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.


Friday, 9 March 2012

Eating an obscene amount of chyanachur is not good. I blame that choshma pora dadu on the Mukhorochak packet... he makes a chhanabora of my will-power every single time.

Thursday, 8 March 2012

makhbo na rong
shajbo na shong
joto shob dhong!


Please lemme crib this one time!

Its 3.45 . When Ma asks me every morning what keeps me awake at night, I can't answer. Well I would , but there isn't anything in particular really. I talk, chat, read, watch TV, eat and on some extremely rare occasion I study.

I envy those mortals who just get into bed and switch off their minds. It's not so simple here. I can lie there doing nothing, thinking nothing (okay not nothing may be random jah-tah stuff) for hours. I imagine hypothetical situations with people I know... for instance how would things be if that person died, or what would happen if I get to visit that place...and I can do this for hours.

Also being extremely critical of the self does not help matters.

I spent so many hours wondering what exactly is this freelance "content writing" shit that I have been doing for years. It is nothing but prostituting one's mind. I just "do" it for the money... not a lot of money too. Many friends earn money by teaching kids. I can't do that, I am not patient enough. I can do this shit because it is easy. This really makes me a hypocrite because no one forced me to do it. I willingly write those goddamned shitty stuff about coupons, cat allergy, mascaras, and other stupid stuff. I need the money. I have created this "need" myself by making myself believe that I should earn my own pocket money. drains me. Half an hour of this shit just fucks my brain. I have great respect for people who it full time simply because I know I never could. Not even for a day.

Thinking about the business only makes my blood boil. Basically these American companies (some from other nations as well) buy articles to drive up the traffic to their sites. So lists of google searches are drawn up and articles are produced on those keywords. By produced I mean hacked up from already existing ones. The tone varies according to the content, there is the expert tone and the i'm-so-cool-yo-man! tone and so on. So these firang companies pay the desi ones around 4-5 dollars per article (say 500 words) and poor exploited mind-fucked writers (re-writers actually) get a fraction of that (of course some get paid more). This is the basic premise and this mind-fuckery continues in different forms. And I am a part of this because its an easy way to earn a few bucks. Such a hypocrite that makes me.Go there, do it, and earn. No time for thoughts, or grammar , or spelling.

I stopped for a while when I had a job and now I am back to this shit. Lovely. My mind is saying - "stop cribbing mad woman!"

Okay I will stop. I have a fantastic day to look forward to. It's Holi. Cartoons will roam on the streets and I will be pestered to do another annoying "paye-abir-dao" ritual. I will pay my respect by applying some pink-red powder on their feet while they'll ruin my depleting reserve of hair by smearing the same powder on my crowning glory and pimple infected cheeks. oooooh can't wait. Bring it on. I ate four sweets. FOUR. They were really sweet and I didn't like eating them yet I did. I can be so amazingly incorrigible.

Also people are getting married left, right and centre, which wouldn't have bothered me if my mother did not emotionally blackmail me with arguments like "I'll not live to see your marriage" ...what a fantastic reason! Also another thing they say is " we are getting old", so? every one does. I am also getting old. Eta toh Ha ja ba ra la 'r desh noy je boyosh kombe. In fact I think if parents getting old is a reason , then it is a reason for not marrying, and not for marrying. You'll marry and go away right? who'll take care of them? of course logic does not work with parents. They have given up. Baba hopes that when I see my pals getting married I'll want that too. I doubt that.

I am also losing patience with all kinds of pseudo people around. They have got airs but are so goddamned shallow.They think they know a lot but don't know that they don't know. Which is really worse than not knowing. (I am sounding like a snob ... but I am really sick and tired of THESE snobs...posting pseudo-intellectual pretentious shit on FB). I have stopped giving patta to many but some just keep coming back on that wall!

I have more respect for someone who reads only chick-lit all her life and says so without any qualms, than someone who reads something just because it suits the aantel image and then of course new fodder for an insipid status update.You can give me the don't-like-it-don't-read-it argument and you can also scream "get a life!" at me...but this my blog..I am allowed to write the shit that I want.

BUT I have realized that cribbing is real fun and I am getting addicted to it. It is bad. One day a bee entered my room and I stopped opening that particular window. It does not happen everyday. I need to open the window once in a while and look out. It is not all that bad. Nothing can be all that bad.


Saturday, 3 March 2012

Losing It.

I need to start knitting perhaps. Reminds me of those art and craft classes where I would produce amazingly shitty stuff (I never allowed my mother to help me ) while others produced things of real beauty. GOD!

Once upon a time when I picked up a book, there was no Wikipedia, no Google and I was ignorant and happy. I would just pick it up and read. That is how I discovered that I did not really care about Hardy Boys but I loved Malory Towers. A Famous Five made me impatient while a Secret Seven was just the right length and I loved haughty Peter.

