Weird and Whacky

Save the Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus

2006-10-27T19:37:00.000+05:30

I'm too much of a conserver. Or at least I'd like to think so. See, I do my bit. I just snapped off switches of two tube lights in the dining/living room when I went downstairs to drink water. Amma is the exact opposite. She needs everything brightly lit. (It's the royal gene. Yes, she says she has one. Don't ask me who the royal ancestor was - I don't know and don't care. It was probably some feudal landlord she plays up anyway. Ask closely, and poof, I will be reduced to normality. We don't want that, do we? We need to tell our grandchildren they had a royal ancestor and insist on crazy things citing the royalness in our blood in our own dotage. So we'll let vague royal ancestors exist without close questioning.)

Now, I don't understand what the need for two tube lights is in the middle of the day in a place that is open... where there are windows and light flows in quite naturally. My house has an open floor plan. Ok, I don't know what that means, but just that my neighbour can see into my bathroom from his terrace if he is perverted enough. Actually, peeking into females' bathrooms isn't even a true blue perversion, is it? He just needs to be male. Surely everybody does it, if they have the chance. So will he. (But don't worry, he won't. First, because the house is rented to a day-school and the roof is off limits to everyone, and secondly, because there's no male neighbour living in that house, but maybe I should fix the broken pane in the window anyway... just in case...)

But we were talking about my conservationistic behaviour. Coming back to that, I'm all for conserving water and all too - close taps while brushing, etc. Let's not get into this too deep because I like water too much and will stand under the shower too long at times just to feel the water running down my body. I'm pretty sensual like that. *ahem*

Yes, well, okay. Let's get on. I wonder if the day will ever come when shopkeepers in India will stock paper bags instead of plastic ones. The only things one gets in paper bags now are unmentionables from Navrang in Abids, you know, that shop in the lane before Hollywood, the ones who sell... well... unmentionables? Well, okay, intimate apparel. (That definitely sounds better than bras and panties. Please, guys who are reading this, do not disagree. This post is embarassing enough as it is.) (While writing this, just now, I couldn't remember the name of the shop, and I texted my friend to ask, and then called my mother when friend didn't reply immediately. Now I have a curious friend and mother who are wondering why I wanted the name of a shop that sells lingerie while I was on the computer. Seeing as how they don't know about the existence of my blog, it was tricky explaining to them why I needed it. With mom, I just giggled and said I needed it. And to friend, I said I am writing something and it led to all sorts of questioning. I'm sure they're thinking I'm into something perverted or illicit online. My image is tarnished forever. Forever.)

So, to continue, lingerie shops have paper bags only because what they sell is so shameful that seeing a woman, or *gasp* a man, holding a plastic bag advertising their shop and product would be an immediate cause for averting eyes and ignoring said person. Oh, and paper bags are also for other unmentionables. Like sanitary napkins. Though lately my friendly neighbourhood kirana shop owner has decided to give out those in plain black plastic bags that get black ink on your fingers if you touch them. The Earth is surely going to choke and die one of these days. The black ink will be to blame. Mark my words.

I am not fanatically opposed to plastic bags, sometimes they're necessary when nothing else is available, and you can't just swear off them. It's just that they should be done away with when they can be. I remember this incident where I bought something small, I think it was a chocolate bar, and the shopkeeper offered me a plastic bag and I said no, because I could carry it. And he snatched the thing out of my hands, good-naturedly, and bagged it before handing it to me. See, I understand when it is necessary, but when you're buying something you can carry in your hand without a bag, why use one? I simply took out my whatever-it-was and handed the bag back to him, not good-naturedly, and gave him a curt 'No, thank you,' only it was from between gritted teeth and maybe my expression was a teeny bit hostile because he recoiled. Well, maybe I was overly enthusiastic about throwing the bag back on his counter too. (I assure you I'm not generally rabid to shop-keepers this way. I am grouchy to only ones who disrespect my wishes to not have a plastic bag.)

So, in these situations, with the world going to rot and no one around me caring about it, I feel it is only my duty to switch off lights and insist on going bagless when I buy small things. So I do. Now, at this point, you're all wondering where the Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus comes into it all. It doesn't really. I just hunted around for something to name the post, because Save the Whales is just too usual, (and done before) and out pops this site (click on the title of the post). That's it. My search has ended with the Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus. A nicely mad touch, isn't it? Quite in keeping with this blog. I actually think I could adopt one tree octopus. Virtually, of course. Byclops has been here quite a while, hasn't he?

Anyway, the site is kind of interesting, and pretty to look at. I mean, most sites are pretty garish. This one isn't. And it's also weird. I quote, "Tree octopuses became prized by the fashion industry as ornamental decorations for hats...." I mean, what??! People go around with an octopus on their heads?? In the name of fashion? Really? Where? Anyway, readers, do visit and sign the petition. That's your bit in saving the pacific northwest tree octopus. Your good deed for the year.

Actually, when I reached the end of the page on the tree octopus site, I noticed other interesting animals I could have named my post after. Like the Mountain Walrus (?!) or the Manhattan Beach Mottled Roach ("Save one roach today, that tomorrow we may save millions!" Uh, excuse me, a roach? No, thank you. And when you save one now, tomorrow you don't need to save millions tomorrow. Millions do not need saving.) Or there's the Rock Nest Monster ("Known only from its rocky nests and porcelean-like eggs, Cryptogorgo petronidus is so endangered that existential environmentalists wonder if it ever existed at all"), the Giant Palouse Earthworm ("They can grow up to three feet in length, are pinkish-white, and smell of lilies." Thank you for telling me about the lily-smell.) and the Red Crabs of Christmas Island (who, among the problems they face, also "have to contend with super-colonies of yellow crazy ants, introduced to the island by the thoughtless actions of Man.") So, go ahead. Take your pick. Save something. Anything. It hardly matters what with so many that need saving.

Stop Moving my Cheese

2006-10-13T02:56:00.000+05:30

Today, as I logged on to my Yahoo messenger, it told me that one of my contacts is using Windows Live™ (MSN) Messenger, and wants to add me to his or her Messenger List. But to start sharing messages, I first need to download the latest version of Yahoo! Messenger with Voice. Aha! I thought. My Yahoo! Messenger is being so helpful and anticipating my needs. It is even telling me what I should be doing next. That is... not too bad, if we overlook the fact that it is trying to make me do something.

But it didn't stop with my Yahoo! Messenger. My MSN Messenger wants to mate with my Yahoo! Messenger. My Yahoo! Mail is proudly offering me a Beta version. Come to think of it, so is Blogger. My communication software products are somehow getting lives of their own, and thus, minds of their own. They want me to dance to their tune instead of it happening the other way around.

Now, I admit I'm not the brightest cookie around when it comes to all things tech and I fear my computer, (though I take care to hide this fear from it, or it will just take advantage of me) Haha, like it isn't doing that already)) but I draw the line at letting my communication software rule me. A very bold and italicised line. A very, very forbidding line indeed.

And they happily jump over that very line and waggle their tongues at me. By telling me one fine day that I cannot use my Yahoo! Messenger because it is an old and dead version (and the underlying message is, of course, why aren't you dead already User, when you're using that outdated version we made for cavemen? What is wrong with you?). Therefore, I will be forced, coerced, ordered to download the latest version, which will just probably have a purple coloured background added on to the last version. Why do I need that? Why can't I decide how much I need?

