Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Last Christmas

Last year on Christmas Eve, we were at J’s house, and that was the first time we heard the news that S would probably get married. There was the French-Loaf-cake and the candles that wouldn’t stop burning. Now, a year later, S is married but is in Kolkata, I am in the capital thinking of amazing ways to avoid getting stuck with an ostentatious Bengali family on a picnic where little that matters and little that will make sense will be discussed. What would I like to do? Of course be in my city, with both of them, have a rocking time roaming around somewhere, quiet fun lunch, loads of coffee and gossip. But that’s not happening. A career is what should be happening. But even over that a big question mark looms. Sigh.

Having spent almost a month in this amazing city, I don’t know what I feel. The opportunities here are unmistakable. There is the promise of a career, independence, warm people (some at least!) but at the end of the day it’s not home. But then without a career, even home ceases to be home. It becomes a cauldron of unfulfilled expectations and frustrated aspirations. One just has to move out and suffer, or stay and suffer. Since if you stay you’ll have more leisure, the suffering is more acute and prolonged. But when you are here, submerged in a million worries--- job,house,rent,food,safety---it is easy to forget the pain. During the day of course. At night it’s a different story. The pillows hear the saddest thoughts. Faces of parents, worries, and the pangs of separation. Separation from parents who nagged, from the room inhabited for years, separation from friends, from the streets, sights, sounds and smells that meant ‘home’.

Anyway, Christmas was spent rather happily. Thirty minutes of standing in the balcony and staring at trees, a park and a lethargic security guard, talking with friends who were having their own adventure in Park Street (read lost phones, police stations etc), huge mug of coffee, bread eggs, a book, and a blanket. Who needs Santa!

Thursday, 13 December 2012

Times of Rajdhani

Going for an interview can be pretty nerve-wracking but not when you find they have a dog... who enjoys being petted.(His name was Fluffinder) :)

The magic word while dealing with autowallahs is confidence... they can smell fear... so when they ask for 80 and you plan on paying 60, the answer is a super confident :
 "80 KYUUUUUU? 60 mein jaatein hain roz... ."
No batting eyelids, no shaky voice. Act as if there's a fleet of BMW's waiting for you and you are doing him a HUGE favour by choosing this mode of transport. (Don't be foolish enough to try this after dark, when you are stranded with limited transport options! )

Also the metro here is disconcerting, intimidating but not frightening... if you can read that is... everything is clearly labelled, so don't go asking for info from suspicious looking stupid people who will give you the wrong info very confidently, instead if you really want to ask... ask young student-like fellows... they know their stuff and are usually helpful. The first compartment is reserved for ladies and be prepared to get elbowed more in that compartment. Somehow ladies in the ladies compartment feel that now since they are in familiar territory they can poke around... it's the familiarity between lovers who make a pashbaalish out of each other's well-endowed legs. And the ladies are fun to watch, there are aunties dressed as 18-year-olds, there are office going well-groomed ones who eat cream-cracker biscuits and touch up their makeup, and there are kids... I shall stop right there.


You know God is kind when you expect to be bossed around at work and instead you are blessed with extremely nice seniors.

I think people in this city have their own warehouse where they dump their winter clothes in summer... where else will one keep all this junk? Don't ask me about colder countries... I have no clue how they manage.

And staying at a relative's place can be quite entertaining...from feeding crows on auspicious days, to offering water to the's a nice live show. I still haven't had to face the PG drama and though things are not exactly as home, at times you gotta be thankful that you don't have to worry about a nice meal when you get back and that someone will care enough to buy a Corex syrup when you have a cough. I shall enjoy this luxury while it lasts.

And now the blanket beckons.

Good Night!

Saturday, 3 November 2012

It breathes! It thinks! It's not a mutual fund!

Hello. I have rather too polite in many of my previous posts, perhaps because I was blissfully sitting at home, meeting friends. But thanks to the wondrous occasion of Bijoya, coupled with the fact that my father is the youngest of 7 children, I have been touring the city to seek blessings from my relatives. I usually go on these trips, not because their blessings work, but because the visits don't last for than 2-3 hours. I can be on my best behaviour for that long. A little longer and the mask slips.  So it's usually few funny replies, a lot of very sweet smiles and some banal question-answer sessions. All of which is routine for me.

But there are  few individuals who scare me. Within two hours, they almost damage my ability to think straight for the next twenty-four. Now we all have some relatives who are self-appointed career and relationship consultants, offering advice at an alarming rate. This gentleman I will now talk about belongs to that category but transcends it. In the guise of giving me advice he talks about himself and his daughter.

He asks me what I intend to do. This is where things get difficult as my intentions don't always make sense to them. He asks me the "scope" of my chosen profession. I stare back not knowing what he means by the word scope. Then he proceeds to explain what he means.

What does an editor do? (Of course he assumes I am one. Which I am not. Yet.) So I explain. He then asks "Why will any author except a new one listen to what an editor says?" I try to explain that editors are not superior mortals trying to make everyone listen to them. They try to do what's best for a book. He nods.

Then it dawns upon him that I am not one. So he asks whether what I am saying is based on assumption or facts. I have forgotten my reply.

He then proceeds to express his view that this is a "behind-the-scene" job and asks me why have I not chosen one  in which  I can be "on the stage". The metaphor is quite lost on me. My mind drifts to the time I played the Shojaru in Ha ja ba ra la. Anyway, realising that it is a metaphorical stage,  I say not everyone wants the same thing in life.

Then he comes to the point. The point that has been the most annoying part of any conversation that involved me for the past few months. Since I have cleared the entrance exam for college lectureship and I can get a scholarship for further studies if I get into any research program it is a great puzzle why am I not doing that. 'Why am I not doing what?' I ask. Appearing for interviews, applying for a Ph.D etc. I say I don't want to teach right now. Also, that I don't have a proposal for research. Except that I don't say it bluntly, I ask "Who will write the proposal?" The sarcasm is lost on him. He replies "no one writes it for anyone." Thank god he told me!

Anyway he tells me that proposals don't just happen, one has to go very deep into the subject and discuss ideas. He talks non-stop for a few minutes.  My  I-am-a-patient-woman expression is almost giving way to an I-am-a-patient one, when he stops. Stops to tell us that his daughter's IQ is above average and that he is known by everyone in his para, from rickshaw wallahs to vegetable sellers. Then he returns to his favourite topic. Me.

"I am not discouraging you," he begins,  and tells me that this line has no safety and security.  I say I can't teach now, because I need to sleep at night. His wife, so long busy serving refreshments, gets offended and asks why do I think teachers don't sleep at night. I hurriedly explain that I meant if I don't do something that I really want to do, I won't sleep at night. ( All this is extremely ironical because I am a chronic insomniac, but they don't need to know that.)

Then to highlight the insecurity of this line, the gentleman entertains us with the tale of a journalist who headed a respected newspaper few years ago and is now the head of a recently launched daily which is not that great. I wonder what line he was talking about when he comes to my rescue and explains - this media line. With great emphasis on media in the way people talk about escorts, brothels and stuff. I don't even bother to explain that I am not in that media line.  I am too busy eating an egg-roll - the only saving grace of the evening.

These paragraphs obviously represent an edited version of what happened.

Am I overreacting? I am sorry if you think so. Though I agree I need to be more indifferent because at the end of it all, these people don't matter.

