if you still don’t think typing a list of 25 things about yourself and publishing it on Facebook Notes is stooopid,well, maybe you should also make lists about 25 things you love to eat, 25 songs you can’t live without, 25 names that you have been given (please include sweety boppara types also for brownies - Dil Kabaddi fame), 25 headings for possible lists to make when you want to announce to the world the precise color of your unwashed white socks, etc.

17. Doing it would mean I’m almost there-like Vinay Pathank in Dasvidaniya. That can’t be a good thing.

18. Self introspection is injurious to health. Me no fan of journeys of self discovery.

19. Yesterday was Friday the thirteenth. Today is Saturday the fourteenth. So nothing. Not a good day to start list-writing.

20. This thing is viral and I don’t like to spread infections. Not even when I have a cough.

21. Doing this list, I forgot to charge my digicam battery. Bad omen.

22. It’s SPAM

23. Onions and tomatoes – half kg each.(OK yeah, that does not belong on this list and I’m in a hurry to get to number twenty five. It’s from my mom’s groceries list, but hey, aren’t we on the topic of lists and inter personal linkages? )

24. I don’t like being told what to do. This thing wants me to tag twenty five people. And its lame.

25. 25 people!! I refuse!! Bad Karma that. But its Valentines Day, so just Dibba, Divya and just anyone else interested enough to pick the tag – Happy ‘love thyself’ tag posting!

Reproduction of this post or portions thereof without the express, written consent of Barking Bonkers Hakuna & Co. is a violation of the Hknmta Rules of 1988 and punishable by list writing upto 1225 items on the ‘Things about me’ list.

The F word

2009-02-07T22:01:00.000-08:00

Have I ever told you how much I hate ‘Feminists’? A lot.

If they aren’t too careful about what they do, what they say and what they claim is the best for the human race, they might be listed by some future civilization as the reason why humans are extinct.

They say just because I tick the ‘F’ box when I fill out forms and believe in equality of the sexes, I ought to get a tattoo on my forehead in red ink that reads ‘Feminist alert’.

I absolutely support equality alright, I would be extremely pissed if I was not allowed to vote (it’s another thing I don’t even have my voter card – Yes, may my neon shoelaces untie themselves, I’m not your Model Citizen). I would most certainly make sure anyone who denied me an education and made me stitch saree falls for a living would face revenge – Sidney Sheldon style.

Where I stop supporting is when the Equalists turn Feminists and push their demand for ‘equality’ into ‘female chauvinist’ territory. Now that’s just being a pushy bra(t).

The ground rule of feminism is that a woman can do anything and everything that a man does.

See, I would love to agree with that. But there is this little annoying something that was put in my head (by someone who hated my guts I suppose) when I was born – it speaks ‘eternal truth’. And it says ‘Horse manure!’

Women simply don’t have the size, bone structure or muscle mass that men have. Sure, you could build up that muscle mass just to prove a point – but you would end up like one of those lumpy bodybuilder chicks who have fugly pecs instead of nice boobies and look ancient at thirty. Who (male or female) wants to do that to themselves?

And oh, there’s that not-so-convenient reproductive angle (not if you are a male – then you just go around spreading your seed).

I am sure this is an, if not major, at least 51% of the reason why women are simply not considered ‘able’ to perform certain jobs, especially frontline combat. The last thing I would want to be thinking of if menstruating on the battlefield is ‘Damn! Now I need to wash this guy’s guts off my hands to change.’

(Keep an eye on Ramsub’s blog. She has this post coming up with a really interesting argument that Right over reproduction and access to contraception is the ultimate right a woman has and that her other rights stem from this right. Something about condoms being more evolved than humans are.)

For the rest of the 49% it’s because women simply are not physically suited for the jobs.

There is this guy I knew who said women are probably not encouraged in the army, for then, the men folk might form attachments and lose focus. Ha! Kind of superfluous don’t you think, considering homosexuality and even otherwise.

Feminists can (I secretly know, they will!) fight for their Right to die for their country if they really fancy that as emancipation. But the best way to be what a man is would be to butch up that inconvenient uterus for otherwise, what’s just going to happen is yet another wave of chicks bitching how now, the military is insensitive to the needs of women.

There is another idea doing the rounds in Feminist kibbutz – ‘Men need to become more sensitive to the female condition.’

Since when did being a female start sounding like a disease? I’m all for a byte sized bit of sensitivity in a man but limp-wristed twits who cry at the drop of a hanky are about as attractive as a bottle of strawberry jam gone moldy. Speaking of which, if Feminists succeed in turning Men into Sensitive New Age Guys ( read SNAGs) who will open jars of marmalade for me??

Feminists would have you believe that men are leaking patriarchy out of their nostrils. But you know, men aren’t really evil (Well they are, but I’m angry with women this week).

This would result in women turning into men and men turning into women (because if they don’t, they’ll be called insensitive male chauvinist pigs) all in the grand culmination of ‘Equality’. Procreation of the human race will be punctuated with a full stop. A hard talking Valkyrie-type woman is not going to get guys worked into a hot sweaty mess of dirty desires – unless its Eva Mendes (but she’s not a real person, so that doesn’t count). A wimp is not going to work for the women either.

Once feminists have turned men into wimps, they would turn them into pets and maybe keep them in cages in the outer rings of the cities they build for themselves. Then, after a few years of femdom, some little boy, disgusted by the treatment meted out to him would champion the cause of equality, targeting women as being superior to men and the entire mass of stupidity would come a full circle.

Why not just get over it?

India Coffee House to close down

2009-02-04T09:58:00.001-08:00

Whether you were a balding member of the lets-meet-Saturday-2 o’ clock ritualistic community of patrons or you were just one of those coffee-lovers who wandered into the legendary place for a cup of coffee, India Coffee House on M.G.Road was a landmark destination indeed. Yes, you read right – ‘was’.

By the end of February, the coffee house is to be shut down as a decade-long legal battle over the property culminates.

A not-so-grand end to a ‘cultural landmark’ for the true Bangaloreans and M.G.Road lovers. No walk on M.G. Road was complete without a few minutes spent at Gangarams, a cup of coffee and butter toast at the India Coffee House billing to Rs.20 and a peep maybe into Phoenix watches before proceeding down the road to cross the zebra crossing into the world of brands and shopping malls.

No, I wasn’t a fan of the old world cobwebbed ‘charm’ of the place that threatened to engulf your respiratory system as you stepped in.

Nor was I a sucker for their ‘alleged’ toilets that I was once nearly forced to use in a moment of prolonged urethral agony. It wasn’t even the colonial uniforms that the waiters wore or the water that came free with a liberal dusting of what appeared to be grey seasoning.

It was at India Coffee House, on the table on the first floor near the window that I spent Sunday evenings licking butter off one side of the toast while my Grandpa sipped coffee, both of us ticking off the mental checklist of items my Mother had asked us to get from Nilgiris.

It was the holy place where I inherited from my Grandfather, the fine taste for coffee that had skipped the generation of elite (I shall only drink hideous, evil smelling, supposedly healthy liquids the color of grass)-tea drinking, caffeine-deprived kibbutz my parents unfortunately, I confess, belong to. It was here that I had my first shot of pure caffeine indulgence and repeatedly came for subsequent caffeine injections.

And later, it was to be the place I dragged Tahini into one rainy evening after Law coaching classes – and left without having a cup of coffee because we would be late going home.

That was probably my last chance to have had coffee at India Coffee House.

I probably went to M.G.Road a gazillion times after. And every time, it seemed, the black and white board of the Coffee House, glared accusingly at me as though I had eloped with some tea-drinker. I never ventured in, consciously choosing to go to Kalmane Koffees instead at the Garuda mall. Heretic that I am!

And now, here I am stuck at university in the deserts of Rajasthan ( where by the way, Coffee Day has established the standards of ‘horrendous coffee’ and the rest of the city aspires to match up or match down to it … and where your best bet of anything remotely coffee is Frappe’ Strawberry Blast – Oh! The sacrilege!) while India Coffee House – a legacy closes forever and ever.

If you are a Bangalorean and more importantly, if you are a coffee drinker, do me this favour – a cup of coffee at India Coffee House on my behalf, the next time you stroll by M.G.Road.

May God bless you with a dozen commercially saleable St.Bernard puppies.

Melodrama

2009-01-28T05:58:00.000-08:00

Myselves and I got into a little discussion last night. Yes, that's right - myselves ( as in many, plural, more than one, numerous). You read it right.

It's one hell of a job baby-sitting all of my many personalities. The nearest thing I have done to becoming the caretaker of a Zoo.

In fact, I have actually had to tag and make an inventory of all the resident versions of me just to keep count.

Anyways, the meet last night was with an agenda to settle the unrest among the personalities once and for all. Some were apparently sick with worry about life, others taking a well deserved break, sitting on their plump derriere' to wait and watch, and the rest were just pissed with every living thing within a radius of a few hundred kilometres.

Unfortunately enough this was not one of those instances where I could placate the many brats by bribing them with chocolate mousse from Casapicola or a self-indulging spending spree at Etam.

The clock struck nine and I hollered at everyone to congregate on the bed.

Cheeseballs were served with chai and Bonkers was kept near hand. iPods, mobiles and Skype were declared off limits. I caught one staring out of the painted windows, it was like a parent-teachers meeting almost - disgustingly similar except for the food and that all of us were the same age.

With a grand flourish, I threw the floor open for discussions. "First of all, no hair-pulling, no kicking or slapping. And no biting. This will be a verbal joust only. Let's start!"

As was expected, the egotic, sarky one - Bighead was the first to take the stage. Hitting the nail on the head, crossing her leather-clad legs, she spoke for the disgruntled. "This so sucks" and "Why is this happening to ME?" liberally sprinkled across her assertive, I-am-God statements. She also threw in this snide comment about another of the personalities being a veritable guilt factory and stealing her peace of mind. The others nodded in agreement.

Over reacting Befuddle was cringing by the time Bighead was done with her diatribe.The first instance that Bighead stopped to take a breathe, Befuddle launched into a banshee wail, "Oh No! We are NEVER EVER going to land a decent job, we'll never have a career,we'll get married off, polish shoes with Brown Cherry shoe polish by the morning and bake cakes, fry murukus by evening. We will NEVER travel the world, we'll NEVER have a life, we'll DIE love-less!! Nooooo......" Breathing a gulp of oxygen, she claimed "This is all Braveheart's fault!!"

Braveheart demurely stepped forward, tucking her hair behind the ears. Completely unaffected by the other tirades, she settled on a pillow, leaning against the wall. "Girls, hush. Everything will work out. Que sera sera - Whatever will be, will be. The future ain't ours to see - lets just hang in there and see what happens."

Bighead made a lunge at Braveheart from across the bed and landed on top of her, sa strong hand gripping her throat. Befuddle began to hyperventilate. I reached for Bighead, twisted her ear and got her to let go of Braveheart. While the other minor personalities at the meeting watched in horror, I pulled them all apart and got them to stop fighting.

It was time to serve some coffee and get them to act like ladies before they self-destructed into a million little pieces or worse, got homicidal albeit suicidal.

"OK Girls! Listen up. New rules for the Barking Bonkers Hakuna Gang -

#1 - No teary-eyed, the world isn't fair, I'm such a loser sessions

#2 - No I-swear-I-didn't-do-it moments or blaming others for your failures

#3 - No let-me-put-this-off-till-tomorrow indulgences

"Pull your acts together. We got a law degree to finish, a job to get, Europe to travel to and the world to prove wrong."