Let me tell you here, I do not like change. I'm a control freak. I want to control my programs and not the other way around. And just why is everyone in the world suddenly bettering their products? What is wrong with the ones already around? It's just email. Or a messenger. You use it only to write text. How hot can you make it before the frills completely overtake the basic thing you're offering, which is free email and good storage space, or communication. And it's free! What else does one need? Why does the interface have to come in 24 colours? So really, shut up and let it be and stop making it jazzy and spiffy. Or jazzier and spiffier.

I totally understand that Mail and Messenger people really do want to better things out of the kindness of their hearts and love for their customers, (with absolutely nothing to do with market share or competitiveness among other providers), but please don't ask us to download the new version or change to the better one unless it's really something worthwhile you're selling. It's irritating to have the constant reminder popping up. And it's very very frustrating when I can't use my old messenger anymore and it tells me I have to download the latest version to continue using it. I'm pretty happy with the one I have, thank you.

That's it for now, as I slip into flashbacks of the time when men were real men, women were real women, and my messenger and e-mail were really servient messenger and e-mail...

Sketch S

2006-06-02T01:18:00.000+05:30

I hate people who refer to me in the third person, while they're talking to me, like I wasn't sitting right there in front of them. Did you get this particular abnormality's finer points? No? You don't know what I'm talking about? Well, the conversation goes like this:

S, (to Aran): Does Aran like hindi movies then?
Aran wonders if S thinks Aran is about three years old.
Aran: Yes, I do.
S smiles a sickly sweet, totally brainless smile (you know the one, it's just pasted on)
S, (to Aran): Does Aran go to movie theatres?
Aran wonders whether S's mental age might be arrested at about three years of age. Decides, yes.
Aran: Er... yes.
S scans her mind to think of something equally inane to follow with.
S, (to Aran): So who is Aran's favourite actor?
Aran thinks: Oh my God! Perfect follow-up!
Aran opens mouth to answer... is interrupted by S.
S, (to Aran): Wait! Let me guess. Aran's favourite actor is Shahrukh!
Aran now is the proud owner of a sick smile of her own, because she knows she will have to endure the conversation.
Aran: No.
S, (to Aran): Aran must like Aamir Khan then!
Aran: No.
S, (to Aran): Hrithik? Abhishek Bachchan? Oh, wait! Aran must like John Abraham!
Aran is tempted to say the spot is tied between Tusshar Kapoor and Razzak Khan.
Aran: No, no, no.
S, (to Aran): Oh, then Aran herself should say.
Aran thinks, 'Oh my God! She said 'Aran herself'', with something approaching horror.
Aran: Salman Khan.
S: I knew it!
Aran repeats sick smile.
S, (to Aran): So who is Aran's favourite actress?
Aran wishes for divine intervention, like maybe a lightning bolt coming in through the balcony and striking S right in the sitting room.

I swear I didn't make this up. I have a defective piece like this floating in and out of my life and consciousness from time to time. I think the more I interact with her, the lower my IQ will test. There's surely some erosive effect at play here. Repeated conversations will definitely take chunks off my brain. Physically. I know. Entropy. It doesn't help that she has the sickly sweet, totally brainless smile on when no one is watching (but, I am! Ah-ha!!) It's scary when she's smiling into space. Like she can see dead people or something.

But really, she's the harmless kind of retarded I think. And somewhat useful too when you need a babysitter. I'm trying to think of other ways she can be useful... and can't come up with any, sorry. Let's just say it would really hurt me to be her, and leave it at that, because this is turning meany-bitchy, isn't it? And of course, I'm not meany-bitchy. I'm kindness-light. And all things bright. Brilliant shine, this face of mine. So true and fair, with midnight hair...

Uh, ok, I lost myself there. I blame S. Thank you. That will be all.

The Reluctant Bride

2006-05-20T15:09:00.000+05:30

Nowadays, marriage, weddings and related things have been featuring in my life too much. The owner of this blog, may, might, possibly, in a weird twist of fate or arms (or even wills), might actually be getting married *gasp* Or not. I'm going to keep you guessing on that one. But don't worry too much. Marriage or no marriage, I won't be procreating right now, so you won't have any weird-genes Aranlets running amok in this blog for a while yet. I'll give you time to get ready before that happens. I promise.

So, coming back to the topic, drksideofthemoon - a dear friend and reader of blog has written a hilarious take on the kind of bride I will most probably make, that is, if I am getting married, and you - reader, still do not know whether I am or not.

* * * * *

The Relcutant Bride

Married! The word reverberated through her head like a pneumatic jackhammer. Incessant and never pausing for a moment. Married! The mere thought gave her chills. She had managed successfully thus far in her life to escape the entrapment of the betrothal web. Married! What was she going to do with a husband; she didn’t even want a cat!

She imagined her parents lying awake late at nights wondering, “Where did we go wrong?” Their daughter wasn’t married. “What would the neighbors think? Did people whisper and point behind their backs?” Marriage! Marriage was the answer, find the child a husband and life would be good again. Order would be restored once again to the chaos of the universe. The wobble in the earth’s rotation would be righted. All that was wrong with the world would be fixed by her being wedded.

The look on her parents’ face. Was that joy? Relief? They had found a husband for her. A man that would wed her. A future son in law. A father for their grandchildren. What was his damned name? It blended in with the jackhammer in her head. She wanted a small, intimate wedding in the local hall. Her father was in serious negotiations with the owners of the local football stadium.

That was another thing, the list of invitees. It seemed her mother and future mother-in-law were both engaged in a bizarre contest of who could come up with the most guests. She had suspicions that both women had resorted to using the phone book and were just pulling names from it. Her mother was currently leading in the “Guest Who Travelled the Furthest”. It seems her brother knew a fellow whose wife had a third cousin in Sao Paulo, Brazil. He would be more than happy to attend if someone would just help fund the ticket.

Her eyes snapped open at 4:27AM. The most awful thought came to mind, it was like a nightmare. After the wedding, would he expect her to do that for him? Would he demand it of her? Whenever he wanted it? She had heard of vague rumors of other wives doing it for their husbands. A few even admitted to liking it. The thought only caused the ache in her head to return. Would he actually expect her to cook?

Married! She would inherit a whole new family. A family of in-laws. People who came and only left when the pantry was bare. Married! She accepted her fate the way a soldier accepts a dangerous assignment. Was it too late for her to join the army and be sent away on a secret mission? Married! What was his damned name? Married! She would be a bride, a somewhat reluctant bride…

* * * * *

Four Weddings and A...

Now, after that fabulousness, we have a sub-post within this post, cos it deals with the same subject. Well, kind of. Today is my parents' wedding anniversary. Let me give them my heartfelt wishes here, as this blog is close to my heart and the truly special reason is that they are never likely to see it.

Happy Tied-to-each-other-for-life-and-unable-to-escape Anniversary Mom, Dad. May you have many more years of the same normal, everyday marriage. I want you to know that I am very proud of the way you supported each other those two times in the past 27 years. The other 408,392 times... well, we win some... and stuff like that. I particularly admire the expertise you have gained in dealing with the other's neuroses. It would have been better if you could have worked upon getting rid of your own, but I am sure this could be statistically disproved, so it's all okay. I would have been a totally different person had this day not happened 27 years ago. And... wait! That last sentence was so spot on, wasn't it?! Hmmm... going on... I have tremendous respect for all you've been through, though that one time the metal detector beeped wasn't really your fault Dad. I'd like you both to know that I love you. Of course, I do. Really. What? You didn't honestly think that my dieting was a case of misdirected love of green leafy veggies, did you?!