No, I do not come from a house which has not allowed me to do what I want. I have done exactly what I want, at every step of my life. My parents have never objected. So have many of my friends. But it has not been easy. I know some did not even have this luxury and face more serious challenges. But I can't speak for them. I know parents and relatives want the best for us. I do not question their intention. But what they think is best for us might not be what we want.

They have spent huge amounts bringing us up, have given us the best that they could in terms of education and I'd like to believe that the more responsible among us, keep that in mind. ( Some don't. Like the ones buying 5 phones in a year. I am not talking about them.) Their investment is not only financial, they invest time, perhaps the best time of their lives, and also I can't begin to talk about the emotional investment. However, that, and that alone does not give them the right to dictate how we live our lives. Safety, security and status (of how I hate that fucking word) are relative.

So dear would-be parents, if you want to treat your yet-to-be-born kid as a mutual fund that must provide a high return on investment, then take my advice and invest in a high-quality condom.

Good Night.

Saturday, 20 October 2012

Durga versus Meredith.

A delicious Moha Shoshthi spent at home watching TV, reading, chatting on the phone, suffering headaches and power cuts.

I have watched many, many, many episodes of Grey's Anatomy. What is that you ask? My dear intellectual friend, kindly bring a paper and pencil. Good. Now draw four, or five or may be six dots. Name the central dot - 'meredith' , name the most shapely, adorable dot 'Shepherd', others don't even bother. Now draw lines. Lines connecting the dots. Lines hovering around the dots. One line passing through three dots, making triangles etc. Now over the lines write "sleeps with", "dies", "marries", and "has a baby" ...  you now have a blueprint of the plot. But it's still very watchable. Don't you dare judge me.

As usual I have digressed, what I really wanted to say was, that I feel like a surgeon and I shall analyze the syndrome of thakur dyakha.  No one actually sees the Goddesss, which in some places is a 15 inch thingy worshipped by a puroot (I spell it this way, since it rhymes with churoot, and I always imagine the former with smoke coming out of their orifices) . So the Goddess that symbolizes this Divine power, exists as a schizophrenic entity- the gigantic one to enthrall us, and the tiny one, worshipped by the puroot. Then we go about messing with our Pujor chuti and do more hectic stuff than we do on non-chuti days. Pujo-madness, pujo-frenzy, pujor-jama, pujor-egg-roll ... all to lull us into the comfort of believing that we are very sane people who don't shop all the year round,  people who don't touch junk food at all etc. Baudrillard baby would have had a field day with us. We would be like field rats in his lab.


There are species like me, who are very enthusiastic as long as they are well-fed, not feeling pee/poop/puke-ish and not experiencing any leg ache trauma. Then there are species like my father, who are self-proclaimed nastiks (atheists), yet will visit a pandal in the North Pole if they can. Just for fun.

Of course he visits the pandals on his own. Now that I am an adult (an obese one by the grace of God), I can't be dragged into these adventures.  So he comes home in the afternoon and all I have to do is ask , and he rattles off half a dozen names- Shuruchi Sangha, Badam Tola, Cheshotti Polli, Mudiali.... I beg him to stop. He proceeds with the description of each pandal and each idol, and the opinions. Camera? That's for less articulate losers. My father told a man with an umbrella that he was doing a great job by carrying an umbrella, that saved not only him but others behind him in the queue from the heat. The man apparently was very happy because others had been complaining about poking and stuff... losers of course they were. huh.

Once we went to visit the Mohd, Ali Park Pandal , where the theme was peace. The Durga idol had pigeons instead of weapons. The symbolism was lost on my father, and he asked the already-exhausted organisers- "ki korechen dada? payra, payra, payra ...eta Durga?" ... we pretended we did not know him.

Then once I was dragged into a 'bojra', a 'launch' which sailed on the Hooghly between the two bridges and it was supposed to be beautiful. However it was not because the loos were dirty. Then Tanusree Shankar's troupe was supposed to dance on another 'bojra' and we the lesser mortals were to view this divine dance from our own 'bojra' after that there was hindi songs and ... Biriyani.

The grand ride home was in the car of a  friend's crazy relative who took revenge on a driver who did not know the directions by not giving him the directions. Crazy relative kept mum as the driver took wrong turns and kept asking 'dada kon dike jabo?'  Friend, who sat  beside me , sms'd "I am sorry" throughout the ride as I glared at her. My bladder would have burst. It did not. I live to tell this tale.

There was a time when my entire maternal family went for a whole night trip. One aunt of mine, eats a lot, her children too eat a lot but she always thinks they are starved, UN-calendar, rib-cage-exposed-type babies. Anyway so she ate a lot and just before the car reached College Square- nature called. Very loudly. She was led towards the pay-and-use toilet. A concerned relative offered a bottle of water you know just in case. This relative's son immediately screamed ... "Ma ota jol na...Sprite."

I don't know if one has ever seen the Goddess on these trips. I haven't. (Had I been a guy I would have been pleased with other kinds of Goddesses but even that is impossible. ) The point is, I have seen enough to stay at home and watch Grey's Anatomy on Shoshthi. Shantih.

PS:  Latest Updates-
a.Bitchy woman doing her research in yankee-doodle nation is back town.

b.Father mistook one person's wife for another's and wondered why the father-in-law of the wife1  was spending so much time with wife2. Mother revealed that Father-in-Law of wife 1 is the father-in-law of wife 1. Mystery solved with a hearty laugh and zero embarrassment. Welcome to my family.

c.If someone asks my youngest niece her name, she says "Ami Ghosh", her mother's name is "Maa Ghosh" and father's...of course "Baba Ghosh".

Okay Bye.

Saturday, 13 October 2012


Don't you just love the word Influenza? Of course you won't if you think of a mucus filled snout but just think of the word as a word and forget the meaning ( Signifier ... Signified...remember? Yes now forget it.) If you still don't love it... then say it out loud...I n f l u e n z a....  it has a certain musical quality.

If it wasn't a disease it could have been ...erm...

"I am Princess Influenza ..."

"I'd love to visit the exotic land of the Influenza tribes."

"Harry Potter stared at Professor Gogoretti as he performed the 'Influenza' curse on the mule, of course Hermione wasn't looking, she knew it by heart."


Hmm. Beautiful.

Now let's come back to mucus-filled snouts. The problem is all good things in life are fast disappearing. Earlier whenever I had a cold, a tiny part of my heart felt great, because it knew that I would have two teaspoons of that delicious, orange Triaminic Syrup. Then it became Numenic Syrup. Then it disappeared.

I also loved the white tiny sweet Homeopathic pills which never did any good. Now that my mother allows me to do what I feel like, I don't choose Homeopathy treatment, but I miss the pills. Then there were green rubbery capsules filled with some kind of oil. You just had to put one in hot water and inhale the steam, capsules dissolved and emitted a nice smell. That has been banned.

Now all I have is disgusting Otrivin which leaves a bitter aftertaste and Cetzine without which I can't live through a cold and which makes me sleep like a log.

Anyway. Bye.

Tuesday, 9 October 2012

Paneer Roll : Pet Pujo

Since I'm not shopping for Pujo, this is my kind of pujo, pet pujo. Hari Om. Let's begin!

Okay so many of you may be seasoned cooks out there ... and you may feel this post is silly but I don't care. I am going to do this. I made two yummy paneer rolls for breakfast (okay post-breakfast, coz breakfast at 7 a.m. was Maggi ... m still regretting that !) . Well now that I have wolfed down the rolls I can put up the pics. This was basically my take on this recipe.