"On the count of three, One... two... three..."

******** Hakuna Matata!! ********

Disclaimer: No alter egos were harmed in the making of this melodrama

Yakkity Yak and its 100.

2009-01-21T18:50:00.000-08:00

This post is not meant to be. I never meant to write it, but the cruel twists of fate and destiny are forcing me to. Once you are done reading this post, it is of utmost importance that you forget all about it and never ever try to remember it again.

Failure to do so may result in severe mental tribulations caused by subliminal conditioning liberally employed in the making of this post.

I was originally planning to write a nice post on all those people because of whom this blog was possible . I have tried my best not to sound too 'nice' - which might hazard my image and so, since its taking too long and is too much hard work, lets just get on with it. And oh, '100th Bloggeversary' and '100-things-about-me' are just lame - like crocs, the Olsen twins and pseudo-goth..oops...emo.

Subliminal message: Forget this or else, you will dream of bleeding cockroaches.

Dibba & Divya : My vary ishpeshal muses, both. Special in every sense.

Sargam : Thanks for loads of things, the most important of which has been introducing me to the delicacy that is Maggi with Bhujia.

Rishabh : Whose many romantic endeavors have been fodder for a few of my blogposts. From US Pizza to SBI ATMs - Cheers buddy!

Subliminal message: Not forgetting this will make you crave cough medicine

Tahini : What do I say? Look out for podcasts, Tahini and I are starting one soon.

Anushri : For the 'lakdi ki kati' ringtone and everythin else too. :D

Rajiv : For dropping by now and then. *Bows in utmost gratitude*

Antariksh : From La Tribu de Dana to Boston Legal, its always fun mulling over stuff with you.

Subliminal message: Attempting to remember this will remind you of the Wicked witch of the West everytime you see your significant other.

Mark IV : For many an interesting conversation. Thankyewkindly.

Ramsub : For not starting a blog of her own and sorely tempting me to turn our brief conversations into blog posts. No Thanks. :P

Megs : The slacker-in-arms, the ultimate bad influence.

Subliminal message:Not forgetting this will give you pimples

Dumroo : Thanks for feeding me in times of dire hunger oh blonde-in-a-black-wig! Best coffee cake ever, I still hold. ;)

Chakko, Shaveta, Satyam & Kunal : Who made/make law school bearable and fun. Thanks guys.

Subliminal message: Trying to remember this will cause your pinkie to hurt like crazy

Latha Maa'm : Without whose encouragement, I would not have continued writing, forget blogging.

And all you regular readers. I love those numbers on my stats page. You make my mornings!

Subliminal message: Not posting a comment will cause your brain to hemorrhage.

P.S. Ramsub on reading the post finally started a Blog. Yayyyy! Keep checking the blog. The blog has just been created and the posts will be on soon. Trust me, don't miss it for anything!

And I'm back.

2009-01-12T07:58:00.000-08:00

Thank you for bearing with us. We are back. Well rested, well fed, pampered, et al. In addition to my generally lethargic countenance and overall apathy, I had another reason for not blogging. I was home the last few weeks on semester break.

Good things tend to happen to you when you go home just twice a year. Unlimited petrol allowance is part of the package.

And when home is Bangalore, six feet tall eye-candy that actually has a Mensa IQ level, Christmas cakes from Nilgiris and midnight mass also constitute the package deal.

So while the terrorists instead of going to the local coffee place like the rest of us and bitching about politicians decided to end the year with a bang, I, while writing the end terms, attending marriages in Coimbatore, having a culinary tour of Bangalore, interning at BHEL and stuffing myself to the nostrils with coconut chutney, with the rest of the country, exclaimed ‘What the flying Fuck!’

Another reason for me to utter graces that lend flying prowess to our covert national obsession – sex, was Santa. (For those who know what an anagram is, ever noticed Santa is an anagram of Satan? And no, Im not saying this just because he refuses to bring me presents.)

Another year has passed and Santa has yet again refused to strike my name off the Naughty list. And here I was thinking at least he would understand. Half the things I post here is not even me. So my conscious self pays the price of all that my twisted subconscious has to say?! That’s not natural justice.

All I asked for from Santa was one of those wonderful machines that makes the visitor to your blog stay for a few more minutes, read a few posts and leave behind wonderful comments that serve as virtual ego massages.

Maybe next Christmas. A belated Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and a Happy New Year to ye wonderful readers who still give me two-digit visitor numbers per day even though I haven’t posted an itsy-bitsy thing for about two months now.

Cheers!

Facebook : Disasters - a -Dozen

2008-11-20T20:40:00.000-08:00

For reasons I’m not even going to try explaining here for the fear of coming off as the loser of the millenium, a few days back, I was using the search feature on Facebook searching for guys named Sameer. Yes, there are infinite numbers of them on Facebook. Though the object of my weekday afternoon Facebook search was not to be found, what I found instead was a steady pattern of Facebook profile display pictures among the Sameers of Facebook and to generalize, guys on Facebook.

Being a girl means I have the royal birth right to put up only those photos in which I look quixotically attractive as my Facebook display pic. Yes, chuckle but I know you do the same thing. We all classify our pics as Facebook-worthy and otherwise. The ‘Omigawd! That’s hawt!’ pics are categorically the Facebook profile pics where girls are concerned.

Now for the guys. In what sprawled from a simple search to an entire afternoon of observational study, it was found that guys on Facebook had agreed upon a dozen poses in which they would supposedly look good without falling over themselves doing so. These standard poses however are ermm….let me just say thought-provoking!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Facebook’s very own – Disasters-a-Dozen!

High Contrast Photoshop

This is the equivalent of walking around wearing one of those fancy gold and purple eye masks – I forget what they are called. It’s the hide and show effect. You’re hiding something. And I would bet heavily that something is acne.

The Barney-style Suit up pic

He could be at his best friend’s wedding, at a corporate dinner, anything. Either way he inevitably did his Masters from some foreign University and now works for an MNC. And yes, his parents are looking for a bride. Wheatish, slim educated girl wanted for Software engineer working in the Yoo-Yes. Must be from good family, devoted to husband, respectful, cultured, god-fearing. For those of you who know not who Barney Stinson is, he's the sexiest thing alive - a 'How I Met Your Mother' reference. Watch it!

Just hanging with my bros

While girls have this innate, inborn talent to quickly gang up in cute poses, hug and flash the smile or pout the pout, guys undeniably have the ability to stand in a straight line, look awkward and barely touch each other. This is a rare pic where they are at least not wearing stoic Godfather looks.

Too many people in one picture

It is what it is. The too many people in one picture shot. Blending with the crowd hoping the lookers take the average coolness to be that of the profile owner’s. Which isn’t working either.

I love my gf / My gf and I are the best pals in the world

I was surprised at how many of these were actually out there! Yeah, it’s to a large extent less hilarious than the ‘I-love-my-girlfriend-very-much’ coochie coo pics where for the most part the guy puts it up as the girl is whiner (read that right prick) and the friends of the guy need something to laugh at. Theres nothing like forced love.

Drunk guy shot

There’s this undeniably beautiful consistency in these shots. Ingredients to make a Drunk guy Shot: hair with gel oozing out of its tips or alternatively a hat, groomed eyebrows err…unibrow, shiny black shirt open, expensive drink in hand (optional: slutty girl who call herself Rita in a skimpy black, cleavage doling outfit on your arm, name of the lounge with “Nite Life” somewhere in the description of the pic in the album, proving that you’re so so hot that they put up Rajinikanth type movie posters of you in the locality.) Now aggressively avoid looking into the camera. It’s supposed to look like the paparazzi caught you unawares.

I work out pic

This is a mellowed down version of this category. Invariably with his shirt off, the pic features a guy who just happens to have a 12 pack and just happens to be flexing at the moment someone randomly took their picture. Just happens on Facebook. The right angle, the right light – you’ve got the shot; you don’t even need Photoshop.(Rajiv if you think this is a subtle dig at your profile pic, NO. It is a direct reference to it.)

Wacky funny guy

I would date this guy and then be surprised when he doesn’t take me seriously enough.

Baby Daddy

When I have a kid, I think I’m going to retire all of this Orkutting and Facebooking. Because I’ll be actually raising my kid and not virtually giving people vodka and puppies, just because they come for free. (That’s a lie. You know it and I know it.)

Accidental self photography

Dammit, these are my favorites! You can crop a photo all you want, but the slightly elevated shoulder blade will tell stories of narcissistic, self-indulgent photo sessions untold. The person truly believes that we will believe he was just caught by someone in this moment of pensive thought. But this isn’t even the lows of self-photography! How can one forget …

Pedophiles of India

What, this person doesn’t have ONE friend who would do a favor by taking ONE picture of him?? There he is, in the dark room, creepily lit by just the light radiating off the monitor. He perches his webcam rightly and takes a photo of himself? And he’s so into his euphoria from playing too much CS or watching too much porn that he forgot to look into the webcam and SMILE?!

Random hand sign

Ok. What is that? No seriously.A peace sign at right angles? Does that even mean something? A free Prestige pressure cooker to the first person who solves this mystery.

Denny Crane.

2008-11-10T01:38:00.000-08:00

I’m slowly dying from within. I’m going to give up my dream of slacking in the winter holidays and am desperately trying to get a serious internship now somewhere, somehow for real. I’m fully aware that I’m being in complete denial about this process. I really do understand that everyone has to get an internship. As many internships as one can possibly do within the five years of paid death-wish called law school life.

I understand that in our society, experience is exchanged for an extra line on the CV, which is then used to get a job that pays you enough money to buy a sexy home with a bookcase from floor to ceiling, a nice little Enfield, all the Mars Bars you want and Nike special edition gold running shorts to gather dust, mobile credit, Tantra t-shirts, Ed Hardy shoes and other such life-sustaining necessities.

OK, not the Ed Hardy. I’m just convinced there has to be some way I can get around to that, which doesn’t involve doing a clerical job, prostitution or selling my iPod.

You know who I blame for this whole disillusionment (because the good Lord-the one who gets enough French pedicures to warrant a name like The-One-with-Lotus-feet, knows I’m certainly not to blame for attaining this level of obnoxiousness)? I blame Crane,Pool & Schmidt.

How dare you, madame and good sirs, create and flaunt a false illusion of a lifestyle that could never be. I have two words for the all of you: Denny Crane. That’s what I want to be when I pass out. I want to be a professional character, a professional quirky sarcastic awesome lawyer who says anything and gets away with it – panache redefined. And I want to live comfortably in a nice elite apartment in the city, sit in the balcony after work hours with a significant other, at least drinking filter coffee if not fine wine, dress in the smartest of black-white clothing out there while doing it - which I don’t think is too much to ask for.

But this is a dream that can never be. It’s “unrealistic”. It’s like what Disney does to little girls giving them unrealistic expectations about love and what Shaktiman did to the kid who jumped off the terrace thinking the glory in red-gold would zoom down to save him. Thanks a lot Denny Crane. I’m going to go kick a young associate in the awesome firm I get an internship in this December (if I get an internship in an awesome firm this December) hopefully in the larynx as hard as I can to dash his or her awesome lawyering dreams just to balance out the yin-yang in this universe.

I hate you Crane, Pool & Schmidt!

Denny Crane.

Tuppence'

2008-10-19T06:01:00.000-07:00

Generally I pride myself on being well-informed. However, there are times when I demonstrate an astounding level of ineptitude that would leave a classic stereotype Blonde bereft of emotions on finding her long lost twin.