Sigh. End of mushy love message. You may wipe those tears now. The parents got married on May 20th, 1979, along with my uncle (father's brother), on the same day. After a few years, my aunt (mother's sister) and uncle (mother's brother) also had a double wedding on the same day. That makes it four weddings. There was talk of getting me married on the same date, that is, if I am really getting married of course. And that explains the title of the sub-post.

Happy 20th May, 2006 to you too.

Firefly, R.I.P

2006-05-10T15:27:00.000+05:30

He's my current muse and second virtual pet. The first was a goldfish (or some sort of fish anyway) that lived online and was supposed to be fed twice daily by clicking on a button that said 'Fishfood'. Apparently I failed to feed him and one day I received an email saying he was dead. I assure you that's not going to happen to Firefly. Enjoy him while you can because he's not going to be here long. Cos it's just not fair to him. Go PETA!

@--}--}----

Firefly was the first ever virtual pet to grace the pages of this blog. He was here, enjoying pride of place in the column to the right from 16th December, 2005 to 10th May, 2006. Of course, when I first introduced him, I told my readers that he won't be here long, but he creeped his way into my heart and into at least two of my readers', who commented about his cuteness, so I had to keep him longer than I intended.

I found Firefly while wandering on google looking for pictures of... fireflies. Yes, suddenly, I spied this handsome hunk standing between coy photographs of bugs that had their rear end lit. I saw him, and lost my heart to him. It would be hard not to... just look at that fuzzy, downy brownness on his body and that little cap of it on his sweet little head. Look at the black of his little pony legs. Look at the innocence in his eyes. And look at that smudge of white on his nose that earned him his name, and then tell me you can't fall in love with him. Tell me, and I won't believe you.

I have learnt a lot from Firefly, the biggest lesson being that you're worth more if you're a donkey among fireflies. (And I use the term 'donkey' loosely, because Firefly was so much more than a donkey. He was an inspiration!) The second thing I learnt was that you should flare your nostrils while your photograph is being taken. I tried that for a while and it was very unflattering so I had to unlearn that very quickly. Notwithstanding that little hiccup, our saga of learning continued and then I learnt patience, for they also serve who only stand and wait. And boy, do you need a lot of patience for just standing and waiting! Firefly - he had that in him, especially since he didn't know what exactly it was that he was waiting for. Perseverance, grit and determination to overcome boredom... all these are qualities Firefly had in excess.

Now, while writing this, my heart is overcome with affection for the cuteness that is Firefly. Thus, it is with a heavy heart that I consign him to my Virtual Blogpet Hall of Fame. I do this only because I realise that what comes, must go, for this is the way of the world. May his virtual image rest in peace.

Two requests and a death threat later

2006-04-16T16:00:00.000+05:30

There was a time in my life when I thought I was dumb. That was sometime in eighth standard, or thereabouts. We don't need the exact time period. That is close enough for the purposes of this post. Which brings me to the point that explains what exactly it is that is the point of this post. Well, without further ado, purging. This post will talk of my inner, vulnerable self. I'm going to write it all out with the firm belief that if I write it, it'll all go away, out of me and into the paper or into the internet void and I'll be free of it. This post should have been named 'Turmoil', but as I consider the current title to be quite clever, it's going to stay.

So there was a time when I thought I was dumb. It had something to do with my chemistry marks. I failed miserably. And I mean miserably. The chemistry part of my life was something around 16 out of 100. If those were IQ marks... just imagine. Therefore, it was quite normal for me to think that I was dumb. The Mathematics wasn't good either. That added to the problem, but the number one culprit was chemistry, in more ways than one, if you know what I mean. Eighth standard is a very bad age for chemistry.

But why am I talking about this now? The reason, as already mentioned, is purging. Not past purging either. Because lately I've been feeling dumb again - for the past three to four months. No, it's not chemistry this time around. Well, at least not the subject. This time, I'm not sure what it is actually. I'd like to think it's antibiotics. Yep, that's right. Antibiotics and the eating of them. Prolonged eating of antibiotics makes Aran dumb.

I've been feeling woozy. Yes, that's the word for it. Actually, I'm not sure woozy is a true blue bonafide word, but it describes what I'm feeling, so it's good. Now that I think of it, so is confuzzled. It's confused and fuzzy-brained rolled into one. Like your brain's filled with wool and you can't think. That's me nowadays. Why? I have no idea, except for the antibiotics that is, but how long will I keep blaming those. I need a new blame-thing soon. I can't even use the moon this time. It's not exactly known for making people stupid, is it? As it is, the poor pale orb is credited for my mood swings. Asking it to take on more of the burden would be a bit too much.

So with this post, why I haven't been blogging has been explained. Also, I don't think I can purge more than this in one post. Thank you kindly for the indulgence shown by the two people who requested a post and to the person who threatened to kill me if I didn't write, I love you. Anything else will get me killed. And now that I think of it, death is better than dumbness.

Ps: Does anybody know what Riconia does?
Ps: Do I have any readers left to answer that question I threw out?

We were theived upon

2006-01-30T15:16:00.000+05:30

The policeman stood with his pelvis thrust out. I wanted to hammer it in. Seriously, what's with the sexually aggressive male pose? Why does it all have to go down to the crotch for you? The power's not between the thighs stupid, it's between the ears. Gah.

At the same time, there was an overly inquisitive cat in the yard outside. So I watched the cat and ignored the policeman. Now I know why cats are called curious. It sat and looked and looked and looked and... well, looked at this one spot on the ground before it. I think there were shadows of the sun playing on the ground through the trees there. That, or it was staring at an ant or something. Anyway, I stared at it too.

So I had a bitch of a day. Our stuff was stolen from where we kept it in the car. Yes, the day's only half over and it's gone from bad to worse. We had plane tickets to our holiday stolen. They were worth about 75,000. But more than that, the father's telephone diary was taken. He had all of his contacts in there, a collection of about 20 years. Gone. No cash. Nothing of value to a thief. I mean, he won't be flying or calling up random people from a book anytime soon.

We took the car for fingerprinting and there... I met Poirot. Yes, yes, the cute French detective. (At least I hope he was French. Was he?) My Poirot was called Murlidharan. He had the same boiled-egg head with three white curly hair at the top. I knew about the hair when he bent down to stare at the print on the door of our car and presented his bald pate to me. And then he took us up to his room and rolled my hand over black ink to take my prints.

So there you have it. That was my day today and the police have my prints. I can now never act on urges to hammer pelvises in. Men posers and their crotches can rejoice. We shall have to reign in our bitchiness. Sigh.

PS: pate = The human head, especially the top of the head: a bald pate.
(I liked the way they specified 'human'. Apparently Firefly doesn't have a pate. Poor thing.)

Cradlesong

2006-01-09T02:29:00.000+05:30

Public service announcement:

I will not marry someone who snores.
I will also not marry someone who tells me not to sleep on my stomach.