First I prepared a marinade with yoghurt, turmeric powder, garlic paste, besan, ginger paste, chilli powder, garam masala, and kasuri methi. Whisked all that and then added the paneer cubes. Left it for 20 mins during which I chopped up onions, cucumber and coriander leaves.

Prepared the dough with atta but added few drops of oil with the water. Then made tedha medha rotis ! (Don't you dare criticize ... it's my first time! I am super happy about it!)

And getting the paneer cooked on high flame for about 5-8 mins, don't worry if you have extra curry, it dries up in the end.

Then it was all about assembling ....

and eating!

Okay bye.

Saturday, 6 October 2012

Masterchef Favourites from the previous seasons.

Yet another Masterchef season is over. And for the umpteenth time , no NOT India. I don't watch the India series, so wouldn't know. The indian series brings Aishwariya and Akshay Kumar so I don't give a damn about it! I'm talking about Australia. I have swollen lymph nodes, a wisdom tooth that has decided to grow horizontally  and I have work, but my head tells me that I want to blog about Masterchef right now. Thought I'll list some of my favourite contestants.

Disclaimer: Series 1 was not aired in India. So my post refers to Seasons: 2, 3. Not 4, because it's too fresh in my mind and I'll end up putting all of them here. Especially since I had so many favourites: Andy - Ben (the love-buddies), Kylie, Julia (Dessert queen), Mindy, Amina and Alice.

1. Marion Grasby . Twitter:

Who doesn't love her? With a smile that makes her eyes invisible, she just strode into our hearts with her amazing dishes. She won so many challenges and was a power to reckon with in this particular season. She made some of the toughest dishes in the competition. She didn't win it but we all know she's a winner! Love her. Here's a blog post by a fan, written after her elimination :

2. Jonathan Daddia: Okay. Towards the end he was not winning the challenges and cooking mind-blowing stuff. Yet he was cute. I liked him. A Lot. He faced god knows how many eliminations and survived. Loved the way he got psyched up when he met Heston Blumenthal.

3. Callum Hann:

Finalist of the season at 20. Boy did I want him to win! Young, super-cute and a super cook. Loved his smile and his desserts!  Website:

4. Hayden Quinn: Sexy surfer who is a great cook. Need I say more?  If you didn't watch that Cronulla beach challenge girls, you missed it BIG TIME! My favourite was a fish and chips dish that he cooked in one of the challenges. Was really sad when he was eliminated.  Website:

5. Kate Bracks: Such an inspiration! All the way through. After the retro-coffee-cake, she sort of stayed away from the spotlight. But she grew from strength to strength and in the end, I don't think there was anyone who wasn't supporting her. A mum with a dream, who chases that dream. Love her... and her coffee cake and of course that Gingerbread house...Mr. Adriano Zumbo's masterpiece. And guess what? SHE WON!

6. Dani Venn: She's crazy (Korean rice burger anyone?), she's fun and she's passionate. The only person to have won two immunity pins in a single season, says a lot about her skills. Some of her risks didn't pay off but she was never too scared to try! Love her spunk. Website :

This was fun. Might do a separate post on Season 4 Favourites. :) And perhaps one on the most irritating contestants (read cry-babies and overconfident ones). Okay bye for now!

Tuesday, 25 September 2012

Breaking up with FB

I finally gathered enough resolve to deactivate my Facebook Account.  The greater show of strength would have been to successfully minimize the usage but that was far from happening.

Reasons for bidding goodbye:

1. Too much info about people I am not interested in. Sorry. That needs editing. I mean - Too much info about people I should not be interested in but I am. (I'll rewrite Robbe-Grillet's The Voyeur.) Hence lots of pathetic hither-thither movement of my virtual self. So and so's marriage, so and so's exam, so and so cried or died. Bleh.

2. Wasting time. (FB Tata has been compensated by greater hello Twitter BUT that will be brought under control.)

Reasons enough.

Facebook behaves like an annoying clingy boyfriend when you try to leave . The most pathetic being, showing you your friends' DP, with the caption "xyz will miss you". I actually laughed out loud when they showed me that page. They bid you a final goodbye (after you have avoided being seduced back into temptation) by saying something like - We hope you'll be back soon. ARRRGH.

Okay let's see how long this lasts. Wish me luck. 

Sunday, 16 September 2012

I really really really don't like spooky books. Monsieur Pain is freaking me out. It's back in the shelf for now. Thank you very much.

Have gulped down loads of fruit juice for lack of  options.

I absolutely detest going to the bank, if only I hadn't let that damn machine eat up my ATM card. :(

I will go bald.

Charlotte from SATC named her dog Elizabeth Taylor because the dog was as pretty as her. YES, it is precisely for such hilarious stuff that I watch it.

Someone just tweeted about Chatar matar and Fatafat.

I remember we stayed in a rented house when I was in Nursery and I studied in Alipore Tiny Tots. Everyday as I walked back home with Ma, there was a dadur dokan that we crossed and I would inevitably ask for a hojmi. Some days my mother indulged, on other days she didn't.

I always hated chocolate lollies, they stick to your teeth, in unreachable corners, same reason why I hate eclairs.

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

When I have hours to spare I don't feel like writing a word and when I am supposed to meet deadlines and work hard, I feel like blogging.

I think my lower back will collapse, thanks to my amazing posture. I like my work but I don't enjoy staying at home and that is exactly what I am supposed to do for the next few months at least- Stay at home and work. My friend is in an alien city and having a terrible time , which should ideally scare me and induce me to thank my lucky stars that I don't have to go to that place right now, in this season of rain and dengue and malaria, however, as expected I am supremely restless.

This recent film that I watched made me want to dance again. Impossible unless I pledge an oath to bring fitness back into life. This thought is disturbing. I shall go back to The Wildings by Nilanjana Roy. I read her blog all-day everyday during my first job ( I worked a little too!). I love this book already. 


Wednesday, 5 September 2012

Small Talk

My father can talk to anyone, from the bus conductor to a fellow passenger in the auto , he can ask terribly impertinent questions without the slightest hint of awkwardness.

The other day I went to buy vegetables with my father, who insists on picking them one by one, once they pass his scrutiny, and putting them in the basket. The veggie-seller was distracted and he was about to give us someone else's vegetables;of course my father did not let that happen and said "egulo amar peyaaj korcho? tomar ki hoyeche?" (these are not my onions...what are you doing? what has happened to you?) The veggie-seller then narrated a long tale of how the light in his stall wasn't working, he had to get up and fix it so many times etc. I was getting annoyed. Now I realise that at the mall from where I at times buy my fancy stuff like "soy milk" :P , no such conversations happen ... those guys are better dressed and if I hover in front of a shelf for long, they just come and mumble annoying things - "can I help you?" ... "this is good ma'm" ...yes I do prefer that rambling veggie-seller than the pushy, robotic, sales-people at the malls.

Friday, 24 August 2012

Women's Horlicks?

I just had a cup of Women's Horlicks.

So many products dedicated to us. We really make the MNC's run, don't we? Sanitary napkins for those days, Fair and Lovely etc to keep us glowing, thankfully we have a Fair and Handsome counterpart that acknowledges the fact that some women might like a fair skinned dude too, then we have those pills and harmless noncontroversial stuff like Women's Horlicks, a second cousin of Junior Horlicks.