Today being a Sunday and me having one of those rare free Sundays at law school, I was reading up news items on the long-over, now-forgotten Olympics to prepare short notes on them for future reference. I was Googling for the same when a news item shocked me. The headline read :

Gay Breaks Greene's US Record in 100 at Trials

A WTF escaped me almost immediately. Then followed a myriad of thoughts, indignation mostly, a rainbow of defence. Why cant the media view the runner like anyone else? What is this, sexual aparatheid now? What are they implying that gays can't run for the life of them? Are they creating and reinforcing the image of gays as dainty,delicate darlings?? Grrr....

Hyped I was, yes. I forced myself to further read the insulting piece assured I would find an article-load of gay-beating. Working on my project submissions early in the semester, I have skipped most of the Olympics and the headlines relating to it, it seems. Like that the gay runner mentioned in the headline is none but Tyson Gay.

Tadaa.

To Chance a Dance

2008-10-06T07:37:00.000-07:00

She went to this party one evening. He came over and he asked her ‘Can I have this dance?’ She sipped the soft drink slowly from the shot glass, stalling for time.

They could hit it off most brilliantly. She could possibly fall hard – for his wit and for him. She would start with heading off the dance floor with him, maybe out to the coffee shop next door. After a long conversation on the vagaries of the weather and many a cup of coffee, she would slip him her mobile number when they bid goodnight if he hadn’t already asked for it. He would grin sheepishly and give her his number. Two days, and he would dial her number on his mobile, get nervous and immediately cut the call – without realizing he had gotten a missed call. A week after, he would work up his guts, give her a call and ask if they could hang out that weekend if she wasn’t doing anything else.

She would tell her friends about him, be let off the weekend expedition to the mall and they would catch the latest box office and have a romantic dinner. A few more outings, a few introductions to best friends, a few get-togethers with friends, a few weekends of double dates and they would begin spending a lot of time together. They would get comfortable – physically, mentally and emotionally with each other and if everything does work out for a few months, maybe a year or so, maybe for a few years, they would meet the family and would get married. Maybe.

He would get a pay raise, she would get a pay raise and they would move into this place too huge for two. She would want to fill up the emptiness of the place with kids instead of furniture and he would be intent on getting an in-house bar and swimming pool. They would have a kid anyways, just for the heck of it, because their parents are eager to be labeled grandparents. And then it would be her turn to crave some freedom. The magic would start to wear off and they would have another wonderful kid, just to salvage the marriage.

Already, there would be too much responsibility to deal with. He would be working late, she would be working late, the kids would be with either grandparent every week and they would stop taking time off to discuss intently the vagaries of the weather in the upscale parts of the city where they live. To overcome the inadequacy in the relationship they would turn to other distractions – hobbies, friends … anything/anybody but each other. Because he’s a terrible liar and she couldn’t care enough to lie, they would figure out we were avoiding each other. And then, they would have the big talk with the family and then the kids as to why Papa won’t be staying with them anymore and that it isn’t their fault at all. Isn’t that a tragic thing to happen to any family? No child should be made to live through that.

She slowly swallows the last sip of soft drink from the shot glass. She looks up and he’s still standing there expectant. She lies through her teeth and shot glass emptied of soft drink ‘Sorry, I don’t dance.’

It passed for Love - Ch.1

2008-09-24T04:34:00.000-07:00

Series. Series. Series. They have been around for a while now. And finally, something happened that caught my fancy and made me put the Hero pen to my legal writing pad and write a series. This is just the first.

* * *

“Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. And then, one not-so-very special day, I went to my typewriter, I sat down, and I wrote our story. A story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people. But above all things, a story about love. A love that will live forever. The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”

- Moulin Rouge

They say in love, one cannot stand on the river banks and stick one’s toes in. You either wade in waist-deep or don't go in at all- it's really your choice. Here is a story of those languid hours when she contemplated on the shores. Read on to know whether she waded in to lose herself or she walked, her arched back turned away from the gentle waters that lapped, teasing her toes, seeking to embrace her.

She took a deep breathe and entered the café. It wasn’t the first café she had entered today. Some were crowded, some were empty, some were creepy and some were plain boring. This one seemed alright. Fetching a cup of coffee from the counter, she settled in a cozy corner looking around at the myriad mix of people in the room. It was an eclectic blend of interesting people from all over. She sat there, non-obtrusive, a mere looker-on, as she sipped her Mint coffee from a graffiti-ed mug.

And then it happened. Out of nowhere, he walked in and settled down opposite to her. ‘Hi C.’ he muttered. Her fingers clung precariously to the coffee cup as she nearly exclaimed in surprise. He grinned. Looking at her name tag, she hastily realized and laughed at her gaffe.

‘So how old are you?’ he asked. ‘Ummm….bordering twenty’ she replied. ‘Oh. I am much older. I am twenty six. My name is M.’ he grinned.

Silence.

‘So, are you from the UK?’ he endeavored, after a moment, to engage his unwilling company in conversation. ‘Nah’ she laughed, not knowing whether to treat it as prejudice or laugh it off as an empty hope of M’s. ‘I am from India.’ He grinned again and said ‘Oh, I am the enemy.’ She eyed him quizzically. ‘I’m a Paki’ he explained apologetic for the purported humor. She smiled feebly.

The mobile buzzed in the back pocket of her jeans and she hastened, getting up to pick it up as the obnoxious Nokia tune quite spoilt the moment. And when she came back, ‘Listen, I got to meet friends for dinner. We’ll meet again if you come here often’ she muttered and she hurried away.

Thus they conversed before it was time for her to leave. Thus she logged out of the chat room and shut down her laptop.

Thus begins the story. A story about a time, a story about a chat room, a story about the people. But above all things, a story about love. A story of something that passed for love.

To Be Continued …

Judging a Book - By Cover, By Crook

2008-09-10T01:31:00.000-07:00

Thud! - I deposited the entire load of three bulky blue-green volumes of Seervai on Constitutional law on the bed.

‘Bleddy books!’ I exclaimed into the mobile more for my benefit than Honey’s. ‘Firstly, there is a guy who has the guts to write an entire three volume series of undecipherable, incomprehensible something on Constitutional law (thanks for the title that is kind enough to enlighten us) and then, his publishers put it in a half blue-half green cover that actually looks remotely appealing (it’s all comparative misery where law books are concerned).’

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’ Honey smirked from the other end, probably cradling a 0.5 -cm thick copy of Khalil Gibran in her hands.

I have always wondered about this often used, abused phrase. It was never supposed to refer to books per se, you know. It makes perfect sense when you apply it to people, yes. The looks of a person nowhere, not even remotely reflects the actual person. Agreed. But the phrase was so carelessly conceived that it tends to delude people. People actually start applying it to books.

A good book store is exactly one of those things that one inconspicuously misses about home & Bangalore. The luxury of spending hours and hours in that favorite bookstore, the many romance stories that have chanced there (No Honey. ;) I would never ever reveal your secrets, I swear), the very memories, the very cozy comfort of Blossoms on Church Street – that second-hand book store one could call one’s own.

Random times those were when one just used to zoom off to Church Street on the Activa when bored. The many days spent at Blossoms aimlessly wandering among the many books, picking one, dropping another, I learnt – most books CAN be judged by their cover.

Ambling into the book store, since I am the sort who is extremely faithful to the favorite authors and cautious about trying out the new stuff (just like one’s inclinations when it comes to music) unless recommended by someone who’s taste I trust, it was a rare day when I would pick up something totally new.

It was in one such desperate time late this holidays when the British Library, the BHEL Officer’s Club failed me and Dad’s collection of Shiv Khera was forced upon me every time I switched the channel on the TV, lying cocooned in the sofa that I took off to Blossoms and indulged in the criminal offence of judging books by their covers.

I drifted past their usual extra-colorful display of comics at the entrance, skipping the already-devoured Archies, Asterix and their desi versions of Chacha Chaudhary and Pinky. MAD magazines, I grinned – now those were evil. The whole lot of Fairy-accessorized and imp-imposed covers of Enid Blytons and other children’s books had ceased to catch my fancies a long time back. Bursts of orange phoenixes, swords and wavy hair announced the fantasy section, looking much like a display of Harry Potter fan art to the jaundiced eye of a Potterite. Gargoyles on the Bartimaeus series, the bright Artemis Fowls, dragons breathing fire on Eragon, Eldest and the red-blue covers of Inkheart & Thief Lord series caught my attention. I stopped. And as I had read it all, moved.

Not yet a hormone harangued, romance (read trashy lust stories and related gossip) deprived mother of two, on seeing the sale basket of Mills & Boons and Shoba De I moved on to the next section. I blissfully glided through the section of Women’s Era, Femina, Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping, Seventeen and their lesser versions with covers sporting women in primal clothing, heaving bosoms sticking like leech to men with shirts undone. OK, I just might I just might have stopped a second. Come on! Six-feet, tanned men with shirts undone! Not a frequent sight in Jodhpur where I spend most of the year. Deprived lot, yes.

Covering the Archers, Sheldons, loads of unnamed, never-heard-of, never explored books, Tagore and chick-flick writers turned literary genius, I circled back to the tables at the front. Blossoms has the books displayed on tables by type. Comics dominate the scene; there is one for new arrivals, one for teenagers, kids, adults, so on and so forth.

I hovered over the table for teenagers hoping to unearth some random lost memory for entertainment. What met my eyes – it seemed aliens had taken over the publishing industry.

Judy Blume I recognized yes with some nostalgia. ‘Here’s to you Rachel Robinson’, ‘ Tiger eyes’ were unwillingly forced upon me in my teenage days by an over-enthusiastic library assistant at school whose secret mission I am sure now was to make Barbie dolls out of any girl that passed through her evil hands. Or maybe, she was secretly commissioned by the Patriarchal Patriarchs & Co. to dumb down any remote sign of intelligence in teenage girls. Thankfully, my librarian was there to lead me by hand to the Satyajit Rays and Sherlock Holmes.

And then there was ‘The revenge of the Wannabes’ ?!!. Do I look the kind who would read something like that? Don’t say yes you jerks, I’m not!

My traumatized eyes hastily moved over to the ‘Just In’ table of books and finding nothing, passed on to the ‘Indian Writers’ section – familiar territory.

This was one of my favorite sections in the entire bookstore and as always, I saved the best for the last. Where I had found Chitra Bannerjee’s ‘Mistress of Spices’, ‘Queen of Dreams’… where I fell prey to Mistry-mania buying my first copy of ‘Family Matters’. Special indeed.

Attracted by the cover art, I endeavored to chance the ‘Inscrutable Americans’ by Anurag Vyas. Could pass for something written in the early 1990s. Might have been, I don’t remember now. Hilarious, nevertheless. One of my best random book-judged-by-the-cover picks. Ever.

Dibba's Dabbaisms

2008-09-05T07:01:00.000-07:00

There exists this thing called Dibba. Its a dreamer, a thinker and a speculative philosopher ... or as we would have it, the B. In short, to borrow from Douglas Adams , one of the organic life forms it has been my profound lack of pleasure not to be able to avoid meeting.

This thing is usually lost in its own thoughts, lives down my hostel corridor and has a tendency to consume coke by the gallons Uncle Chips (salted only) by the kilos. This thing moves its non existent bum to clean its room only when a rat is sighted there in the wee hours of the morning.