Public service announcement over. Rant begin.

The father snores. Sleep apnea. Or apnoea. Or apnoae. The medical condition or the spelling is not important really. What's important is that apparently he needs surgery to have a snoreless sleep. That's kind of scary. It's also quite disturbing. I hate his snoring. I sleep in a room that's directly below the parents' bedroom and at night I can hear him. The sound waves travel from his bedroom, out of his windows, down one storey and into my windows. And they're still loud. It's like someone is slowly drilling the walls of my bedroom. It's so very uncomfortable.

But snoring has its uses too. No, I'm not even going to try to talk of scaring burglars off or some no-brain crap like that. Listen to this: The father snores and the mother's so used to it after 26 years of married bliss... er... life, that she gets uncomfortable when he doesn't snore. Recently, dad's been having these episodes where he can't breathe temporarily. In his sleep. Uhmm yes. Scary. Well, so anyway, kindly consider the situation. Dad's sleeping, snoring in iambic pentameter. (I can vouch for this. The snores are snored at precisely timed intervals. Quite amazing to listen to, if you happen not to be a sleep deprived child who needs to sleep.) So, he's snoring away, and suddenly the break in snoring happens. It actually wakes up my sleeping mother, and she pokes him someplace. Hard. He wakes up in a blubbering sort of a "Wha..?!" She mumbles asomething about breathing. He's already asleep.

Yes. The father can fall asleep in seconds. So can the grandfather. Both of them can also fall asleep everywhere. And I mean everywhere. It's a constant delight to visiting kids at our house. They simply cannot imagine how someone can fall asleep while sitting on the sofa. The father and grandfather resemble laughing buddhas while they're asleep, so I think the 'cute' factor also attracts the kids. However, I hope this tendency skips a generation because I'm the grandfather's first-born's first-born. And you know what that means. I do not want that particular gene, thank you very much. I'll be falling asleep while walking if I don't look out because the particular predisposition also becomes more potent as it gets passed down generations. While the grandfather has his sleep affliction confined to sofas and other stationary things, the father once fell asleep in the driver's seat of a car. While he was driving. On a highway. Yes, he's alive and in one piece, but you see what I'm fighting against?

To talk of my sleeping habits, well, I've done that already. No point going over it all over again.

So I think our family has all sleep related abnormal behaviour covered. Almost. How I wish I was a pro at sleep-walking too. That would be quite something.

It's now safe to turn off your computer.

2005-12-29T04:26:00.000+05:30

I'm scared. I think my computer passed through evolution when I wasn't looking and now it's *gasp* alive. Any moment now the monitor is going to open its eyes and blink at me to prove that I'm right. I do not pronounce this lightly. I know what I'm talking about. Just now I took 20 minutes to reboot because as soon as Windows loaded, the screen told me that it was now safe to turn off my computer. I'm sure it was safe, but what about it being desirable?

My machine has possibly laid claim to 'intelligence' overnight. Or maybe it was bit by tiny bit every night for the past so many nights, but that's not the point here. The point is that it has developed a mind of its own. And it knows a weak opponent when it sees one. I have no qualms about admitting that I know zilch about computers and their workings. Sitting duck, me. The big bad machine sees me and thinks, there's a dumb one. Let's play with her. That's so not good.

My sole aim these past few days has been to make explorer, yahoo messenger and MSN messenger work at the same time. But my sadistic computer, it doesn't let me. Yahoo.exe has caused an error in so-and-so and will now close. Explorer has performed all illegal operation and will now close. Restart your computer and try again. Contact your vendor if the problem persists. It's raining error messages.

I'm too scared that the computer will finally stop working one fine day and I'll have to call a computer person. He will want to hit the monster on its head and kill it, then breathe artificial life into it again so that it works like I want it to, not how it wants to. In other words, reformat.

Here comes the absolutely scary part. The reformatting has been done earlier and that I count as one of the most traumatic experiences of my life which has been instrumental in shaping me. In fact, I might go so far as to say that I trace the start of my paranoia back to it. Even after 'mother god promises' and umpteen assurances, I simply cannot stop thinking about scenarios involving the loss of the precious information that I have in my system. Complete and repeated explanations regarding copying the information on CDs before formatting and writing down of what I want saved does not help either. I cannot tell you how hard it is when a computer goes for reformatting. That one day is absolutely horrendous. It's like you're giving off pieces of you.

Amidst all this hand-wringing upheaval and distress, there is a very real possibility that I'm falling dangerously in love with my monitor because it has this as a desktop wallpaper. How can one not fall for that? Here's a secret: I sometimes grin and wink at it when I'm alone. Hmm. For all future purposes, I did not write that.

But you see the pure dilemmatic situation?! I'm falling in love with something that will surely hurt me in the long run. Sooner or later, it's bound to. It's even more certain than death and taxes. And I'm unable to fight the love or the dependency. I cannot take it off my desktop the same way I cannot cut my arm off. I might even do away with the arm if comes to choosing between the two. What's an arm when there's irresistible sexiness to be considered? See? I'm doomed.

Touché

2005-12-19T00:26:00.000+05:30

Recently, I've developed a new affliction. It's right in line with my unusual diseases, so I'm not too concerned. Either that or I'm putting on a really brave front but am quaking inside. Yes, perhaps that's the truth. But with me and my second-guessing, you'd never know.

I'm totally ignorant when it comes to illnesses, mainly because I don't fall sick very often, and that is always a cause for deep heartache. Who would want to miss all the attention that goes along with minor sickness? I still remember the way I used to gaze forlornly at sick (as in unhealthy) little kids who came to my mother's clinic for medication. My mother the doctor talked really nicely to those kids. Cajoling and loving them right into a necessary injection. They never knew what happened. Sigh. My mother the angel. My mother, kindness incarnate to those little kids who already had a mother of their own to give them love. Those bloody snotty little kids hogged all my mother's attention. Ungrateful weasly beings. Snatching, crapping and marking themselves all over my territory. Oh, those days! The trauma!! Let me take a moment to compose myself...

Ok. So back to this thing, it's a skin problem I think. On the outside of my right foot. The mother saw the thing, felt it, and pronounced the diagnosis. Elephant skin. I'm not joking. That's what she said it is. I swear. It kind of feels hard and dry and scaly to the touch. I even have photographic evidence. (The real elephant is to the left. The right is 'No, this is not happening to me')

See what I mean? I'd do any elephant proud. But jokes aside, it's really sad. As if I needed any more identification with big, grey, hulking, fat beasts. Will it never end?!

Immediately after being diagnosed, I was understandably in a thoughtful mood. Who wouldn't be? I asked the mother how she knew it was Elephant skin. She said it felt like that. A pause. Then I asked her when she'd felt elephants before. She said she does daily. Ahem. I looked at dad and giggled. Of course all this hilarity and good cheer was to diffuse the tense atmosphere of the moment. We're good like that. We diffuse tense moments. But it still didn't make my foot-skin problem alright.

Oh man. Those pics make it look worse than it really is. Look at the furrow-like things on that left one. Totally hideous. Ok, I managed to scare myself all over again. If I hadn't taken those pics with my own hands, I'd have felt deep overwhelming pity for the one who had those things. It's the angle or something, it isn't really that bad. So don't start writing those obituaries yet. And see the vague discolourations on the leg in the right pic... that's the site. Don't ask me how I managed to take a pic of that part like that all by myself. Contortionistic no?