I guess the Horlicks people think Men can go about their business with the 'normal' one, we the weaklings need the special 'Women's' one. How thoughtful. So thoughtful that the entire container is PINK. I like pink. Cherry on the cake? Few days back the social media went crazy about an ad selling a vagina-lightening-and-tightening cream. Olay to fight the 7 signs of aging, as if wrinkles make men so handsome.

Now what do the men have? Heart-healthy oil which the wife must buy so that the husband can remain healthy.There is the Raymonds man holding the woman's hand as she trips, the AXE dude followed by a zillion girls, the doting hubbies in the Tanishq ad who wait patiently as their wives buy diamonds, the loving Cadbury husband who obliges pretty wifey with one Cadbury piece that means "I Love You" (I would have insisted on a whole Lindt bar but then that is why I won't marry). Of course they also have Japani Tel. 


Sunday, 5 August 2012

The 'Jo tera hain wo mera hain' pretty much sucks. Major anticlimax after the "har ek friend' hit.

Just watched Kahaani on TV at night. Not a good idea.

Nervous. Anxious.

I like wearing a rubber band around my finger and pretending that it is a HUGE those cool gigantic stone ones that I adore.

Making a list can be therapeutic. List of what? Vegetables, fruits, animals, board games...go figure!

Having to visit the bank twice in a week is so not cool. I hate it.

Realised today that the forms that we fill everyday are so sexist- the first thing they ask after your name is the name of your father or husband. What are we? Cattle?

Another thing ...a category says ...'If self-employed then tick following boxes:  Doctor. Engineer. C.A. Others.' WOW!

Of course there must be more ridiculous ones out there.


Thursday, 2 August 2012

Every other day I open this blank 'new post' page and attempt to write something very very funny. I don't. I can't. The humour light-bulb in my brain has switched off. 

Some rather non-funny updates.

I still am extremely fond of my bright orange bag, it will be with me wherever I go. 
Mary had a little lamb. Shiny had an orange bag. 

There was a blackout in my part of the world for over 10 hours, here is what I have learnt:

Keep the water tanki full. If you can't, God help.

Sit properly even in the dark as some annoying kid on some terrace has still not mastered the art of handling the torchlight. You might be under the spotlight for no rhyme or reason.

Don't try to fix a candle to a spot by holding the flame of another candle near the first candle's base. The first one melts, bends and soon you have Cupid's bow with no arrow.

Talk softly. There is no noise around. So if you are discussing sensational details about your personal life then probably your neighbours are hearing about it too. Of course if you are the screaming-shouting kind like me then no point. They hear everything everyday.

Don't listen to music on phone and don't tweet about the power-cut. Soon it will give up and go to sleep and then where will you charge your phone silly?

Yes enough about it.

Here is what you CAN do: 

Gossip using the land-line phone.


Eavesdrop on your neighbour in his/her verandah shouting about his/her physical/emotional distress to neighbour no.2 on his/her verandah.


Criticize government, power supply people.

Try to call up power supply people. This will keep you busy for hours because you won't even hear the phone ringing on the other side leave alone a human voice.

Fan yourself till your hand aches. 
(My father has purchased a fan made of plastic, which has the image of a seductress and is labelled "Mallika". He said the Shaalpata ones were not available. I believe him. I don't have a choice.)

Try and imagine what could be happening on your favourite TV show since obviously you can't watch it.

Yes enough about this too.

Okay. Bye. 

Monday, 25 June 2012

Ignorance is Bliss

When I was a kid I picked up a book for its appealing cover or interesting title . In the fourth standard I didn't know what a 'blurb' was- and most of my school library books did not have one. I knew precious little about every book that I chose to read. 

I did not have expert reviews telling me one was better than the other. I decided which one was.  I did not have the option of Wiki-ing info about a book that I was interested in. If I picked it up, I was stuck with it for a week. 

Last night I realised that I don't read like that anymore. Either it's something already established as a 'Classic' or a book that has received good or bad reviews. It is very rarely that one can pick up a book that has not already been labelled.

Of course you always (hopefully) have your own opinion about a book but then that is a reaction to an already existing one that is accepted by many and often thrown at your face.  For me, it is very difficult to resist being influenced in some way before I even start reading.  

Last week I found a book titled "My Mother's Lover" by Urs Widmer . I read a few pages and loved it. I am going to buy that one. But more than the promise of a great story told in a beautiful way, this book gave me back that feeling of discovery

Here was a book I knew nothing about. 


Friday, 22 June 2012

She is Elsa. I first watched "Born Free" in the fifth standard. We had an excerpt of the book in our syllabus. The book was "Spark Reader" as far as I can remember. The film is one of my all-time-favourites, just love Elsa. And right now I just want to lie on my back like her and drift into a peaceful slumber. Sitting on top of a jeep and touring Africa will also do.

Leaving behind what is familiar is difficult. It was difficult for Elsa too. Left alone for a week, when she finally  returned, she was weak, hurt and almost dying. That's a possibility.


I should never cancel calls from people I care about.
I should not spend money buying forms of stupid exams.

In other news- I gave myself a haircut as a cost-cutting measure, but only after spending a ridiculous amount on a piece of clothing. I had a  fight with a tailor that included dialogues like- "hum aaj se toh kapda nahi pehen rahe hain na? bachpan se pehen rahe hain" -and similar gems.

I am convinced Detective Kate Beckett's mother's murder will be an anti-climax.

and ...well..

Does one ever get to say a proper goodbye? Perhaps not. But telling your loved ones that you love them just because you are afraid that they might not be there someday is ...well...morbid.

Have you heard the songs from Gangs of Wasseypur ? You should.

Okay. Bye.

Thursday, 31 May 2012


I am supposed to write an introduction. I should ideally have finished writing that by now but I have not started and that is not surprising.

But I have always had trouble with this word. I find introductions scary.For instance, at the beginning of a course when I am asked to "introduce" myself...THAT is an unbelievably awkward moment. My education, which normally is like a vestigial organ suddenly makes its presence felt. I can say.."I graduated in so and so, from so and so .."(blah blah blah). But really is that an introduction? I don't think it is. I think the name should suffice (of course assuming you don't announce it like James Bond). The name is necessary, it would really be impolite to call people making weird sounds, or by whistles .Remember Captain Von Trapp?

 No matter how much you want to, you can't really call someone by screaming - "hey you..yes yes YOU idiot!" etc- it would create too much confusion, you see many people will answer at the same time in that case. So,everything else except the name is so bleh and pointless.

 And what is the point of introducing oneself to strangers? I mean one hardly does reveal any significant detail. You do not expect anyone to tell you- "Hi, I am Felicity. I collect human ears in a bucket" (JEFF from Coupling is a fictional character my dear).The introductions on social networking sites are slightly better because they are seldom real.

But this is hardly what I am supposed to be doing, the one I am supposed to write is that of a text. I hardly read them before reading a text, they reveal a lot. They should follow a text, because the editor, is practically showing off his skills. I wish I could just say- "This is xyz , written by abc....enjoy."

Of course I can't.

I am so royally doomed.


Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Four Tier Wonder

I wished to bake a chocolate cake this weekend. I was searching for good recipes with non-fancy ingredients. Donna Hay was the guest on today's Junior Masterchef episode and she brought this amazing four-tier chocolate cake for the kids to cook and what an amazing job they did!. But attempting that would be rather too ambitious for me... may be I'll start with a basic cake . My last attempt was a cake that I baked with my friend in a microwave...which was yummy. However, I do think that ovens work better because the cake is more moist when baked in an oven.