This is also great company, a good friend and yeah, states the most entertaining of statements in the most unexpected of moments. Here are a few instances of the enlightened moments I have personally witnessed. Ladies, Lawyers and Gentlemen, Dibba's Dabbaisms :

1. With reference to Yours Truly
"God if you want my faith, do something about her."

2. Just before the Constitutional Governance exam
"Ellam three hours la mudunnnjupoyidum"

3. On Krishna Iyer's judgment (quoting E.R.Braithewaite in the Som Prakash Rekhi v. Union of India judgment)
"He cant die when he's eighty or what? Bloody fossil. Poetry in Judgment, Romba avasyam ivanuku"

4. On the erstwhile MC Mehta v. Union of India (Bhopal Gas Tragedy case)
"When they say MC Mehta v. UOI, which of the 240 odd cases do they mean? Seriyaana notary agent."

5. On a specimen of a professor.
"We have a spark. We have a chemistry that is undeniable. His extreme masculinity is absolutely irresistible."

6. Again, on the same item
"______ has wit and so do I."

7. When I was checking if she was in her senses.
Im not gone, Im just elevated.

8. On the lack of early romance.
When you go to school in puffy bloomers and see 78 other girls that way by simple elimination, you tend to arrive at a boy as your best friend.

9. After having shocked the wits out of me in a rare moment of ultimate frustration by saying 'Mirror to you' when I said 'F$#% you'
Mirror to you is undoubtedly more sophisticated than same to you and back to you. You have to have basic of knowledge of physics to say mirror to you and all.

10. Regarding Jesus Christ's controversial birth year (It is said Christ might have actually been born in 4 B.C.)
Like he had a retrospective birth or something.

11. On seeing the Taj when she was 11 years old.
"They've been dead for years and why is it still smelling."

12. On pinkie swears (yes, as in Mother swears, God swears, Saami sathiyam et al)
Dont make fun of pinkie swears. You are a non believer. Thats why. It brings joy to one's life to have some seriousness in it.

13. On ants
'Ellam Gumbaloda Govinda! U would think they were remotely smart'

14. On all the above
When Im rich and famous if you are gonna publish it, Im gonna be infamous. Can we work something out?

P.S. Just so that Google finds this - Divya Srikanth

Black circles

2008-09-03T09:57:00.000-07:00

May you dwell in the cesspit of despair for being lousy and irresponsible of late, where it concerns me. I really don’t need you, you know. So much for you playing around with me, anyways. Nothing new, you always played around with me.

You refuse to call on me while I sit around hoping you would. Where have you been? Off somewhere having a ball of a time while I sit up waiting for you, I’m sure. Maybe you were with that girl. I know you favor her. Now really, don’t you? Finally when I despair and force my presence on you, you cease your wanderings for some time and try bending me to your whims. It lasts for maybe the next few minutes? Bah!

So again, last night you forgot to call on me. You forgot or you didn’t want to? Where were you? No, it’s absolutely fine, don’t answer that, I really don’t care. Not like I NEED YOU or anything. Just checking. I had an absolutely great time catching up on old movies, reading John Steinbeck and playing Chess on my laptop.

I just might have watched two – three movies by now. What movies you ask? Uhmm…I think I watched ‘When Harry met Sally’, ‘P.S.I Love you’ and before that, I don’t remember. Who cares anyways? The point being, I can have a friggin’ awesome time without you around. I’m doing great. It’s awesome actually. I totally don’t need you.

Sleep…please come back.

Googly Woogly Woosh - Tagged

2008-09-01T05:48:00.000-07:00

A new week, a new month, a new post and a new '20 Questions - Google tag'.

The rules: for each question, look up the answer in a Google Image search. Then choose your favorite from the first page of results only.

1. MY AGE

2. I'M PASSIONATE ABOUT

3. MY FAVORITE PLACE

4. I HAVE A THING FOR

5. MY COMFORT ZONE

6. MY FAVORITE ANIMAL

7. MY KIND OF ART

8. THE TOWN WHERE I WAS BORN

9. THE TOWN WHERE I LIVE

10. A PAST PET

11. A PAST LOVE

12. CURRENT LOVE

13. BEST FRIEND'S NICK NAME

14. I WANT

15. SCREEN NAME

16. A BAD HABIT

17. A DREAM

18. FIRST JOB

19. I MISS

20. WHAT I'M DOING RIGHT NOW

I tag :

Antariksh - Coz this would be his first tag
Dibba - Coz she loves being called the Bitch and I really cannot imagine her being anything else anyways.
Sorcerer - Coz he needs to come back from the dead
PoignantRose - Coz I think she would enjoy doing this.
Dumbroo aka Ashkrish - Coz she's the only blonde I know with black hair
Mith, Historiophile and Harini as well :)
Feel free to tag along anyone.

I've been reviewed!

2008-08-31T02:22:00.000-07:00

Yay yayy yay! Bill Mccaffrey reviewed my blog ! Thanks to Mith for the link.

A letter to the guy who snubbed my friend

2008-08-27T09:35:00.000-07:00

Dear guy who snubbed my friend,

What is with you dude? You snubbed my friend. I seriously doubt that you even remotely appreciate the amount of planning that got into asking you out for coffee. Heard of Maneckshaw? Yeah, he would have appreciated it! God bless his brave soul. My friend kind of had the roving eye (and the raging hormones) for you. In short, she thought you were ‘cute’.

She saw you first at the local chat shop picking and munching groundnuts from your plate of Bhelpuri (Nothing in its right mind would find a sweating 6 feet something pulverizing plates of bhelpuri on the sidewalks of a Bangalore suburb a sexy sight. But yeah, we’ll grant her the ‘6 feet’). As she made a scoot for the puchka stand, I followed shaking that ‘Oh-no-no-no-no’ shake of the head that she had fallen for you of all the gazillion things she could have fallen for in the area.

Though you knew me before-hand, you smiled your dopey grin at her and concentrated your attention slightly more on her than you did on my many attempts to break eye contact between the two of you. I am not super hotness personified, but you already knowing the super-funny me, this could only mean that you were completely into her or brain dead from amnesia. Giving up, I introduced the two of you and tried to get her to ask you out for coffee while that creep of a thing you were hanging out with introduced me to the spiciest of gastronomic horrors that the chat shop ever stored and I had refused to subject myself to before. I sensed him to be your wing man. The spice had me shut up. I do not like chilli sauce in my cutlet masala, creepy-thing-in-an-emo-wig that hangs out with the guy who snubbed my friend!

So she didn’t say much that evening. She made me do what she had to. She dragged me back to that dingy chat shop the next day. For all the many years you had spent downing bhelpuris every evening at the shop, of all days, you had to choose that day not to turn up. Yeah, we sat in gloomy surrender to the hands of destiny and fate and ate Cutlet masala for the second day in a row. Do you know what happens when you eat Cutlet masala two days in a row? You get a lot of time to yourself, sitting on the pot until you finish today’s newspaper, yesterday’s newspaper and the entire week of Hindu newspapers, not to forget the supplements and Frontlines.

Well, when have we law students been known to quit? You had told my friend that your little haunt of gastrointestinal horrors had Sunday specials of your favorite - Mirchi Vada. Sunday was incidentally, the day after visit two! That’s right, we came back for Mirchi Vada. However some high school thingumajig of a kid with the worst taste ever decided to have its Birthday treat at the corner chat shop. While I maintained some distance attempting to fraternize with anything and everything around so she could ask you, the Uncle behind the counter wearing the oil cum sweat cum sauce stained brown banian – the owner of the shop offered me free samples. I took it, to be polite, but it was fried bread pieces with (Dexter’s-laboratory-vile-chemical) green goo all over it. I pretended to like it and threw it away when he wasn’t looking.

I was beginning to get the impression that my friend was not going to ask you and the very act of being in that store was making my little intestines slither with worry and my bowels weep tears of torture. So I told her I was going to ask you for her and get it over with. I ambled over when you were by yourself relishing the last deep-fried bits of the Mirchi Vada and tried to start a conversation. Turns out I talk a lot but when it came down to it I couldn’t ask you either. Sorry guy who snubbed my friend but I couldn’t think up a sequel on the spot from “Do you come here everyday?” to “would you consider going out for coffee with my friend and eventually end up satisfying her roving eye and raging hormones?”

Finally you were back to the counter for a second (third? Fourth?) helping and it was time to do what had to be done. You inched towards us mirchi vada and sauce in hand, to make conversation. I said we had been told the chat shop would be selling some special delicacies that day. I acted like I knew nothing about them, even though I literally had to push a sample down my throat with a finger earlier. You asked me if I would like a plate. I turned to my friend. “What say? We should get something to eat before we head to the coffee shop?” Then I turned back to you. “We were heading to the coffee shop. Would you like to join us?”

Guy who snubbed my friend, this was not an instant MTR Rava upma, Two minutes Maggi style idea. This was carefully concocted to appear casual. And you told us you had to go to the gym. I let this roll away as if it were just a little coincidence that was not the reason for going to the same goddamn chat effin’ shop three days in a row. But then you asked me if I would be free the next day.

Guy who snubbed my friend, I was not asking you out on my behalf. You gave me the agony of the irritable bowel syndrome. This is not something I look for in a guy. Quit sweating me.

Yours Truly,

Hakuna

And .......... Cut !

2008-08-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

He is an uncouth, unruly and uncooperative fellow. I love him beyond reason and more than anything else (that’s other than my six years old - once upon a time white - now yellowish-grayish-Washing Powder Nirma-ish – African motif t-shirt). But of late, he had been getting out of hand and I decided it was time to teach him some manners.

His name is Wayne (Short for Wayward Neurotic Entity). Yes, that’s what I call my hair – it is an individual all by itself. He ditched the local maals like Meera in high school and took on a Djing-chak Englees name and persona to please the peter-chicks like Wella and L’Oreal .Yes, his name is Wayne.

So the other day I finally decided he needed some professional grooming and ambled into a random parlor in Jodhpur recommended by a noble soul who probably felt overwhelming pity for Wayne. I am no more in Bangalore and waiting for the holidays every semester to groom Wayne was not working. Leaving Bangalore and the local stylist who had nurtured Wayne for almost eighteen years was distressing for me and Wayne. He had bad mood days, he became limp with incessant worry and he refused to be cared for. He got over her though.

The wash went fine, giving Wayne a bath isn’t all that tough - other than the fact that fingernails scratched my scalp to bits and the rose-smelling pink shampoo that was meant for Wayne and Wayne alone ran down my forehead and made me shed tears for the paradise in the form of the Bangalore stylist lost.

Wayne wrapped in a white, slightly suspicious smelling towel, we were passed like a parcel at the local BlazeFlash Courier office onto the hair stylist guy.

The stylist guy sported purplish-blue bangs matching-matching with the purplish-blue belt (the size of the WWE championship belt that I vaguely remember having spotted on the Undertaker’s miniscule waist) that held up an equally purplish-blue pair of distressed (within inches of death) denims. A purplish-blue fun looking guy to say the least. So I was only vaguely nervous when he skipped the entire part where he is supposed to ask me what I wanted and the ensuing part where he tells me what he’s going to do to Wayne. He just started snipping with his (wait for it) purplish-blue pair of scissors.

And then, he paused. He tilted his head slightly to the right.

Him: You vaant tail at back?"
Me: Um. What? (The only tail my imagination permitted me to conjure was Big Butt’s little loop on the top.) I don't think I’d like a tail.