And finally? It's some skin cream that smells like eggs gone bad for me. I forget to use it more times than not, and actually, I think I've lost the tube... but then the offensive thing came on its own, it can as well go away on its own. I'm not catering to something my mother called elephant skin. No way. One fine day in the near future I'm going to wake up to beautiful, unblemished feet and fall in love with their loveliness. Mere payr, kitne sundar, kitne komal...

Related nonsense: Do not ever search for pictures of elephant skin. Don't even click on that link. Seriously. It's not good. Especially the pic called "Experimental butchery of an elephant..." which looks like they're skinning an elephant.

Not so related, but nevertheless cute nonsense: Allapum. That's what my cousin used to call an elephant when he was little cos he couldn't say elephant. It's now our family's official name for elephants.

Related, necessary (non)sense: The title of the post is pronounced 'too-shay'. I've always liked the word.

The Link-happy Feel-sad Post

2005-12-13T16:27:00.000+05:30

I'm morose. That sounds infinitely better than merely depressed, doesn't it? Morose just makes you think of a sad droopy-faced person sitting in a corner. Too lethargic to even cry or weep, this person wallows. And that's how it is with me right now.

*Start of small divertion from subject of post*
By the way, did you know that lugubrious is a synonym for depressed? Well, it is. That, apart from being my contribution to the vocabularies of my 6.5 readers, is also a reason for me to rant in the middle of writing a post as I'm wont to do more often than not. Lugubrious - What kind of a ridiculous word is it? How can it mean depressed? Which self-respecting depressed person will say he's feeling lugubrious and risk being laughed at rather than being comforted? You get what I'm driving at? It sounds exactly like so much garble around a mouthful of paani-puri. Sigh. The English language really needs a clean up soon.
*End of divertion*

The reason for abovementioned moroseness is that I've been reading blogs for the past three hours. Yes. That can be a cause for the gloom. Let me explain. People out there - They're. So. Damn. Good. I needed to say that with the full stops in between because otherwise the pain would be too much. I mean, there's so much talent out there, and with it, so much envy. Envy on my side of course. Yes. I can admit to being envious. I can also admit to resorting to voodoo or some other such magic to interchange myself with people I'm envious of, (and I can do it, beware!) but I will control the impulse because, let's face it, magic is stupid and it doesn't work. I'll just be left with a little doll with a lot of pins stuck into it and no real interchange of lives and talents. I'll still be me with a mutilated doll, and that is something I'm totally unwilling to do. I'm kind. I cannot pin-prick dolls, especially when I know there's nothing in it for me. Mother Teresa, I. Well, ok. Almost.

My favourites' list has grown by 4 today. Now there are 4 more blogs that I'll check with something akin to mania everyday. Of those, I'm extremely jealous of the straight-faced humour ones. Like Finding Franny and Henry the Adequate in my to-read blogs. Read if you're feeling curious enough, though why I'm directing traffic to people who are the cause of my misery I do not know. (I fully blame, I mean attribute the finding of Henry the superhero to MsShadow. Yes, thank you for all of this. I'm sure you're really happy right now.) Also, Anonymous Lawyer... he's quite something.

Then there are those super-intelligent, almost geeky American girls. They're girls. Young females, barely out of their teens and they write about things that make me feel painfully illiterate. Please. How many nineteen year olds study astronomy and excuse me... wha..? What's that? Foreign diplomacy? They teach things like that? Really. What rot. I don't believe it at all. I'm sure they're planted there. I know they're actually 60 year old University professors and have come into all that learning after a lifetime in libraries and are parading as teenagers just to make sundry internet people who mistakenly land onto their blogs feel woefully insecure. Yes. That's it.

Oh and there are... well... the witty people. It's all too much for a person like me to take. I'm sure it's all a huge conspiracy. Can you believe that someone who says something like, 'Today is actually rather ghastly' actually exists? Well, no. She can't. I think she's a highly evolved computer program or something. Seriously, how can she think up such word choices otherwise? And look at her. No one can have that figure, look like that, and have a blog like that. No, it's not fair to humans. She's not real. That's all.

A few days ago I was feeling envious of people who got paid for writing in a magazine or newspaper, and had readable blogs with a huge fan following - like The Compulsive Confessor, to name just one. Now I'm down to envying just about anybody who can write well. Notice the degeneration? See the slipping standards of envy? What next? Am I going to go green about artistic templates now? Blah.

Note that I'm saying nothing of all those blogs that are on my everyday read list but not linked here. (Should I put them up? They're not exactly humour blogs, so I haven't linked them, but they so deserve to be read.)

So, anyway, morose we are. And to think that only a few hours ago we were feeling so good because of the nice comment on the previous post. Yes, he tried. I know. We should be grateful and happy that we're being adored. But, alas, we're being glum. We're also trying to rise above our sad state here by using the royal pronoun in an attempt to diffuse feelings of not being good enough. And we shall overcome, some day.

By the way, why do you think the commentor's called Sad? Verily, in this is a sign for those who give thought...

2025: The Death of Romance as we know it

2005-12-09T14:51:00.000+05:30

Lately, I've been thinking about how much I'm dependent on the Internet. I almost live here. This could be called my second home. Or actually my first. Of course, all this fascinating thinking was due to my plans of going abroad for higher studies and not imagining a life without a laptop and the Internet. And of course my thoughts couldn't have stopped right there and I had to have these horrific visions where there's this whole world of people who simply cannot live without the Net. I really do not know where it came from. If I was the sort then I'd have blamed the Martians for tampering with my brain, but I'm just content with blaming the Moon for my mood swings. That's me - mild.

Imagine the next generation being so tied up to a computer that they don't know the warmth of sunlight or the cold of winter. They sit in front of their computers in artifical environments and experience everything second-hand. Shopping, TV, movies, mail, meetings, work, school - everything is digitized, credit carded and email ordered. The only contact one can have with the world is through a cable. A malfunctioning server can make you feel suicidal. The scenes that my mind conjured up overtook me so badly that I went on a crazy conversation in my head...