My parents don't read a lot. Ma does, and Dadu did but Baba does not. So I did not grow up with sets of rochonabolis like some people do. I envy them. When I went to Didar bari there was this rack with stacks and stacks of old worn out magazines and comics. So I digested too many Reader's Digest magazines and read a lot of Nonte-Fonte and other stuff. Golper Boi was a luxury item received on birthdays. I received a Sukumar Ray book on one birthday and many others. Apart from this there were those chapters in the school text books which were not the syllabus.

Then there was that Sri Aurobindo library at Shakespeare Sarani. I went there every Saturday and for a few months I brought home two Agatha Christie books every weekend. At that time British Council did not have a large fiction section. I fell in love with Poirot and found Miss.Marple to be rather funny.

Then there was the rather exciting Sidney Sheldon phase, (grrrr) many of my friend's parents had forbidden it. Mine didn't know about it. The first book I read was Tell Me Your Dreams and I was kind of scared (I am a big phattu and the whole MPD thing scared me) read many more and then I discovered that these books didn't last. It was a racy affair that left nothing behind. So after the few odd books it was all over.

Then I read Ayn Rand. Her style is OMG good. (what a disgusting sentence!) For a while I was so fascinated with Roark, Frisco and the whole Objectivism thingy ( why not straightaway say capitalism? She knew the spelling I'm sure!). But I loved the books. Still do. But I like to read them as books which shouldn't be taken too seriously. There are some people who act as if their life was shit and suddenly Fountainhead turned all that shit into glistening diamonds. They eat sleep and drink Objectivism, suddenly they feel as if by not sharing a pencil with a fellow student he or she is acting in accordance with the high ideals of Objectivism. They annoy me! ANNOY!
I think that woman took herself too seriously but a good read nevertheless.

One phase I did not go through and all my friends did was the Harry Potter phase. Haven't read a single one. I hate the hype. When a few people go gaga about something and start screaming in my ears all day I lose patience and get irritated and vow not to do it. Frankly its nothing to be proud of, and I really want to read those now but anyway forget it. Oh come to think of it I haven't read any fantasy lit at all. The Hobbit- okay. But not the LOTR series. I like real people.

In between there were many texts that I liked in school but there was an awful lot of Saratchandra in our syllabus- Abhagir Swarga, Nishkriti and so on. I liked his simple language but it was all too depressing. Shailoja could drown for all I cared. I liked Srikanto at that time though.
Oh and the beauty of not having too much info, was reading some bad books. The so-bad-that-they-are-good type. I read a Shobhaa De book called "Speed Post" where she wrote letters to her numerous children. I was blessed with a lot of will-power because I finished that stupid one. I also read Dan Brown, didn't like.

So why am I rambling? Well, simply because I am DYING to have those days back. Days when I could just read and be done with it. Not have to view my favourite books with some magnifying glass to find this and that. I loved Jane Eyre when I knew nothing about Bertha being a colonized person. Not that regret all this but simply at some point one gets so tired. SO fucking tired. The reason I did not opt for "Pride and Prejudice " in a particular paper was because I did not want to spoil the romance in my head by manufacturing yet another answer on plot-character-some other crap. I want that mushy mushy Darcy Elizabeth thing in my head forever. I want to imagine Colin Firth taking that dip in that pool till the day I die. I am utterly hopeless when it comes to this. I thought Keira made a rather malnourished Elizabeth in the later version.

Another reason why I rambled was the fact that I have lately started reading e-books and I do not like it a bit. Earlier it was just a few pages , some essays and that's all. Now these are BOOKS. I have chokh e byatha, Ghar e byatha , and at times I feel I am imagining all the byathas. I told my father to get me a Kindle or a Laptop. Of course I was joking. What the hell will I do with a laptop? It's for people on the go. The only places I go to are City Centre, Park Street, and friend's house... a laptop is not needed in any of these places. So my neck can have a royal time making life miserable for me while I sit and read these.

Bleh. Bleh. Bleh.

Good Night.

PS- I have decided to keep my toothbrush and tooth paste in a pen stand in my room instead of the usual cupboard near the wash basin. I always feel that toothbrush bristles need an airing and that particular place may have spiders and cockroaches. Also my mother uses a red toothpaste I abhor so I keep mine separately else someone will use it up and I'll be compelled to use the awful red one. So there is a vase, some photo frames, a card, stupid putuls, a soft toy, a pen stand and in it my brush and paste. The point of this whole thing is simply this - I am losing it. Do I have OCD??? The other day I screamed at my friend who put her unwashed index finger in my lip balm tub. I hate that lip balm , still I felt that it was a rather unhygienic act. Shoo!