** tummy clenches and unclenches sound bytes of scissors in the background

Him: How say, a shag?
Me: (An indignant, pointed eyebrow doing the disappearing act.) What?!
Him: You know, one layer, then many layers … No need to hair brush too much.
Me: Oh (slightly embarrassed of possessing too much information) … No, I’ll pass on that.

*clip snip snip…..

"So you are from the Mandore Laa College?” he ventured in an attempt to fraternize with the victim. “Yeah, I even interned partly at the Consumer Forum at Delhi last winter." I muttered.

(No, I DID NOT lie to you. I am in a National Law University and not in any erstwhile ‘Mandore Laa College’ or any other Jodhpur-equivalent of Sri Mookambiha College of Laa. Among the infinite other atrocities, the locals tend to bond with us over that pseudonym.)

* snip clip snip.

Him: "How do you feel say, bangs on front?”
Me: "Um, concerned?"

I couldn’t even get to my nails for comfort as I was in a body bind thanks to the plastic wrapper they rolled me in. Poor Wayne, how apprehensive I was for him. I was sure I’d end up looking like the next emo (aka pseudo-goth) poster girl. Not like my emotional baggage wasn’t already over prescribed limits.

And then, I opened my left eye. And then the right. And Woah. Kudos to purplish-blue guy! The flick was slick and happy were Wayne and I.

The Ants must be Crazy!

2008-08-19T07:04:00.000-07:00

As though it were not enough that my mental sanctuary has been invaded by tiny irritants, my physical sanctuary came under direct fire today. My room was almost taken over by a swarm of ants. Ok, not a swarm and all. A few with militant tendencies.

They are not the vile looking pregnant lizards that were quite the spectacle of my room before I got the eggshells to get rid of them, but even so, who in the world would desire anything of the insect family, small or not, having their annual get-togethers, wedding receptions, orgy-porgies and naming ceremonies in their room?

Here I was, basking in the glory of the pigeon-free evening in my balcony, pulverizing a pack of Marie biscuits, a borrowed copy of John Steinbeck in hand when I spotted the infiltration. The sly things having tried every way of getting into the hitherto fortified room, were right royally scurrying through the forgotten balcony door that lay open. Fighting the urge to scream as they performed their tribal dance around an indiscernible food particle, I lifted my blue-green-yellow-red bathroom slipper-ed feet and went *stomp*.

After repeating the above step ten-fifteen times, eventually, I got frustrated (one has such short attention span to potential means of entertainment nowadays), stomped all over the room and left the little brown dead bodies twitching for life. I sincerely thought it would be ample warning for rest of the family. But alas! It mattered not. The steady procession if not anything, got steadier; a few idiotic ones crawling right into the mob of dead ants as though with a death wish, leaving me baffled at the least.

I mean, ought not these things to have survival instincts? When they know to scurry on remotely sensing even the shadow of the foot, how come they are bereft of sense to run when the foot itself comes their way?Visiting the dead maybe. Right,I wonder what it is about dead little brown corpses of friends and family that inspires them to charge right through and “Go ahead”?!

If I were walking down the mess arc and saw rows of dead people in front of the food counter, I sure as hell would turn right around. And run.

'Starry starry nights?!' Lunar eclipse to you.

2008-08-18T08:25:00.000-07:00

Why does it take the Star’s death for me to love my life more dearly? Why does it take the Don’s broken dream for me to realize how important mine is to me? Why does it take the Frekka’s tears for me to harden up and never cry? Why does it take a crack in Honey’s friendship for me to cherish mine? Why does it take the Cobalt’s blog post for me to figure out what love is and more importantly, why its not for me? And when I have, why does it take the Bitch’s strength for me to find mine and deny myself the indulgence?

Why does it take another for me to know myself?

I've been avoiding penning down my thoughts of late. I'm not sure even I want to read what has been swirling up there.

When everything is going right and suddenly, there is a moment, everything goes wrong. Why cant I hold myself instead of looking onto others for inspiration? 'You are allowed a weak moment' Honey would say. 'Holler at what weighs you down, curse the universe.'

How long? How long will it be till I ought to keep up this facade before venting it all in a burst of pent up frustrated nothingness? Yeah, this too shall pass. That's what I say. Hakuna Matata. This too shall pass, yes... But I'm already friggin' tired of waiting. I hate suspense movies. Get done with it already. I'm already an optimist slipping into her share of pessimist vacation. 'It will work. Almost there. We just have to try. It will.' Who am I fooling? Already, Im near shoving it down a random bystander's throat.

Just this night, I shall luxuriate in a glorious tantrum of sorts. Just for tonight, I shall indulge myself. Damn me, if tomorrow I regret. Guilt-trips are not for me. I prefer to forget rather than forgive. Actually no, I don't forgive, I don't forget. So much for an effin' angel you expect me to be. Tonight is my night. Nails on the wall, let me be. Not pretty, yes; but it sure as hell feels good.

And once again, why does it take a word with Cobalt for me to decide its OK to post something this random, this personal on my blog. Finally. Aliens are friggin' ruling my life. Here Sorcerer, its not just a 'funny blog' any more. Or maybe it still is.

Hakuna Matata tomorrow.

Tuppence'

2008-07-26T20:10:00.000-07:00

ME : Heya, whats up? Busy?

DEDADSM : Yes, but no.

ME: Oh! Later then.

DEDADSM : Ok. Actually, there are people around me.

ME : OK. (Why? Does your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth at the very surprise that your mobile has supernatural powers and it is exhibiting them in public by ringing as others witness the hitherto never see before phenomena of a mobile ringing and you conversing on it before them? Or are we waiting for that moment of magical eternity when only you and I exist on earth to use mobile phones and talk to each other undisturbed? If its the latter, just for the record, I'd rather be busy trying to make people to have around rather than attempting to communicate over the mobile with the only other living thing on Earth. Lack of creativity I presume. I would sooner appreciate you saying a dinosaur was drooling sleepy over your mobile and that you were way too grossed out and busy puking your intestines out to pick up the call. Throw in some hemoglobin for some effect and I might even go 'awwww...' . There are people around me? Blah.) Alright, Good Night.

P.S. DEDADSM = Distant Echo from Depths of Already Defunct Speaker of my Mobile

P.P.S Drafted it in the dead of the night, on a Nokia mobile, using the 'latest SMS technology'. Bear in mind, the time was 2 am. And thrice. Thrice was I subjected to this by me Beloveds ... blog worthy eh.Give me some credit. Repeat when I'm half sleepy and low on caffeine for a live demonstration (Rated NC-17).

Weighing Woes - the Ho-Ho diet

2008-07-21T07:57:00.000-07:00

I gave up on lofty dreams of a gloriously flat belly when back in high school; my best friend bought it to my notice that they were the precise things that required self denial in the form of giving up on chocolate sundaes and the likes. Life's too short to deny yourself a nice choco soufflé at Casapicola.

But yeah, when surrounded by girls who think they’ve lost ‘hell loads’ of calories by just walking up and down from the hostel to the mess a couple of times, ones who put up ‘gone jogging’ as their status messages on Gtalk and guys who think their thighs are grossly disproportionate to their body, one does, if not anything but for sake of decency and maintaining a ‘yeah yeah, I want to be fit as well’ image, tend to indulge in some binge dieting and namesake exercising.

‘Avoid coffee’ said my Belgian pen friend. Knowing that I drink gallons of it anyways, she furthered, ‘If you must absolutely drink it, use cream not sugar. Cream is ok, because cream contains no real fat.’ Yes, cream contains no fat at all; just some wayward glycerols that make home on your hips.

From somewhere yonder, googling the depths of fitness-found cliques, someone even unearthed ingenious products like the AOQILI weight loss soap and PROMISE lip product.

No, I haven’t randomly diverted to cosmetics…these are actual products that purportedly further your childhood dreams of weight loss.The makers are probably hanging on to every syllable of 'Caveat Emptor'

The AOQILI weight loss soap for one, apparently ‘life altering’ as one of its users testifies, is made from the elixirs of undersea plants, including rare seaweed. “The unique qualities are apparently the tiny defeating agents that it houses. These penetrate to the subcutaneous layer to assist in the elimination of fat layers. It contains many kinds of trace elements, vitamins and minerals, which reduce the accumulation of series fluid and estrange the skin. Given some time, you will be surprised to find that your body has become slender. Even when used on highly sensitive skin, it causes neither stimulation nor ache. It makes your weight control simple, convenient, and relaxed."

“I love Aoquili Diet Soap. I believe it helps loosen trapped fat in my skin when I scrub vigorously.”

Yes, and the poor thing had to clean her shower stall of the yellow gooey substance that just fell off her body in chunks as she scrubbed herself weary and thin. I just can’t resist suggesting amputation here. Seriously, lose weight, donate a kidney.

If scrubbing your epidermis right off or say, amputating a limb doesn’t appeal to you, how about some lip service? (No, no, not that!). PROMISE is a lip product that helps you lose weight. PROMISE is "applied to the lips of people that are snacking and picking at food or tempted to eat large meals. When the urge to snack or have a large meal strikes.Apply liberally to your lips. Use it as often as necessary. It 'helps' curb your appetite. A weight management tool. You can use it as often as you like."

I’m not a very visual person, but even to my mind, all that occurs or reading that description is say ver 2.0 of the big bad wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. Thin and drooling at that rate, one wouldn’t be too different from the Rajapalayam dogs that haunt my hometown, which again are distant cousins of the big bad wolf.

If you have a midnight snacking problem like me, and if you live with a partner unlike me, a friend offered an awesome suggestion. So awesome that I couldn’t resist mentioning it.

‘Ask your partner to hand cuff you to the bed, you never know, you may solve two problems in one, by spicing up your sex life at the same time.’

When in search of the acceptable (to me) yet at least minimally effective way to shed, the Lemon diet caught my eye.

Yes, you guessed it right. All you get to drink is Lemonade and you get to drink all you want of it. You are also allowed salt water and tea.The diet goes like this - You start your mornings with a ‘salt flush’ and proceed through the day with as much lemonade as you want and end it with a cup of herbal tea.

Diarrhea and dizziness are common side effects, don’t panic. If you aren’t accustomed to swimming in the sea, the salt water might make you puke. All solids in your body will make an early exit and the button of your school shirt that you swallowed when you were in Montessori might make a guest appearance. We promise increased energy afterwards, after you eat something.

Here is what I suggest, the darling of my creative genius and dieting expertise – the Baga beach diet.

Go Goa. Choose a random beach (say Baga beach). Put on your bathing suit. If you don’t have one already, walk the road by the beach in search of one your size. Get an iced tea from one of the numerous shacks, recline on the recliners. Look at all of the beautiful, thin, tan people. Look at your own body. If that doesn't motivate you, go for a walk. Walk all along the Beach until you find a shop that sells sinful Belgian dark chocolate ice cream. Keep walking. Walk and walk and walk looking for that ice cream. You will become thin before you will find it. Why? Because the thin folks at Goa don't eat ice creams.

Get a doctorate, post before and after pics of yours online. Use a friend’s or a friend’s and her mom’s or just use MS Paint and stretch the image. Now instead of Belgian dark chocolate, make that some hard to find, random vegetable and make the location your local departmental store instead of Baga beach. You have a fad diet you could name ‘Dr.Rippinyubrok’s Miracle Diet’, or the 'Marina Makeover' or something equally exotic and make millions.

To hell with pseudo calorie burning girls, thunder thigh faking guys and yo-yo diets. They give me a goddamn complex! I think I’ll just wait around for our geniuses to come up with something that makes me lose weight by drinking coffee and blogging ho-ho diets.