Two teenage girls chatting.
Girl 1: You know, I found an old photo album of my mom.
Girl 2: Cool. What's the URL? Flickr?
Girl 1: No, you don't get it. An actual physical album.
Girl 2: *shocked* Oh. My. God. I'm so sorry.
Girl 1: Yes, I know. I didn't know how to react. It was so weird. I didn't know my mother had physical photo albums as late as 2005. The photos are so raw! Nothing is photoshopped. She must have been about 20 or so but she looks so haggard. So normal and lower class. I mean, I once saw her without her make-up a couple of years ago. I was reminded of that. I keep thinking why she did it. I know for a fact that there were photo editors back then. Why would someone choose to have photos of themselves that are not edited? *sad*
Girl 2: *consoling* Well, it's ok. It's not that bad really...
Girl 1: But it is! You wouldn't know. I also found...
Girl 2: What?
Girl 1: You promise me you won't tell anyone about this.
Girl 2: K.
Girl 1: Promise!
Girl 2: Ok, I promise.
Girl 1: She was... she was with a guy.
Girl 2: You mean..! *too shocked for words*
Girl 1: Yes, they were on an actual date.
Girl 2: I don't believe it! I realise how you must be feeling. *hugs* Well, how quaint!
Girl 1: It's not quaint, it's awful. Maybe we were too poor to own a computer so she had to go out and physically meet a boy.
Girl 2: I'm so sorry. This is really sad. It's totally... I mean... who would've thought?! Your mother looks so cool and technologically advanced. Remember the time when we were just five years old and she debugged your first computer for you? No one who looked at her now would believe she went on a physical date in 2005!
Girl 1: Yes. Maybe she was a rebel. Maybe she had a difficult childhood or something. I'm going discuss this with my therapist. She's going to log on in about half an hour. I'm feeling really bad about it. I won't feel fine until I write it all in her chat window and save it in her archives to get it off my head.
Girl 2: Yes, you do that. Btw, how are you doing with Boy?
Girl 1: Oh well, I don't know. He's funny and I'm positively in love with his display pic. His homepage is awesome. I was instantly attracted to his web-profile you know, the same interests! He even sent me an e-card and a bouquet from SendaBouquet.com after our first cyberdate, but he tried to cyberkiss me on our second cyberdate. Can you imagine that?! I totally froze when I saw the kissing smiley in the window. I didn't know what to type. Also, his email signature says, "Reality is just a crutch for people who can't cope with drugs", and sometimes he seems pretty phased out in chat. And he so cannot multitask. Chatting to three people at the same time is his limit. So... I'm in two minds about taking this further.
Girl 2: Did you two skype yet?
Girl 1: Oh yes, we skyped and webcammed all night yesterday. Mom probably saw the light under my door or heard the keyboard tap-sounds and sent me a 'go to sleep' email. I mean, how could she? I'm just having some fun. At least I'm not going out on physical dates with boys and leaving physical photos for my daughters to find.
*pause*
Girl 1:Oh my God! I just realised... do you think my mother physically kissed real boys on her physical dates?!!!
Girl 2: Oh GROSS!!!!
Girl 1: I think I'm going to be sick...

Here, the scene fades away and I realise how other worldly and scary it is. Let's not wonder about how possible or impossible it is, but think of this as my own personal nod to 1984. If Mr. G. Orwell can write something as outrageously unthinkable (and engrossing) as that and be lauded for it, I don't think I'm losing it as yet.

One of those Seven things

2005-12-01T23:36:00.000+05:30

Ok, I have no idea how I was coerced into doing this. Yes, right. Coerced is the word here, but anyway, this person who I don't know what to call in my blog tagged me on one of those seven tag things that have been going around. Going around, like malaria or viral fever. Yes, quite apt.

I told him I won't do a good enough job but apparently the person who I don't know what to call in my blog thought otherwise. Either that or he's terribly sadistic, which I don't think is true because he sounds nice. Of course one cannot believe what one sees on messenger, for example, the sweet personality of the person who I don't know what to call in my blog, but then you do know what I'm trying to do here, right? No? Ok, well, what I'm trying to do is give the unnamed person cause for thinking twice about further tags by casting doubts on his sweet personality. Also, I might be delaying doing the needful.

Sigh, let's get it over with. Close your eyes and Go! (Don't hate me in the morning.)

Seven things I want to do in my life
1. (Everyone seems to want to write a novel, so...) Win the Booker.
2. Get into doing something that is fun. A job I mean. A fun job. Something creative. With awesome pay. And handsome Greek God type coworkers. And a lenient boss who is totally floored by my charm. Oh, and yes, flexible timings.
3. Tear a really high value currency note into teeny pieces and blow it into the wind. Obviously this will happen only when I'm filthy rich, so... you get the point.
4. Drive a superb car at high speeds on a long stretch of highway. This, obviously, cannot happen in India.
5. Win the Pulitzer. Hehehe... when I dream, I go all out.
6. Win the Filmfare and the National award for the same movie, which I will direct. And do we see a pattern here?
7. This one is classified. :p

Seven things I can do
1. Whistle better than my brother. Can carry off tunes too.
2. With all modesty, am kind of good with arty pics. Well, ok, taking pics in general.
3. Be a good listener.
4. Dance to 'Kahin Aag Lage Lag Jaye' and 'Dhol Baaje'. :p
5. Write reasonably well.
6. Enjoy the little things in life that most people miss out on.
7. Put mind over matter. Most times.

Seven things I say the most
1. Hmmm
2. Okies
3. Wha..? / Huh?
4. What you doing?
5. O pls
6. Nah / Nopes
7. Great God!

Seven things I can't do
1. Be photogenic. Why, oh WHY??!!!
2. Cook.
3. Show the slightest interest in other household type work.
4. Read Frederick Forsyth's "The Day of the Jackal" or "Gone With the Wind" - I tried too many times.
5. Play a musical instrument. I wish I could.
6. Get rid of my mood swings.
7. Resist food. Repeat exclamation in 1st point with more feeling.

Seven things that attract me to the opposite sex
1. Wit
2. Laughing eyes
3. Hands
4. An old world romantic charm. Sigh, I admitted it.
5. Well-placed belief in himself.
6. Experience or knowledge.
7. Soft hair. Not too long though.

Seven Celebrity Crushes
1. Milind Soman
2. Milind Soman
3. Milind Soman
4. Clive Owen
5. Salman Khan
6. Zaheer Khan
7. Zayed Khan
(This list is suspect because I really can't think past Milind Soman.)

Seven people I tag
Are you joking? You actually think there's someone here who reads this blog who has a blog of his / her own who would want to be tagged? Can I tag you back, person who I don't know what to call in my blog? Can I?

Oh, but I have to mention the two people who've elevated the Seven tag into an art form.
The Box and deepa. Hope this makes up for not tagging anyone. It damn well will.

Just in: Right, I found someone who would have liked to be tagged. Yay! I had no idea this thing would go beyond the confines of my blog. I thought it was destined to die a slow and painful, well not really, a quick and painless death right here but it has shown me how resilient it is. Crossing oceans and cultures, I bounce the tag on to MsShadow.

Utter Deprivation Ahead

2005-11-28T17:19:00.000+05:30

Ok, I have committed to the GM Diet from tomorrow. I found it on the net and then called up mom and asked her to bring the Day One fruits. That's it. Done. Can't back out now. My faithful readers, please pray for me. I will be much obliged. Also, I might be reduced to food-craving induced ramblings from tomorrow, so please bear with that.

Mom was highly excited when I called her up and told her I'll be on the diet. She almost behaved like I won the Booker. But of course, that's yet to happen. Maybe in a couple of years or so. Watch this space. Until then, I'll let her reserve her excitement for the mundane dietic tendencies of her multi-talented and exceptional daughter. I'm kind that way.

Now, regular readers might know how I feel about diets. I do not like fruits. Nor do I like veggies. I might be able to force down the non-veg bit, well, ok, I will enjoy it and the milk part is also good. But tomorrow... tomorrow I have to face a day full of fruits. Watermelon, apples, oranges, and pomegranates. But I put my foot down at Papayas. I'm glad I was very firm about that. It's very important not to bow down to these diets in their entirety. I have retained my individuality and decision-making powers by saying no to Papaya. Yeah! Say No To Papaya!!! That shall be my new diet motto. The diet doesn't control me, I control the diet. Do you feel the power?!