Check out the Donna Hay cake !

Monday, 28 May 2012


5 Star has trans-fats. IPL is over. (KKR won and I did not watch a single match). Eating raw cumin seeds is fast becoming a habit...addiction. Speaking of addiction, whiteners no longer come in bottles which I can sniff, they come ONLY in useless pens. No bottles, so no diluting solution that I can sniff either. Sad. Cherry Blossom remains. Hi-5!

One fine morning (okay afternoon) , I purchased a bright orange yoga mat with my pocket money. I developed a strong attachment to the hue after I was gifted a pair of orange pants and a matching black top with huge orange flowers (no not orange blossoms, orange coloured blossoms). It was HIDEOUS but at that time I thought it was nice, like I thought my purple and yellow outfit was nice. I posed very confidently in front of the camera as we toured the nation thanks to father's LTC thing. Those pictures make me laugh. Oh...the mat. Yes, I was going to say that it remains untouched and that I am planning to make good use of it. The fate which most of my plans meet is another question altogether.

I have stored Apu Trilogy and Lolita in the same DVD, also Cleopatra and Pretty Woman in another.

There is this particular ceremony which I wish to avoid, (upanayan, poiteh ,or whatever you call it) and I thought about delivering a lecture on how it reinforces the caste system , and how it should actually be really demeaning to attend such a ceremony and that all of us non-brams should show solidarity and remain at home. However, I don't think this will work. I'll just have to go. sigh.

The computer guy has given me this software called Bangla Word where I try and type Bangla words and the results very often are amusing.

Good Night.

Friday, 18 May 2012


It is important to make plans for the future. I have made some.

Contact list- Room open for few newbies. Certain relatives and friends shall vanish...very gradually. Few calls, no calls... Fortunately some just need to vanish from FB friend list in order to vanish completely. Various reasons- some are too annoying, some I don't want to know about, some are too intimidatingly successful etc. 

Food- Financial resources are being planned. Father has been informed that in case he dies before me, I will not serve non-veg dishes (egg is allowed) to anyone visiting me at home. Father replied by saying that he will haunt me as a wandering ghost.

Clothes- Piles of them need to be thrown out unless I get a sewing machine and stitch two of them to make one. New ones need to be purchased. Of course, finances are being worked out.

Books- Will shamelessly continue to spend father's resources. Maintaining that perfect look of "I am saving the world" while reading is essential to convince him of the importance of that book. Casting a "You don't know" glance at mother when she gives a suspicious "another story-book?" look.

Job- Que sera sera ! I am human. If I do all the planning, what will God do? He will become fat and lazy like me. I am keeping him busy on this project.

Marriage- Will ensure that all friends who plan to tie the knot have an extensive and yummy veg buffet. Will eat and make merry. (What if someone pronounced it as "make Mary" ?-nonsense)

Home- Will fill some empty water bottles, once or twice a week, to make my presence felt. Then I shall not be thrown out. Right no?

Yes. That settles it.

PS- In my editing class, we were given a piece written by a student on the translation of Mahasweta Devi's novel Hajar Churasir Maa, in the form of a play - Mother of 1084. It was the most entertaining piece of work that I have read this summer. A line went like this-  "How much Sujata wanted to feel Brati!" ... empathy with an obscene twist? 

On that note. Bye.

Friday, 11 May 2012

Live and let live.

They say literature teaches you a lot about life. It is crap. Literature teaches you to be suspicious. About life, people, emotions and every fucking thing around you. Nothing is what it is. Right now I am interested in the institution of marriage. No, this is not a sarcastic post about marriage. It is simply my way of coming to terms with this thing that is making life a little uncomfortable for me.

I am not against marriage. I am also not against dancing nude in public. My point is the same for both the situations. An honest desire. Love? No. It might be pure lust. But you should know that it is so. Then get married at 20 if you want . SAY that you want to get married. Don't have to say that to your friends but at least know that yourself.

So what the hell is bothering me? I guess it is the general lack of creativity. The excuses are getting mundane by the day. Parents forcing you to get married? WOW! Do you do everything that they ask you to do? No one can be "forced" (except at gunpoint ). So why put the blame on people who love and care for you? Why not own up and say "I want to get married", and that will be the end of it. Come on! It can be such a happy occasion. Why make it sound so pathetic? Why play the tragic heroine ? This irks me.

Second best excuse is - one has to get married. I no longer get perturbed when my elderly relatives say this, because they are from a different era. I do have a problem when I hear my contemporaries say this. Why does one have to? To keep the illusion of the happy Indian family intact? The kind we have seen in Sooraj Barjatiya and Aditya Chopra movies? To avoid being an anomaly in the society? To have a companion for the future? - what if your partner dies in an accident? Do married people die on the same day? Is not everyone alone in some way or the other? Or will your tall and strapping partner protect you from burglars and dacoits? Trust me, many wives have been raped in front of their husbands by hooligans. Sorry it is a rather dismal picture. But it is a fact. No, these are NOT the reasons why one should not get married. But if these are the reasons why one is getting married, then one ought to give it a second, third and fourth thought.

Do not give stupid reasons to yourself and others for doing that. It is not a crime, you don't need to provide excuses for it.  Be it love, companionship, friendship, money, lust. Whatever. Just be honest to yourself .

Oh and I have one request for all those who are or will be happily married- Please understand that you have chosen what you want in life but that might not be what others want. So, stop saying annoying stuff like "we should get married at the right age"... What happens in the "wrong" age? Your ovaries do not produce eggs that travel down your fallopian tubes, right? MAY be. JUST MAY BE , there are some people who are not in love with the idea of producing another human being. Possible, isn't it? All kinds exist. You are a type.You are not representative of every woman who inhabits this earth.

If you think I am sounding extremely frustrated and angry then let me tell you a secret, I am actually scared. I thought as an unmarried 30 something (if that is what I choose as my future) I will be judged by some aunties , relatives and few dinosaur-age friends , but then I am being proved wrong. I will be judged by some very close friends. Not only judged but I will have to bear the annoying condescending remarks. One does not even have to reach the stage of marriage for experiencing this. Every now and then friends who get committed will ask "Have you got a bf?" , "No I have not, my favourite brand is out-of-stock", will be my next reply.

Live and let live.

Thursday, 19 April 2012

Fire and Mice

Yesterday I was reading about a ghastly episode of a man who set himself on fire and blocked the door while his daughters, wife and father died. and immediately I imagined my father... on fire... blocking the entrance of my bedroom. I also imagined some possible remedies...1. a bucket of water in my room. (the last time I insisted on keeping a bucket of water near me was years back when Madhuri Dixit sat on the stairs with a blind child in a pre-diwali "stay safe" ad.) ...coming back to my father in flames...I also imagined having to fight my way out of the room...opening a window so that I don't suffocate etc etc.

I was rescued from this train of thought when my father stormed my room and picked up every hanky that I had used last week and grumbled why I hadn't given them for washing ....(yes I use "cheleder" rumal because those tiny, floral nyaka "meyeder" rumals don't work for me). Anyway I realised my father might not set himself ablaze because the things that bother him are not even remotely close to a debt of 80 lakhs...they are -

1.Why are the keys not in the right place?...a burglar might enter and rob the house of valuables like an out-of-work microwave, two bulky televisions etc..