When has weight loss been about losing those love handles anyways? Trust me, its all about those dotty planets on your horoscope chart falling in line till the second coming of Christ decides who gets to have a flat belly.

Tuppence'

2008-07-05T23:52:00.000-07:00

With California becoming the second state to legalize gay marriage, 'I do, I do, I do...' has been echoing off the church walls. Of course this hasn't been without protest from the puritans. “Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed” they say.

Of course, gay pride would mess with the holy sanctity of Britney Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage And isn't it obvious?! Gay parents will raise gay children…coz straight parents only raise straight children. Logic, yes.

In Caffea Veritas

2008-06-29T08:50:00.000-07:00

'Com...uhm..Comm...Commitment?' I stuttered; 'Who said Im afraid of it?' as Tahini's unwavering killer look fastened itself on me over two cups of Kalmane Koffee.

'You mean the pledging my life,my soul, my heart to his life, his soul, his heart, his wallet for eternity (or longer) types?' I shifted uncomfortably as the rankling,remote possibility crossed conversation.

There is always a time when you are flooded and therefore you are fussy. And slowly as the tide begins to recede, so does your list of must-haves (yes,like the shopping list in times of inflation).

In the early periods of singledom, the very cockiness of having a back up around the corner lends spirit to idealism when searching for 'the guy'. You meet someone nice, really nice, very very nice. And then, you find out he has a penchant for purple streaks. Not your prince in shining armour. Next.

Eventually, with many such nonchalant 'next's and many a single evening you decide to revise your list of essentials for the 'perfect package' and that's precisely when you chuck one 'essential criteria' after another, off the pretty, pink curtained windows of your dream boats.If you are desperate, you might just go for anything that has a pulse and doesn't strangle strays for cheap thrills.

Satan save you if you make a mistake and commit for too short a while, many a while. The Mother of all double standards shall visit you from the depths of conquest-counting society as the claws of hypocritical peer group rip,tear,kill your reputation.

You get stamped a tramp stamp without even a glimmer of a tattoo on your lower back. Of course, that's only if you are a woman. If you are a guy,you revel in being called a stud and gloat over every notch on your post with a cuppa bed coffee.

Assuming one is voluntarily or involuntarily advertising, the ground zero or the no-effort phase of the yet-to-be relationship, those footloose and fancy free days of singledom inevitably lead to eyes locking(not necessarily onto eyes) over the book store. Time slows they say and the world stands still.Swoon( no no, not that kollywood congrats-Ur-a-dad swoon). By when you have satisfactorily recovered, the first date is done(the one that might just be talked about the rest of your lives.No pressure). So are the second(the RSVP) and the third (the deal maker/breaker).The holy trinity. If you have met over thrice, you are going out now.Bless.

No, next is inevitably not 'mangalyam thanthunanena' as one might like to think. It depends.There's either loads of hard work before that - like 'I'm committed, I'm not'/'I'm committed you are not' games to be played with wild flowers and the guy). Or an acrimonious explosions of pent up bitterness all in line with the theories of Physics - energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It merely changes from one form to another.

'Bah! Humbug.'quipped Tahini, interrupting me . 'Heard the pig and the chicken story?' I asked, in a last ditch attempt as she drank the last of her coffee with quite the aforementioned acrimonious stare.

A pig and a hen were walking by a church where a gala event was taking place. Getting caught in the spirit, the hen suggested to the pig that they each make a contribution of ham and eggs."Not so fast" said the pig. " For you, that's a contribution. For me, its a total commitment."

A Sunflower Story

2008-06-23T15:10:00.000-07:00

A laugh they say you laugh for every worry you bear. For every grin they say, you shed a tear. I have made you laugh; now let me let me tell you a story.A story retold. A story of sunflowers, of sunshine lost and gained.

'Match maker match maker make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch...' I fingered the volume dial on my iPod as I heard someone at the door. Lifting Mojo off my lap and carefully placing the cup of coffee on the window sill, I forced myself off my antique rocking chair. Heading lazily towards the door, I cursed the buzz of the bell that had intruded upon my languid thoughts on a chilly February afternoon. Drawing the sleeves of the worn, oversized blue jumper over my palms, I opened the door braving myself for the gust of wind that trespassed, blowing my hair haphazard.

'Yes' I said to the man standing outside my door - now opened. Did I say man? No, it was a boy, I decided, tucking my stray hairs behind my ears, his freckles stood testimony to his teenage years. He stood there holding on to his cap with one hand and in the other, a bunch of flowers wrapped to save them from the wind's bellows. 'Ma'am' he said in a just-broken raspy voice 'would you mind taking a delivery for Mrs.Sukumaran? Please sign for these flowers on her behalf?’

'Sure' I smiled. It must be her old man sending her flowers for Valentines Day. Mr. Sukumaran was posted then at the borders. He often sent Mrs Sukumaran handwritten letters. I signed the acknowledgment receipt, took the flowers and closed the door as the boy tipped his cap. Today being Valentines Day, this was sure to be a special package, I grinned. Placing the flowers on the table, I drifted towards the window and opened it, allowing the February chill to caress my face as I gazed onto the grey street lined with drab Gulmohars - yet to bloom.

I looked out at the gloomy skies and the red sweater-ed kids returning from school. First the boys, grinning from ear to ear at their successful conquests. Then the girls in small thick-knit groups of threes and fours, murmuring excitedly about the Valentines they received at school today. The headphones reinstated in my ear, I closed my eyes to the emptiness before me. At this very window last year we stood. Two cups of steaming coffee stood forgotten lending warmth to our first V-Day together. Our hands - his in the same blue jumper, clasped over the bouquet of flowers. 'I got to go.' he said 'Its time'. I escorted him to the door. He hugged me, his strong arms enveloping me as I pressed my ear to his heartbeat. He never told me it could be the last time. Looking back, it did bother me he did not reply when I murmured 'I love you' but I brushed it away.

A sudden giggle from a bunch of passing girls snapped me into reality. The wind dried the tear on my cheek and rustled the flowers packaging. I headed towards the table and curiously rifled through the folds of the paper. Sunflowers! I caught my breath. Sunflowers- their golden yellow petals lay perfectly arranged, like a halo around their brown heads. My fingers deftly unwrapped them and I reached out to the blue vase in my cupboard, and placed them in water. I settled once again in my rocking chair, looking at the breeze flirting with its petals on the window sill where I had placed the vase. 'Sunshine' I smiled, as my lashes fell.

A sharp bark from Mojo, woke me up. The dusk dawned on my waking self and I reached over to my mobile to see the time. The blue display read 19:00. Stretching out my cramped legs, I shushed Mojo, patting him. I don’t remember getting Mojo. I probably got him sometime last year, maybe around this time. The bell rang and Mojo barked again. Combing the tousled hair into a bun with my fingers, I rushed towards the door and opened it. 'Mrs Sukumaran!I exclaimed, remembering the flowers now on my window sill. Guilt got my throat.

'Bah! February!' Mrs Sukumaran ranted as she walked in, past me. ‘Come Valentines Day, they don’t let you live in peace. Clogging roads and traffic in the name of tradition and dharnas...what not. You know, this year, they actually...' She broke off at the sight of the arranged flowers. 'Oh! You got the flowers.'

'Mrs.Sukumaran, I.. .’ I ventured to explain, the words clogging my throat, guilt chasing my thoughts.

'You've put them in the water I see. You read the card eh?' she beamed. 'Oh, what a man he was, you knew from his handwriting no? He knew it was coming. He arranged for me to send you a dozen sunflowers this year.' she exclaimed with a nostalgic sigh and a matronly smile. I inched towards the table, my eyes round with surprise and silent with shock, caught unawares. Pushing the jumper back I picked up the white card lost in the crumpled brown wrapping.

Written in his handwriting - 'To my Sunshine' it said 'I love you too.’

Of Al(l) Gore and Ramanujar !

2008-06-17T03:33:00.000-07:00

Yes, after having unceremoniously ignored my blog for over a month now, I thought that was sure to garner some attention and make you read my blog .

After a week of excitement and scrutinizing the media and Kamal's every sneeze for clues about the movie, I finally got to see it this Sunday in a 'family-bonding' expedition to the nearby PVR well-armed with newspaper wrapped parcels of murukkus and seedais to rival their fifty-bucks a Nacho.

Dasavatharam turned out to be quite a serving from Oscar Ravichandran (now 'Aascar' Ravichandran). Fast-paced, confusing, complicated , 'ludicrous'(to quote Poignant Rose) - everything one expects a Kamal movie to be ( after the Azhavandhan, Vettaiaadu Vizhaiyaadu and Mumbai Express spree). It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be (after a Saturday afternoon of reading bloggers kizhuchify it). It wasn't the best of Kamal either.

The movie begins with Napoleon of Sevalaperi(ka) Pandi infamy sitting astride the kovil yaanai in the character of Kulothunga Cholar who by the way, has been painted(literally!) as a religious chauvinist. Kamal has managed in his uncanny manner to entice controversy (joining the ranks of other Ks - karuppu, karpu) with just this grandiose first scene.

Kulothungo Cholar (widely rumored to be kirumi kanda cholar), the son of Vikrama Cholar carried out major developments at the Natarajar temple in Chidambaram.Incidentally, this major Shaiva shrine also houses a temple of Lord Vishnu as Govindarajar, which is among the 108 Divyadesams. Under Kulothunga II's orders,in an attempt to serve 12th century halwa was made by trying to persuade the patrons of the Vishnu shrine to temporarily remove the idol of Vishnu, ostensibly with the purpose of repairing and renovation, which was initially opposed by the Vaishnava community. Kulothunga-II probably got the idol forcibly shifted mainly so that the repair work is carried on smoothly and also with the intention of not causing any damage to the Vishnu shrine. 'This opposition of Vaishnavas to the (intended but not deliberate) removal and closure of Lord Vishnu's temple was interpreted in some quarters as persecution of Vaishnavites, because in Hinduism closure of a temple is opposed and at least a small lamp has to be lit in the temple, without which that temple is not considered fit for worship.'Now that was the Saivite - Vaishnavite controversy - controversy.

With haranguing historians discussing Kulothungar and the Sri Vaishnava Dharma Samrakshana raising a ruckus on feet touching the Vishnu idol (a soldier was initially supposed to push the idol away with his leg and Kamal springs forth to indulge in some action) in the movie, I wonder this snap went ignored or they just forgot to file a case on it. *evil grin*

Having discussed the legalities, allow me to now relish upon the caricatures...I mean, the characters.

Firstly, keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!!!! No, that wasnt any Morse code clue in the movie. That was Andal (Asin) in most parts of the movie. Seriously, the mistake aint hers, the eleventh avataram was the one responsible. My Tuppence? - 'Kodumai kodumainu kovilukku vandhaaa......'

Getting to the Dasavatharams - its no mean co-incidence that movie has been named so. And no, it doesnt merely reflect the fact that Kamal plays ten roles in the movie. Time for some digging - each avataram it turns out has been modelled on the actual Dasavatharam series as listed in the Garuda Puranam. Lets go in the order of the avatarams :

Matsya - Rangaraji Nambi
Yes, he's the one in the picture(scroll above) pushing the Lord with his butt. He's thrown into the sea along with the statue. The water-connection is what made me label him as the Matsya avataram. The fish that is said to have appeared in Satya yuga.