Neverthless, I shall continue to deprive myself of fine food in some vague quest for happiness. That sentence contradicts itself, but let's not look at it too deeply. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow will be mine. Why do I feel like Christopher Columbus or some other such famous captain from the past setting out on some back-breaking and otherwise bleak journey? Are you with me in saying that this comparison is totally wrong? I should perhaps feel like, say, Malaika Arora when she goes for her 4 hours of daily workout. Yes, that's probably more appropriate.

On that satisfying note, I shall sign off. Actually, I shall go because I can smell something burning and I think I should shut the computer down. I'm having visions of the whole thing exploding and embedding little shards of glass in my face, killing me instantly. And I would not want to die just when I'm about to attain slimness and perfect body shape.

Oh, ok, well, I was just informed that the burning smell is because they're spraying that gas or whatever chemical it is they spray to keep mosquitoes or whatever insect or disease away. It smells like burnt diesel at the back of my throat and makes me nauseous. If it keeps like this, I won't have much trouble with the diet. Perhaps the mosquito repellant fellow could have come tomorrow. Sigh. I'm all out of luck. Nothing ever happens at the right time.

Anyway. Tomorrow. Diet. B'bye.

Piyo Sar Utha Ke

2005-11-24T14:36:00.000+05:30

Yes. That ad. Not the Jassi or the Rathore one. I'm talking of the Aamir Khan Coke ad. For the uninitiated, download the ad from here. I take my ads seriously. Also, I'm very nitpicky about them. Where an ad shows potential and doesn't fulfill it, I mourn the opportunity like it was something personal. And the Aamir Coke ad, it almost ripped my heart out, made me forget to breathe, and each time I view it, I have to ground my teeth and clench my hands in frustration. So the first time I watched it... well, the experience has to be described in detail.

Sar uthta hai sammaan main
Sar uthta hai prarthna mein
Sar uthta hai laad mein
Sar uthta hai... kabhi bas yun hi
Sar uthta hai pyaar mein
Sar uthta hai jashn mein

The words. So apt. The music. Just right. The visuals. Exquisite. Those perfect rows of young cadets, galli cricket and the little sardarji praying for a big hit, the little girl doing grown up things and being allowed to do them in such a sweet gesture of indulgence... then that awesome woman sitting on the top of that wow type car, which reminds me of the lovely Sumo Victa ad ("Zindagi ki rahon mein zimmedarian to aati hain... bas kuchh hi log unhe nibha jaate hain. Kuchh log Sumo chalate hain." That one.)

Then comes the best visual of them all, or what would be the best if I could decide between all the cool ones. Well, the one where the guy is kneeling down and offering a rose in a sort of a proposal, mouthing 'I love you' - Sar uthta hai pyaar mein - and then you see the other side of it and there's this little girl who shakes her hand, dismissing him in the sweetest, most adorable way possible. I almost went "awwwwww..." out loud when I saw it. (Please note, almost. I'm not that far gone yet, though I might be in the near future if people keep making cool ads.) Then the scene where the graduates are celebrating.

The ad is an absolute visual treat till then. It looks rain-washed and sqeaky clean, like people sat and airburshed each scene until it was perfectly shining with the colours and the detail. Oh, the rich vividness of it all! Actually, apart from the visuals, it's perfect in the copy and music departments too. Till here, I'd say is the 'build up' part of the ad.

Now we come to the conclusion. There's this dip in the music and Aamir comes in...

Aur sar hamesha uthta hai Coca Cola ke saath

With that the music swells and the tempo picks up. He looks cool, though a bit old, but we forgive him that when we see him give the most comfortable Coca Cola enjoying smile at the end of the ad. That man is a natural at endorsements (though I hate, hate, hate his Mannu Bhabhi). I'm a happy puppy till this point in the ad and I'm thinking Coke's come up with a lovely campaign...

Then... oh then... it happens.

Najaane kitne hothon ko chhoo raha hai

At this point, the ad dies. Whatever came before this is all wiped out and I'm left staring at the screen with a stupefied expression. I simply cannot believe it. There is a heavy weight at the pit of my stomach and I can feel the death of the ad as it was my own. Such a gaffe! Oh Lord, such a mis-step that one line is. How could they do it? How?!

A long forgotten voice is resurrected in my mind due to that one line, and those words, those words which were so often repeated in my childhood come back to haunt me. "Beta bottle ku moonh lagake mat piyo. Pata nai kitne log moonh lagaye. Kitni gandagi...!" And saying that, my petite grandmother (R.I.P) would give such a heartfelt little expression of disgust that her whole body would quiver with the emotion. So even though as children, it would be a real high to drink from the bottle like grown ups, that expression and that shudder would make us look at the bottle like there were the vilest type of earthworms or some other sluggy insects crawling all over it, leaving slimy after-trails. Glasses would miraculously appear just then and we would pounce on them with relief, thanking our stars that we were not drinking from bottles that had been touched by the mouths of thousands of Coke drinkers before us.

And now... now they actually tell us in the ad, in specific terms, that those bottles have been touched by the lips of so many people. And as if we, the people, have not understood the sentiment in that sentence, they proceed to show us visuals of hordes of people drinking with Coke bottles pressed to their mouths. How can somebody be so dumb? Why commit such a suicidal act? Why? What in God's name were you thinking ad makers?

By now I'm such a wreck that I completely miss the last part of the ad. Only the visuals register, not their beauty, but the eye narrows down on the mouth part of the face of the many Coke drinkers who are so oblivious to the anguish they're putting me through. The horror refuses to leave me. I'm numb. Why couldn't they have used the cans that are not recycled? What happenend to the plastic bottles? They are a bit more hygienic when it comes to thinking of these things. Visions of slimy glass bottles assault me and I'm no longer a coherent TV viewer. Will I ever be the same again, I ask myself.

Sigh. The solution: If the ad had been left to me, I'd have stopped the running commentary after Aamir's line. I'd have let the music flare up around the visuals then. The lovely dhol beats that sound so mind-blowing on the surround sound with the woofer on... those would have been enough to convey the majesty of the ad. A perfect crowning glory to a breathtakingly beautiful ad. Let the scenes and the music do the talking. And then, at the end, Aamir saying those by now famous words - Coca Cola... Piyo Sar Utha Ke. Ah, that would have been absolute perfection.

In·so·ma·ni·a (n.)

2005-11-17T04:33:00.000+05:30

When the chronic inability to fall asleep or remain asleep for an adequate length of time induces mental and physical hyperactivity, disorganization of behavior, and elevation of mood.

[Latin însomnia, from însomnis, sleepless, and Greek maniâ: in-, not; + somnus, sleep, and Middle English, madness, Late Latin]

Lately, I've not been sleeping for more than 2.5 hours at a time. Moreover, these 2.5 hours happen at the oddest of times in the 24 hours. One could argue that there are no odd times during a day, merely tried and trusted ones, because after all, days are nothing but cyclical and repetitive. Anyhow, by odd, I mean odd for sleep. Normal people do not sleep from 5:30 - 8:00 p.m. Nor from 1:00 - 3:30 a.m. and while I certainly do not claim normality in most areas of life, I was once a normal eight-plus hour sleeper. Now, I'm the 2.5 hour non-normal non-sleeper.