2.Why the coffee cup is not in the sink? the cups will be stained (OH_MY GOD!!) ...and

4. WHERE is the newspaper? ...of course it is with his wife who reads the entertainment section and keeps it beside her pillow while the other insignificant stuff lies unread on the sofa...(I read newspapers at night). My father likes the ENTIRE newspaper arranged properly, he might not read all of it...but it HAS to be together.

With such grave concerns, I do not think he will set himself on fire anytime soon. I'm right , right?

Also 3 rats were mercilessly killed in my house last week. First my father dismissed me saying that I must have been in a delusion and "it" must have been some lizard.

Then, when I said "it" was climbing up the curtain , he said "they" don't "climb"...then when the teeth marks on the soap confirmed their existence (poor coap eating rats), they were killed (poisoned) .My father obviously refused to admit that he was wrong and he devised a new explanation -- "they" were of a "gecho" type...the ones who know how to climb, unlike the non-gecho type, who don't. I give up!

This was also a rather "happening" week. My dada and boudi visited us and my boudi was drinking tea when I discovered a dead baby cockroach in her cup. Instead of apologising, my parents started debating when the baby cockroach could have landed in that cup, after all it had NEVER happened before.This piece is to warn you .Don't visit us, and definitely don't stop for tea.

Saturday, 7 April 2012

Today I experienced a sort of epiphany. I realised that in the recent past I often did not opt for books that I knew I would enjoy instead I tried to read books that I thought I should read. It is the biggest blunder in the world. It is okay to hear names, it is okay to ask for suggestions but when after 2 pages your head tells you "WTF!" then it is time to bid goodbye to that kind of book (I say "kind" because "that" book I will finish- it is like a pregnancy that I can't terminate...will have to deliver the baby...finish the damned option there). As a result I have been rather slow in my reading, something that I intend to change. I will obviously be open to suggestions and recommendations of others (I will ask them) , but I will never ignore the voice in my head again.

I don't REALLY "get" early 20th century fiction (broad category...I don't even know all the authors probably...) . It is a scandalous confession. My fingers are protesting as I type it out. Some essays, fine. Some short stories here and there. A novel or two. Fact is, I can't read through most of it. I can't leave a book basically if it's a novel I struggle for a week and finish it and feel drained and don't go near one for a long time until the guilt pangs hit me again. Given half a chance I would pick a Jhumpa Lahiri over Joyce .

It is a terrible, terrible feeling to confess this. Thanks to my initial aversion I really have not read enough. I haven't given it a chance. Oh. Terrible. So , so, so terrible.

(If you are judging me, please do not comment, I am already judging myself..also do not give me list of your favourite authors will make me feel more miserable)

Anyway, bye. This is not working. I don't want to feel terrible on a Saturday night.

PS: I absolutely HATE the American Library. They do not renew overdue books over phone and are extremely rude. I think I am staring at a 3 figure fine for my overdue books. :(

Sunday, 1 April 2012

Friday, 30 March 2012

Of Dolls . (How Baconesque.)

On the tragic day of my "mukhe bhaat" ( it WAS tragic, in one pic I had lots of flowers on me and I was biting a gold bangle ), I got a giant bear, and a doll. My dida and my mother thought that the doll was too beautiful to be given to me, so they made a glass case for it.

The doll now stands proudly in my grandmother's drawing room beside a small shelf where Ramkrishna, Sarada Ma stare out of their frames in December, wearing sweaters. I kid you not. And the same people gasp when they see a dog wearing a nice red coat in winter. Doggie can't feel cold, Sri Ramkrishna in photograph can.

I digress. So dolls. One of my relatives gave me a miniature room set, it had a dressing table, dining table, almirah and what-not. I was very impressed. I broke the almirah. The dressing table is still there.

Then came the grand moment when someone from Mumbai gifted me a nice doll, a Barbie doll (fully clothed), I was fascinated with it. Then I tore out the hair. Gosh they are such malnourished dolls.

Why do these new kids prefer video games? Cars crashing, people fighting, animals jumping...ewwww!

Then there was my friend who had many dolls. MANY. She even celebrated their birthdays. I did not go, I was too paka . I thought they were silly. I mean HEYLO ! they did not talk like humans or jump and lick like puppies. Still, my friend was better than Saratchandra mahasay's Lolita (forget Nabokov you fool! this one is an innocent puppy compared to that sexy err..nubile...err..whatever). This Lolita wanted dollie dear to get married and then ended up being a "Parineeta" herself. Poor girl. It's like you are playing "kumir danga" (croc vs. land -a fascinating game) and then being told that you will be transformed into a kumir for the rest of your life. Ouch!

So this friend loved her dolls and had a huge collection. Not Barbies but really fat, plump, nice dolls.

That year during Durga Puja "Laal Komol Neel Komol" was being staged. They asked for one of her favourite dolls because Rakkhoshi rani had to eat a baby in one scene . (Again I kid you not!) So very unwillingly my friend gave this doll after repeated assurances that it would be returned in one piece.

They stripped it, and Rakkhoshi rani while eating (yes, yes, pretending to eat) pulled out its hands and legs. When the natok was over my friend found the doll's broken body , a hand and its dress were missing. It was sad. Though at that time I found it to be funny. I thought she was stupid to give it in the first place. I was too selfish. Still am.

My mother bought these soft-toys. There is this place called Phoria-pukur, where she went to a dry-cleaning shop long time back. She gave clothes for dry-cleaning and went back around two years later with a vague description of the clothes and a sob-story of a lost bill. While they tried to find "boudi'r sarigulo", my mother roamed around the street where so many soft toys were displayed. Once she came home with a honuman eating a banana.

Then in "Swet Pathorer Thala" Sabyasachi very lovingly told Aparna Sen that since girls play with dolls , they start to think they are dolls and then the world plays with them like dolls. (How profound and how sad. He must have been jealous, after all men play with he-man, and superman and we don't treat them like superheroes ...aww they should play with golden retriever pups instead). Anyway, so Aparna (like a fool) sets her basket of dolls afloat and says goodbye. I hated her. Letting beautiful dolls sink just because her husband said some shit.

Once in an art and craft class a teacher taught us to make dolls out of a sock. It was sheer torture like all other Art and Craft classes. Why do they have these classes? Art and Craft, PT (Physical torture), S.U.P.W (socially useful my ass! NO NO my ass is not socially useful...pardon me). Our P.T teacher was so thin that her limbs looked an add-on feature, you know body ke sath hath-pao muft! muft! muft! She made us jump and do what-not. GOD I hated her.

One of my nephew plays with a flying helicopter and a niece watches MAA with her thakurma. Both scare me. I avoid them.

Childhood and lost innocence are very feel sad and you pen down sublime stuff - Time wields its axe on innocence-innocence lies buried in the sands of time-the time-icicles freeze childhood in the deep freezer of the mind like tiny little crystals of memory-etc etc, you get the drift.

Right. Bye.

Monday, 26 March 2012

Getting high on d
aab er jol. After 3 days of venturing out , I am at peace . I am at home. Surrendering to the calm is the best way. When there is restlessness one reaches out to others. Some are angels , some are only dressed in their attire. So, there is a risk. Better to stick to oneself. Almost like the "child's pose" in modern yoga.