Kurma - George Bush
Strikingly similar to George Bush, this was one of the few characters whose make-up was actually worth it all. 'Why' you ask me 'is he the Kurma avataram?'. Coz he's slow and tortoises are slow. Don't raise your eyebrows at me :P ... try and see if he fits into any other avataram. His portrayal (except the end where he lisps a remotely Tamil sounding something) justifies the classification.

Varaha - Vincent Boovarahan
The name spells it all. Moreover, the storyline associated with this character is related to sand poaching. Vincent the Varaha - Boar, aptly tinted was no mere coincidence. 'Bhoovaraghan' incidentally is another name for the Varaha avataram.

Narasimha - Shinghen Narahasi
Again, a derivation from the name itself. A chinki included in the movie for no apparent reason except maybe to recognize a tsunami when he sees one and to include a bolt of 'exotic' martial arts. Though his face remained determinedly wooden (maybe a practitioner of Zen)...the dialogues when he actually spoke spew sparks. The half-man, half-lion was justified not just in name but also as the 'Great Protector', for it is he who in a way faces Fletcher in the end ( If one takes Fletcher as Hiranyakashipu, could one suppose the vial was his boon? Or you could say - Fletcher was neither killed by an animal nor by man - but by virus!! That would be a stretch of imagination skipping mythology eh?)
( Fletcher : Do you remember Hiroshima?
Narahasi : Do you remember Pearl Harbor?)

Vamana - Kalifullah Mukhtaar
Yes, yes...I know what you are thinking. Vamana was a dwarf and Kali'full'ah was way past two Vamanas. Looks like Kamal is indulging in some opposites for the sake of brevity? Anyways, Vamana symbolizes the lack of pride and arrogance. In the entire movie, there doesn't seem to be another Kamal-character worth this avataram. One drawback of this character (unlike 'Bheem-boy Bheem-boy' in other movies) was that he had to be digitally included in every scene due to his sheer height. This resulted a few weird scenes like when the stretcher bearing his mother is removed from the ambulance - the doctor, is talking to the air while Kalifullah stands behind him and nods. Gaffe'.

Parasurama - Christian Fletcher
The dictionary defines 'Fletcher' as a 'maker of arrows'. Going by this definition, one could safely don Fletcher the avataram of Parasurama. The make-up however, was ghastly - reminding one of those cartoons in Kumudham with blown-up heads and cancer-patient bodies. Wonder why he had to look like a terminator rip-off and an Anniyan prodigy.

Ramar - Avtaar Singh
What with Ramar being the 'Maryada Purushottam' and Avtaar Singh being the only Kamal-character represented along with his wife, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the allocation. Cancer was cast in the villain role. (Mentioning Ramayana reminds me of MarkIV's theory that taking the 'paadarakshas' away from Rama was Bharatha's ultimate conspiracy! - Imagine a forest life minus your hiking boots). Why include a Sikh you ask? When in the name of religious balance, Kamal has included the Christian(Boovarahan) and the Muslim(Kalifullah)....what harm I say in including a Northie Sikh, if not anything, to lend some nasal f(l)avors to your movie by making Himesh Reshamiah your music director??

Krishna - Krishnaveni paati
'Krishnaveni... chellama Krishnaa Krishnaa-nu kupuduvom' is an oft heard proclamation if you have a Krishnaveni in the house. Hence, the approbation. This mokkai paati actually made the entire movie livelier along with her gulti counterpart (scroll down). The make-up was anything but natural. The 'pogarache road-la ponen, varache flyover-la vandhen' and 'Kattila poravane' had some in splits and the rest in woeful submissions of 'Thaangala!!' However, certain parts like why she thought Boovarahan was her son have been left to the viewer's imagination.

Balaramar - Balaram Naidu
The initial interrogation scenes had the audience spilling the popcorn liberally over the front seats in fits of laughter. The Gulti and the TamBrahm(Krishnaveni paati) made the perfect Krishnar-Balaramar duo providing comic relief to the movie that much needed it to breathe.

Kalki - Govindarajan Ramasamy
Ah at last....the protagonist of the story. Though his rule of the laboratory and the monkey (Anu or Hanu?) initially cast doubts as to whether he would be a better Rama avataaram, the inextricable 'scientific' gyan and contemporary characterization classifies him as none other than the Kalki of Kaliyuga. Interestingly, Kalki is a metaphor for 'Destroyer of Foulness'. According to the Kalki Purana, Kalki will be mentored by Parashurama, the sixth incarnation of Vishnu. Parashurama himself performed a penance thousands of years ago for Shiva, who in acknowledgment gave to him control over celestial weaponry with which to cleanse the Earth of Kshatriya corruption. Twist that a little here, a little there....make Parasurama the villain Fletcher and make him selfish and possessive where the weapon is concerned - you have the Dasavatharam storyline. “Naan kadavul illai nu sollave illai.. Kadavul Irundhirundha innum nalla irukume nu sonnen…” remained my favorite line in the entire movie.

Kamal has an uncanny habit of including excesses in his movies in the form of fringe characters. Thankfully, along with Al Gore-ish environmental ideas and Ramanujar myths, he also indulges in some gore - killing off those unwanted characters; easing the strain on the audience trying to follow the storyline. One Kamal-character I was eagerly waiting to see and was disappointed was the African chieftain - which turned out to be a spoof!

Much like speculation on why JJ and Karunanidhi ( who my mother mistook for being Kamal Haasan in make-up ... kudos to Kamal there) made appearances and why in the world Manmohan Singh was featured....one wonders why Amitabh Bachchan and Jackie Chan came to the audio release function?!

As someone aptly put it 'Maybe they came to watch Ravikumar dance the cabaret with skimpily clad young uns.' As for the song 'Ulaganayagan' someone should tell Kamal paeans work only if your name is suffixed with a 'Superstar' and if your color is karuppu (he's smart enough to figure that out).

For those who actually read this far thinking it was a review, some solace. Heres the climax - The movie is about Chaos theory, Butterfly effect, an American who swallowed a vial of green goo on the beaches of Chennai, fighting a Chinki in Karate costume while the Tsunami watches/washes over them. Go figure! Actually, no buy a ticket. In spite of all that cynicism, its worth a watch.

Like Good Poetry...

2008-04-19T03:42:00.000-07:00

Love like good poetry
rhymes at every wor(l)d
like pages of an Ogden Nash
flying free,unfurled

Love like good poetry
sparks your idle mind
twisting ,punning,riddling
and teasing you blind

Love like good poetry
brings a laugh and a smile
it possesses, is cherished by one
and lasts an aching while.

Stuck on You!

2008-04-07T13:38:00.000-07:00

While left, right and centre news has been coming and coming of random coupling up stunts by friends, secondary friends (friends of friends) and the tertiary ones (friends of friends of friends of friends of…you get the point), at a stage, instead of the usual 'Wow, really?! Congrats', 'Awesome!', 'I'm so happy for you' or dwindling down to the monosyllabic 'When?' and 'How?', you just end up like me - shaking your head and quietly wondering 'But Why?!' (Translating to a ' Nalla irundhiye…. Yen?')

And then, you come back to your room, open up the trial version of the awesomeness that is OneNote and start graphing the course, types and lessons to be learnt from such tragedies of Titanic proportions. It pays to be single. You at least get to laugh!

THE PLOT

THE TYPES

Firstly, there are the Fight frighteners. The most impossible, the most tiring and the most irritating of couples to be with. If you have been there, done that, you would know what I'm talking of.

At the drop of a pin, they fight (over something as random as what sound the pin made when it fell onto the floor) and it would inevitably build up into this slew of bitching, complaining , whining about each other - yes, of which you are the chosen and esteemed third party victim sympathizing with both . They would even fight over you and bitch about you right in front of you, fighting over why you being a third person is interfering in their personal stuff.(At this point you would be praying to the heavens that they let you off the hook so that you can go finish your assignments but ah! No, God is not that merciful.)Grin and bear.You would of course play the good friend when called upon, show concern and when all seems good send a prayer up hoping the peace lasts (not theirs, your peace). And the next moment, before you can call upon them to hang out together as planned before, they would have cancelled the plans to make out/up like you never exist. When you have gotten over them ditching you, rolling your eyes heavenwards and made other plans , the calls start coming in and you cancel your plans (the good friend that you are) to listen and listen, suppressing the recurring urge to carve out 'Do I look like I care?!' tattoos onto their voice boxes.

Secondly there's the sort who seek some genital exercise and gladly don the cape of relationship to morally justify their doings.

Their commitment (or the lack of it) is all a desperate effort to seek social sanction to their ...erm...sessions present or past or near future. The 'committed' status is solely for Orkut showing-off and yeah, don’t be surprised if the 'my boyfriend'/'my girlfriend' gets dropped in conversation randomly to advertise the purported committed status.

And the third, that’s the almost married couple. They wake each other up, confirm that each other have sufficient toothpaste to brush their teeth, confirm after shower that they still love each other and share details like 'the hair dryer stopped working today', meet up before going to class, spend five minutes quality time walking down, choose to be on the same research team and are literally Siamese twins. Of course there are hurdles like being in different years and different intellectual frames and different cliques. All of that is overcome with the 'quality time' after college timings, spent getting up to date on the minutest details of each other's day and life. Its like having all your data on a backup hard disk. This is the best sort of relationship to be in if amnesia runs in your family. (Considering I still haven't scared you off relationships as yet). The third person perspective - No, I do not want to sit with you guys and discuss about who uses toilet paper and who doesn't and the relative merits. Period.

There's the kind that’s forever catching the jet to Splitsville. One moment they are going out and the next moment they aren't. And the next, they are. They drive you madder than the Fight Frighteners ever can. They would even overlook obvious discrepancies in compatibility when getting together, but would split over the finer details like ' She tried to clean the dirt from my nails. And that’s when I knew, she wasn't the one.' Not to worry, they'll be staging Romeo & Juliet for the world to see in an hour or two.

The Truly, Madly, Deeply, Sickeningly in love ones sometimes make your life miserable. So miserable that the next time you go shopping for bags, you automatically look for ones with pouches to store sick bags in. In addition to being Almost-Married, they make it a point to click their Orkut 'Us' album photos, stare into each others eyes like the secrets of evolution were to found there and ahem, more... when the rest of the friends gang stares on ceaseless wonder as to how one (nay two) could be so thick skinned. Thick skinned of obvious and in no manner covert pleadings to please stop the PDA and more. An awesome thing would be if these couples are forced to exercise that tiny bit of willpower buried under a huge mass of mush in that little loving hearts of theirs. That would be some mercy.

Theres a kind, thats all of the above rolled into one. I have only one word of caution for those who are even remotely possessive of their sanity. Exercise that instinct for survival in you and keep away. And yes, in the interest of the larger masses, call the you-know-which hospital.

And lastly, there's the Normal Couple. Like the Yeti, the Loch Ness monster and aliens, they exist. And if you do spot one, inform me at the earliest, we shall confine them in cages and hand them over for brain mapping. We shall not take any rewards, we shall do it in the larger interest of humanity for such species to be preserved so that one fine day I can show their remains to my grandchildren and say ' There kids lies the normal couple, the rarest of rare finds in our times. Yes, like we were told dinosaurs existed on earth, today I tell you normal couples existed as well.'

Moral of the Story --> If you sight a couple:
HORN Keep OK Distance PLEASE.