Some people help you to do that, some are so self-absorbed that they try to treat you like soft earth , try to cast you into a shape they desire. They treat you like soft earth when you are like a hot molten metal ready to devour the will that is trying to shape you when you recognise that it is not you, it is another.

The surrender can only occur to myself. That's the only surrender worth it. Everything else is just an illusion. Just a useless groping for company, for approval, for pity, for love. In most cases we know what we look for... then people , acquaintances and friends become like tetra-packs on a supermarket rack. When we get what we want , we are satisfied with the commodity and when we don't, we are not. An endless cycle of disappointment and ecstasy begun by our insecurity. What a royal waste! Also what a confusion!

There is a place for everyone. Cockroaches in hell, eggs in the fridge, biscuits in the tupperware jar. Better that one does not encroach upon another's domain. A poet once said that we are all islands. Islands of agony unable to reach out. Perhaps it is better that way, at times. Yes, at times, not always.

But when you know everything for what it is or have given up trying to do so, then you go back to the "child's pose" . There you have a heady cocktail of thoughts-silly and profound, feelings-recent and forgotten, words-spoken and unspoken, possibilities- thwarted and otherwise,experiences, memories, success, failure ,sloth, lust, vanity and an unquenchable thirst ...and all that keeps you going. You roam around the world but the assimilation happens within.

At the end of the day, you are the boss.

When the lights dim, when everyone departs, when the illusion is over, you are all you have. Make peace with yourself now. You are the drug. Get high.

" And can you feel the love tonight ?
How it's laid to rest
It's enough to make kings and vagabonds
Believe the very best ."

Take the first step alone. Soon, walking won't be all that difficult.

What joy. What relief.

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Spa-ince Fiction.

I don't really love beauty parlours. Everything that they do there costs a lot of money and really tries my patience. Ages ago my mother took me to this parlour in my neighbourhood where I had to sit on a wooden plank balanced on the chair handles and then they began the hair cutting ritual. I felt awful, and in my signature style I screamed and created a royal scene. My mother's sense of fashion told her that the "chinese cut" was THE style for me and so for years and years I looked like a malnourished poodle. The fringes obviously grew long , hence to show my beautiful face to the world I had to comb it side ways, so the "chinese cut" looked like a "boy's cut". Why was there no "girl's cut" ? Girls are more versatile and this "boy's cut" is a subset of the universal set that contains all haircuts. OK.

Whenever I returned from a haircut session , my father never failed to remind me how lucky I am. Lucky because all his life he went to the "Italian seloon" , a stool under a tree with an expert barber (nowadays we have stylist/hairdressers , no barbers, thank you very much) . Things have not changed really. Even now when I return home after a haircut my father sits and compares the cost of his haircut (a shop in the local market, in front of which hens are killed, cut and packed in plastic bags) , which is Rs.25 to the cost of a hair cut at one of the city-centre type places.

So, yes, I do not like parlours, but I love that shampoo thing they do. Fingers running through my hair, almost foreplay-ish without the tantrums and jhonjhat of a boyfriend etc. I purchased this snapdeal (now that they have COD) voucher and went for a hair spa session. My first.

I stepped out of the parlour feeling like a sci-fi film heroine. First was the shampoo. Now imagine being realllllllyyyyy FAT and being told to lie down on a 180 degree bed with legs facing the door!! I thought it was the heights of indecency , so I shut my eyes and gave in. In my mind I imagined the view from the other side, the slow rise and fall of a huge whale-ish belly and the dirty sandal facing upwards... I opened my eyes, they met those of the person washing my hair, he was wearing a diamond type ear stud so I shut my eyes again.

After the shampoo they applied this white face creamish type thing on my hair, they were so patient. They applied it with almost a mental-patient like concentration. I was reading Femina (trying to get into the skin of the character- the character being a rich , pampered kid). I was reading Femina, and then suddenly he placed two fingers on my forehead and asked me - "Is the "pressure" alright?" I was at my wit's end .

Excuse me? I don't like pressure, I don't want pressure! But I mumbled "yes" , hardly expecting that he will treat my non-elastic head as moida and make a moida makha out of it. The next step could very well be cutting uniform cross section pieces of my head and deep frying them into fulko luchis.

Then he said after two minutes my hair will be washed and pulled a suspended helmet type thing closer to me. That is when the science fiction started. This thing was... the ... the ...kind of thing you see in movies , a huge round helmet type thing covering the head. I was again busy reading when he asked if the "heat" was alright. "Pressure", "heat"...what , what , what is this? An erotic novel or a pulao recipe?

Anyway I did not feel any heat and I did not know there was any source of heat nearby, so I looked up from the magazine . Smoke was coming out of that helmet. The "smoke" was steam, supposed to keep my hair mask hydrated. I looked mesmerized at the mirror reflection, this was me at my tantalizing best. White hair, suspended helmet, smoke, a cloak... I could steer the space-ship towards shiny-009 , my home-planet.

.... lala lala la la

Anyway , in due course my crowning glory was ready and I left the parlour feeling like a heroine, ignoring the sweat, dust and grime. The illusion lasted till I reached home few hours later and looked in the mirror again.

"Mirror , mirror on the wall,
Who's the fairest of them all ?"

"Pimple-face I admire your gall,
You are not a princess and this is not the mall."


Friday, 23 March 2012

lissson no

People never fail to amaze me. My life is pretty boring but I am addicted to it, addicted to the lethargy, addicted to the comfort and luxury of playing a victim. That's what I think at times and rebuke myself and then again repeat. Like what they say on the shampoo bottle- "Rinse. Repeat." I amaze myself.

They say that one is usually not aware of one's hidden potential. It's all so true, I underestimate my body's capacity to store fat, only when there is a new bulge, revealed by an ill-fitting dress, only then I appreciate this potential.

Fat people become amazingly thin and sexy and then beauty queens become really ugly. It is all happening around me. Also suddenly the city gets bombed with a fire-plague. Everything catches fire- hospitals, markets etc.Then there is the budget , two budgets , the railway one that demands the head of a minister and the annual one, which is another story altogether.

The annual budget affects me because eating out will cost more. Of course it will affect me in many other ways but I have simplified it. One has no choice really. One has to simplify. The cacophony of the information overload game is greater than one can imagine. Either shut down. No news. No Facebook. No internet. Or, participate in the chaos.
Of course one can just stay aware and go about doing one's business. But that is easier said than done when one has loads of time and no motivation. One also has loads of time to do nothing. Nothing but think. Think shit. Then study a little and again go back to the shit. My mind is like an attractive cesspool of thoughts. I am the only one attracted. It is a monogamous thing.

People change. May be they remain the same, may be with every passing day we become acquainted with another new facet of a person we know. We may like this new revelation or it might just piss us off. With me, the latter is often the case. The party is over soon.But how does one stop the party altogether? How does one terminate stuff (I am not in the midst of a break up you fool, I just know some lousy people)? Can one just tap a person on the shoulder and say "Hi, yesterday we had a cuppa together but now I loathe you.Bye. " ?

Of course one does not and cannot do such silly things. That is too true. Too brutal. Too Unkind.Too honest. So one has to avoid , gradually create a distance. And that is how it finally fades away. Thankfully. Finally. But at times the wait is long, and the wait is compulsory. Why do we take the trouble? We are not kind souls, are we? We are mean, we are jealous, (I am murderous!) then why do we play this game? Touching the feet of elders when we don't respect them, visiting people when someone in their family dies, being really polite to some jerk and so on.

I believe in short answers. My ignorance aids my belief. So there was this season when everyone made boyfriends, it was sometime in college, like some breeding season when all the dogs in the street publicly engage in coitus (SHELDON I MISS YOU !) . This was followed by the season of break-ups, everyone broke up, the childhood nyaka sweethearts, the passionate birds, the buddy turned lovers, the mushy-mushy-bomi-bomi type , my ready-made answer to the myriad problems was "all men are bastards". Woo-hoo! .

In those days (few years back) one just called up a best friend, now one quotes/ misquotes a poet's sad words, and in worst cases pens a 911 FB update. The amazing updates which have the same thing to say you betrayed me, you make my heart bleed, I don't have enough Dettol...etc etc. Funny. Really funny.

Who are our friends really? There are times when A says, "I did B, K died, Did you hear about G?" and X replies, " I buried a goat today." I am not exaggerating. That is the level of disconnect these days. One just needs to vent. May be we can paint a ear on a wall, pretend to be very esoteric and whisper our dirty secrets to it at night? Bad idea. I know. I know. It might attract cockroaches.

By the way, just a little thing, if you care about someone please write "Happy Birthday." Just two words. "HBD" sounds pathetic, looks pathetic and feels pathetic. Don't wish someone if you can't type two words properly.

That makes me think of my mother. She loves to celebrate my birthday. I don't. Not now. Of course I love cakes but you see... my mother likes the stuff that goes along with it- balloons, friends, party, gifts, laughter, haha's and hihi's. I don't. Not for more than 3-4 hours on any day. I am a chronic misanthrope.

So on one particular birthday I was at home. No celebrations and all. My mother came back with a gift. A palm-sized bucket. Upon seeing my what-the-hell expression, she explained that it was actually a candle. The I saw that the bucket was full of red wax and it was really a candle. My expression remained, she said I could take it to the loo when there is load-shedding . Yes, the craziness is inherited. Thank you very much.

Monday, 19 March 2012

A normal day after such a long time. yay !! I slept before 2 a.m and woke up at 9. (literally stepped out of bed at 10.30 but I can day dream and drift off and repeat the routine for 1 and a half hours easily. )

Met my crazy friends yesterday. One wore a rose earring , i.e a purple rose attached to a long silver earring. I quite liked it. We watched Kahaani. I loved the movie. But I could have watched any movie with that company and it would have been just as great. (but Kahaani is good .)

Ate Pasta and Chocolate cake (two fancy names-forgotten of course). S narrated her tiger watching experience , which I found fascinating, and then terrifying as apparently they were in an open jeep without any arms. What if a tiger attacked? Would they have screamed "kitty shoo! shoo!"? Not something to kill it but may be a tranquilizer sort of a thing...whatever! I love tigers , watching then on t.v, I would love to view them in their natural habitat but I don't want to be their lunch.

Oh and there was some casual mention of a talk about the salary of the boyfriends. I wanted the Afraa Deli floor to part and consume me and save me from such nonsense. I thought I was the loser. What-what-what are you? I can give you a pep-talk whoever you are. Come kitty , come to momma. You need spanking. ***rolls eyes*** Dearest working-club hopping- modern women, go and earn your daily bread or ask GOD to give you that, like they trained you to do in school .

Oh and back in school, in class 2 or so, I did not know the meaning of "trespasses" . I never bothered to ask anyone , I was very confident that nothing called "trespasses" existed. So for a very long time I used to sing- " And forgive us our Christmases , as we forgive those who Christmas against us." I thought not making any sense was a religious norm because pushpanjalis too never made sense.

Sunday, 18 March 2012

Ramblings of an Insomniac.

I have ruined my tic-tac clip, it no more tics and tacs as it is broken. Watched the early Gaaner Opare videos back to back on Youtube. A little pretentious but still it was a class apart from all the stupid stuff that airs on that channel. I simply love the Jhinuk-Tintin chemistry.

Can't afford to sleep as I am going for a movie with my friends in the morning. Of course I shall not doze off watching a thriller.

Doier ghol, Pepsi, Dim er jhol and olpo bhaat, and cha (doodh cha which I do not like). I had all that and in that order. My stomach will rebel. I know it will.

I have painted the fingernails of my left hand. I paint only the fingernails of my left hand. That is because my father said that since I eat with my right hand I should not paint the nails of that hand. My imagination did the rest. I imagined swallowing nail polish chips with dal bhaat. The result is weird looking hands. You might ask why paint the left-hand nails at all? (assuming you are interested in my nails for some reason) Of course I don't. I don't give a fuck for nail-polishes, but sometimes I do. Like now. I love seeing my short stubby fingers with colourful tips swiftly pressing the keyboard keys.

I like the smell of nail paint, cherry blossom, fresh paint, whitener.

I wanted to thank someone (read God) for some really wonderful people in my life. I am so happy that I could cry. I do. Yesterday I was actually imagining that if I die I will divide my assets among these wonderful people. Of course by my assets means my dad's money right now, but I seldom let logic enter the castle that I am building in air. Also I could not have possibly written that line without unnecessary rambling before and after, because I am such a nyaka.

My jethu's dog Dolly passed away last year. She bled. She was not operated upon. I did not take care of her. They did. They did not fund her operation. I thought it was better to stay away than see her rot and not be able to do anything for her. She was a princess really. She owned the sofa in our drawing/dining. She rested her head upon the sofa handle, as if it was custom made for her. She nudged anyone who sat there. She nudged them till they moved and made way for her. She purred like a cat. She was the most amazing Dalmatian ever. Her tail was stiff, not fluffy, not cute. She was not cute, she was dignified.

She would eat her biscuit, allow us to pet her ( a small price to pay for the biscuits), she would linger for a while , almost like a courtesy - " How can I leave after they have given me this biscuit...? " After a polite few seconds she left. If she heard any unusual sound , she sat up straight, and tilted her head slightly straining her ears in concentration. She ran like a cheetah when left free at our parar maath. She became a mommy, and I gave away my clothes . The baby clothes that my father had brought for me when I was a newborn baby. Yes, Dolly's babies warmed up in those. My mother was furious. Jethu tried to console her by saying : "tomar abar lagbe? lagle ami kine debo."... Yes Jethu has an odd sense of humour, which I like. He is a stubborn man otherwise.

So I did not go to visit her daily. Then one day they rang the bell to tell me Dolly was no more. When I went downstairs, her body was stiff. The skin that I touched and that would crumple like soft silk in my hands was stiff. I did not see her breathe her last. I have not forgiven myself. I thought of my stupid logic more than I thought about her.

I would perhaps like to hold someone's hand as I die. Of course people will die when they have to but a near one's face when one dies ... everyone surely wants that... or may be not... may be dying alone is peaceful, as one comes to terms with the life that has been lived. I somehow feel it is a terrible thing to die in a hospital. Suppose I am admitted in one and I have to die, I would like to come home and die at home. It's a choice, like I prefer eating at home than in a fancy restaurant. When Parents die and one gets that "news"- how does it feel? How does one ever come to terms with that? with not being present?

Please if you have read this, do not write any nyaka comments. This is my sob-story. Let me hog the lime light for a while. Thank you.

About that thing I said about certain beings who make me happy. I really am. So happy that I can cry. May nothing bad EVER happen to them.