P.S. Just wondering, is it just the mating season or is a meteor going to hit earth soon? You know, maybe all of humanity has been telepathically given a signal to reproduce ASAP so that the overall mass of earth is increased and maybe that would stop the meteor from blowing the earth away into space like a sickening love letter on a desk without a paper weight. Maybe the world is following the footsteps of the math-crazed (read multiplying) lizards in my room and randomly coupling up. No wonder the goddamn thing is chuckling. Vile and Evil.

OSAMA for President?

2008-02-28T04:11:00.000-08:00

America's Number One enemy and one of its most popular senators. One and the same? Is Obama, Bin Laden's comeback vehicle?

You say Obama, I say OSAMA.

But MarkIV said Obama-Osama?Is it just a mere co-incidence that Osama is just an 's' and a 'b' away from Obama? Is it but a cruel twist of fate that 'Hussein' just happened to be Saddam's last name as well?

'Whats in a name' you ask me? Conspiracy I'd say!

The '38th Child Syndrome' I think,is indeed getting to Osama.With a price tag attached to his turban covered head, he cant exactly come out in the open and demand the attention he craves, can he? His insatiable desire for public approval has manifested itself as Obama - seeking to glorify every frontpage in the country with his beard-less, turban-less avatar.

Both Osama & Obama attended secular schools. Both their mothers divorced their fathers in the early years of their childhood and remarried.Obama having graduated Magna Cum laude from Harvard only goes on to fill the gap of a purported degree in Osama's life.Both opposed the war in Iraq. 'I will finish the Al-Qaeda' on Obama's website is of course set to throw us all off track.

Obama around 2005 visited Azerbaijan,Jordan, Israel and Palestine on a trip that focused on strategies to control the world's supply of conventional weapons, biological weapons, and weapons of mass destruction. A convenient time, if I might state, to replace the original Obama with Osama (who of course took the effort to get plastic surgery done, I'll come to that in a while). The attempt to shake off religion is of course a necessity considering the Islamophobia that the US is reeling under.

Talking of plastic surgery, did you notice - the foreheads are the same width, the ears of the same length, the shoulder blades are similar and yeah they have a similar facial structure. For all we know, Obama could be Osama with a nose job, a healthy tan (from living in those mountains) and a dimple additional, to charm all those girls he missed out on while on the run.

Or wait, they could be long lost twin brothers or something. Dang! That would be such a Bollywood-esque connection. They might even have one of those 'Bhaiyaaa...' scenes in the end where they run towards each other after having defeated America,(of course in slow motion slow enough for the Tortoise to win the Arjuna award meanwhile) in front of the White House.

Anagrams they say are the revealers of hidden truth. Anagram Generator offers manna to those of us who love playing with words. By habit I ran 'Osama Bin Laden' and 'Obama Barack Hussein; through the mill and unearthed startling truth!!

OSAMA BIN LADEN --> DO MEN NAB ALIAS?
OBAMA BARACK HUSSEIN --> HECK USA, IM AN ARAB SOB

Results for Osama :

1. In a mad one's lab - I can almost imagin Osama cackling with laughter as he bends his brazen back over the kollywood - type miniature model of the White House, which the villain is supposed to bend over and analyse before he destroys.

2. Bold Mean Asian - Ah, but of course.

3. Abandon a smile - bUSh, this ones probably for you.

4. DO MEN NAB ALIAS? - Note this Your Honor! This anagram is of highest relevance here. The Obama-Osama thingy.

Results for Obama :

1. USA Backbone Rash Aim/ USA Backbone Mash Air : Obvious gloating reference to the 9/11 attacks.

2. Bush, I can break Osama : Heck, even in anagrams this guy tries to put us off scent!!

3. OBL BEAM ransack USA : OBL obviously is Osama's initials. BEAM is a robotics acronym, which leads me to conclude that Osama, disguised as Obama is planning to use BEAM robots and take over USA in the near future. Plausible eh? Dont tell me I didnt warn you!

4. Heck USA, Im an Arab SOB : The best of the lot, and the most obvious. Heck USA,he's an Arab SOB. If they still dont get it, thats one more thing to add here.

I thought I was among the first to discover Osama's evil plan, but nopes, commercialization has forced genius onto people.Zazzle is already out on an ignorance-dispelling drive with Obama Bin Laden badges for sale!

CNN on a Situation room broadcast, displayed a graphic of Osama Bin Laden and his second-in-command Ayman Al-Zawahiri with the title 'Where's Obama?'. That was one intelligent guy whose birth certificate Im sure has been erased from records by the US Government (as always happens to the enemies of the Government, in the novels).

Learning from MarkIV, a Disclaimer :

If you are the US Government,this isnt me.Hillary Clinton is holding a gun to my head.

If you are Osama,this still isnt me. If you want someone to sharpen your knives on or test your ammunition ,he's your man. He's the one putting ideas in my head.

2008-02-26T15:26:00.001-08:00

God in all his wisdom created the pigeon
and why? He forgot to envision.

Revamped !!

2008-02-25T23:58:00.000-08:00

And no, this post has absolutely nothing to do with me suddenly turning into one of the 'generous red gash for lips twisted in a ubiquitous sardonic smile, artistic black (k)holes for eyes and LoCs for bindis' vamps that haunt K serials, Chithi/Selvi/Kolangal serials and nightmares.

Seventy Five blog posts and I think its time this place got a makeover. I've been head over heels in love with three column templates for a while and ta-daa.... Hakuna Inc. unveils the new custom designed template. O

Orange after all, as Sinatra put it, is the happiest colour.

Hakuna Matata to that!

The 'Jean' Theory

2008-02-13T13:33:00.000-08:00

"Yeah, a zipper right around the waist, being a problem is understandable, but such finicky pickiness when it comes to jeans??" cries my Mom everytime I drag her around three malls and fifteen showrooms in search of that elusive perfection jeans enthusiasts term "fit".

There might be enough jeans to outfit a small town, but,if not one pair is found “perfect” enough to wear to coffee with the cute guy across the balconies,it doesnt count.George Bush Im sure spent less time deciding to go to war than I spent on deciding to buy the jeans Im comfortably resting my bottoms in right now.

Sociology of the denim demands one to either fall under the popular revered category of the brand conscious or be dismissed as a fake enthusiast(wannabe in simple terms). At the risk of being the 'butt' of accusations of ocular molestation and yeah imprisonment for eve teasing, a more than cursory look at the back pocket of the denim would actually reveal more about the wearer than a million lame attempts at conversation.

The in your face (you dont own it? Big disgrace!) brands, where the label precedes the denims themselves, the ones with ads of teeny boppets with 11s for legs and gel-minators with pants hanging onto their pelvis as though by a prayer, those are the ones you find parked next to say a new Merc. Dont even think of approaching unless of course you own a small country by yourself. Its the one that speaks of Louis Vuitton suitcases full of stilletos to match with every distress on the denim and papa's plastic wealth.Along the lines of 'naanga baggy pant dhaan potaaka...' , baggy pants and pockets on the backside big enough to fit in a mini-farm spell youth while the basic straight-legged ones are for the no-nonsense man.Cut - offs and low riders on girls (aye, every guys dream) spells 'chic'a while flaunting a designer reeks of sophistication.

From pleated varieties with elastic waistbands for the horizontally challenged to adaptations into denim skirts for the artsy ones, jeans have had their own legacy and evolution.Beginning at the peg leg stuff that literally cries out "Heya, have you looked at my bottom lately? Its like bigtime dispropotionate with the rest of my body" to Momma Jeans with a foot long zipper and elastic waist bands, theres a denim for every jean enthusiast and every weary shopping accompaniant.

Phiosophy galore is to be found in jeans...There are some who would stretch this to the extent of analysing the Denims to elaborate on the 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus' conspiracy.Its all about personalising perfection, to suit your leg length! After all thats what denims are about - the Jean theory - Be an individual, like everyone else!

P.S. Apparently there are these hep new things of late - the Scratch N' Sniff jeans, presenting to the denim wear-y world a phenomenal array of olfactory delights like Ammonia, Ashtray, Sweat, Peanut Butter and Watermelon, to name a few. Apparently it all dawned on the makers when one of them spilled green tea on his trousers during a design session. Did someone ask what I wanted for V- Day?

Ain't Enough

2008-01-21T22:55:00.000-08:00

Any distance ain't far enough
for a Willing Heart.
Any height ain't tall enough
for a Ready Mind.
Any star ain't bright enough
for a Dream-filled Eye.
Any desire ain't big enough
for a Fire-filled Soul.

In the blink of the eye...

2008-01-15T14:38:00.000-08:00

A glimpse of a dream
can change your life,
A glance can change it
upside down...
A glare can glower,
wither and burn
like the sun can turn
green grass brown.

The 90s Resurrection tag

2008-01-14T07:12:00.000-08:00

Long long ago, not so long ago, Mark IV tagged me. Finally, heres my post on that tag. The tag asks me to list ten things that I miss about the 90s.

Born in 1988,I spent the first half of the 90s learning to walk, to talk and yeah learning the alphabet( For the life of me, I couldn’t write ‘G’ till I was in my 2nd Standard). Here’s what I remember of the latter half of it all -

1. In pin safety pin, in pin out...out goes the safety pin, in pin out ...... and ...... Yam cheese Yam burger, sauce potato chip chip chip ruled our waking hours and being the one who chanted these lines when a girl gang gathered to play was ultimate cool. Holding hands in a circle and twisting ourselves into weird contorted formations, and then calling out to the ‘den’ – “Doctor doctor help us!” to sort us out, and ‘Lock and Key’ were the only games played during the once in a week games period at school.

2. Chacha Chaudhary, Sabu and Raka caught my fancies and understanding ‘Anu Club’ in Tinkle was the heights of intellect.

3. ‘Made in India’ by Alisha Chinai was the ultimate dance and song sequence and being able to imitate her dance steps was the life’s ambition of every little ballerina. ‘Captain planet, he’s the hero’ was my first environmental lesson and I learnt my ethics from Shaktimaan. Mahabharat on TV was a sensation and I was part of the national obsession.

4. Forget learning how to wear socks and shoes, learning how to tie those horrible black ribbons onto your hair, which the school propounded made you look more cultured was the bane of my life for the better part of the 90s.

5. I just rared to get to the 5th Standard so that I could start using Hero pens instead of Nataraj HB pencils and owning ‘geometry boxes’ with multiple layers was for the elite.

6. ‘Same to you’, ‘Back to you’,’Mirror to you’ were the in things to say when I couldn’t think up any other smart retort.

7. Telling people what exactly I was doing when the Gujarat earthquake happened, irrelevant to the fact that Gujarat was miles and miles away was tantamount to have experienced the anguish.

8. The better part of 1998 was spent at family gatherings listening to uncles and brothers ruminating over whether Santro was the better car or Matiz – while the Maruti 800 that stood outside were comfortably forgotten and taken off the ‘cool’ list.

9. Chewing on so many bubblegums gave me an upset stomach, but I enjoyed showing off those tattoos to all the sympathetic friends who visited me and shocked all those neighborhood aunties by being the girl who sported a line of tattoos from the sleeve of her shirt to the wrist and from the hem of that tiny school skirt to the socks....and yeah, one on the cheek for effect.(That’s something I got spanked for!)

10. The white frocked girl in ‘washing powder nirma’ appeared every five minutes on TV and Devang Patel influenced me to eat eggs with the ‘Sunday ho ya Monday, roz khao ande’ ad.

I tag Sorcerer – coz he loves the pics I take of him sleeping in class and he promised to respond to tags.
Sach – coz she always responds to tags.
Hrishu – for old times sake.