This state of non-sleep has been having severe repercussions in my social life (or whatever passes for it nowadays. (Yes, I know I need a life. (Do not say it. (Thank you)))). I now have time for all those IM people situated all over the world. I'm perpetually available around the clock. I can talk to anybody anywhere at whatever time it suits them. Idaho? Yes, I'm here. London? Sure. Dubai. Yup, here. India? Oh yes. Australia? Present ma'am. This is grave indeed because I'm sure everyone knows what too much of a good thing can do to people. I think some of them have been secretly hating me for the past week or so, but they won't tell me and I know but I won't tell them that I know, and they probably know that I know but they still will not come out and tell me. It's a secretive world we live in, for appearances.

Another problem with the sleeplessness has been the mania. The mood has been excessively manic. Like a bipolar disorder without the depression. I've been all sunshiny and hyper. This is good in small doses, but not for days. There are times when one is supposed to be composed, sedate even. Nobody can tolerate an excessively happy person continuously. Not even your own mother. It's just not possible. There will come a time when you will want to slap the person because she's grinning too much. It gets on your nerves like that. Entirely normal. So the only possible reason why I haven't been slapped yet is because it's kind of hard to slap through IM windows. (Yes, I did tell you my life revolves around those, didn't I?)

But wait, I'm being very superficial here! Shouldn't I be more worried about the health problems that can arise from not getting enough sleep? Or the under-eye circles? Or the hair fall? Does one suffer from hair fall if one doesn't sleep enough? Whatever... let's just blame it on sleeplessness and get on. I'm sure there are too many other things to worry about. Like... what if I'm losing my youth? There's this tiny old lady who lives opposite our house who wakes up at 2:30 in the morning and cooks. Yes, cooks. Our balcony overlooks her kitchen, with the road in between, and whenever we're up late, we can hear her pottering around in there.

Wait. Why am I thinking about her now? Of course I'm not going to go dotty like that just yet. I'm not. It's not my time. It's just a little sleep, nothing else. What's 2 hours or 8 hours? Nothing major. Not sleeping doesn't mean I've gone crazy, does it? Even though I've used big words like mania and bipolar disorder in this post, it doesn't mean that I'm losing my marbles. Of course it doesn't. Yes. I'm quite okay without sleep, thank you.

The sleep will come. One just has to believe in it.

Hobo

2005-11-12T17:01:00.000+05:30

There's this boy... he's the son of my father's childhood friend / companion / playmate. Quite a sweet little wee one he is. He's at that age where one is all solemn about growing up. Nineteen I'd say if I had to make a guess. And the fact that he's lived his entire life in the US makes him even more adorable bcause he has that slightly confused and blank look when he speaks to my grandmother in Urdu. Hehehe. Such loveliness.

I like him. He's too cute. We have a nice enough relationship. But everytime he comes to my house I'm in this state of absolute yuckiness. Most times I'm still in my nightdress and today (oh my God, the horror!), I had oiled hair. I mean, at the best of times, I'm not this alluring, nice-looking person, but when I have oil in my hair, I turn into some really ugly person. Why, why, WHY??!

The thing is that I'm not bothered enough about him to not go out in front of him in this state, but I am bothered enough to be traumatized by it. So why can't God be kind to me sometimes and have him come over when I've washed my hair and am wearing something decent? Why? Why does my laziness have to be paraded before him everytime? I think there's this image of perpetual homelessness in his head about me. And it is so right. I mean, that's all he's seen me as so it would not be his fault.

But God, please, just one miracle. Let me be washed-hair-pretty and dressed ok for once and then let him encounter me. Let me not be anyone's thought-image of a tramp. Please. Just this one plea. That's all I ask. For now. Please, please, please.

Right. Now I go wash my hair.

Subtitles

2005-11-10T09:44:00.000+05:30

I just saw this funny video about subtitles. So what's that got to do with this post? Well, with me, it's not so easy to stop thinking. And sometimes when I think, it doesn't necessarily have to be along sane lines.

I was thinking about how wrong the word 'subtitles' is (among other wrong words in the English language. Really, the language is too mad!) Just think about it. The word subtitles is made up of two words. 'Sub' and 'titles'.*

'Sub' is neither meant to be short for substitute here nor is it meant to be submarines or subway sandwiches. And here, please do not even think of sub/dom lifestyles because I apparently haven't. This is a U-rated blog. And if you know what sub/dom is without googling and you're below 18 years of age, then chain your left arm and left leg to the nearest wall and give yourself 60 lashes while sticking a needle into your.... Well, ahem, let's not get carried away. Coming back to what I was saying, when I think about it, 'sub' might have been used a prefix that means secondary or beneath, as in subhuman or substandard. Makes sense.

Which brings us to 'titles'. There is nothing about the way the word is used which suggests that it's a title. It's not. It's merely a translation. Trust the English (the people) to come up with majorly confusing English (the language) issues. Why do they have to confuse the hell out of us innocent peace-loving rest-of-the-world people? Sigh.

So here, let me start a petition to change the word 'subtitles' to 'the translation of what the character on screen is saying, the text of which appears on the screen on the bottom in a language that can presumably be understood by the person watching', which is what it should have been to begin with. That would have saved us such a lot of unnecessary blogging. It's so simple and direct, not to mention exact in meaning with regard to what it intends to convey. I don't know why the English (the people) didn't think of it...

*These sentences reminded me of the following quote.
Maybe in order to understand mankind, we have to look at the word itself:
"Mankind". Basically, it's made up of two separate words - "mank" and "ind".
What do these words mean ? It's a mystery, and that's why, so is mankind. - Jack Handy.
And everyone needs to read his other quotes. Such hilarious madness indeed!

Growing Up, Father's Shoes and Mother's Bangles

2005-11-09T12:26:00.000+05:30

It is said that a son comes of age when he fills his father's shoes. (I tried googling that to find a link to that particular saying, but couldn't find anything remotely like that so you'll just have to take my word for it. Yes, I googled. I take my blogging seriously. How jobless are you?) I believe a girl comes of age when she can wear her mom's bangles. That's only because my mom has really tiny feet. I'd have been a grown up at about 5 years if the only criteria was filling her shoes. Or sandals. Or whatever her footwear is. I have my father's feet, unfortunately. Horribly huge. Size 10. Very ungainly for a girl. Yes, please pray for me.

There's also a bit of a problem with the bangles theory now. Because you see, my mother's hands are also too small. Childlike. And also very... uhmmm... what's the word... contortionistic? Malleable? Ahh supple! She once slipped on the bangles of my 10 year old cousin, but let's not live through traumatic memories now. This is no catharsis going on here, we'll do that some other day. The point is that her hands are also too small, which I'm thinking is a good thing because you cannot have a small body and small feet and huge hands. My mother is alrightly proportioned, that she is.

But then that poses a problem for me, because my saying doesn't really work that way. It isn't very easy for me to admit that my size of bangles got a bit larger than my mother's when I was about 13-or-so years old. She actually wore smaller bangles than I did. This totally overturns our... oh ok... my theory. But let's not give up hope just yet, because there have been certain recent developments which have warmed my cochleae cordis (yay! link!).

Just after I bought my Eid bangles, I realised that they looked quite huge on my hand. I didn't give it much thought then, but two days later when I saw my mother's kaanch ke choodis on our computer table, I thought why not try them on. And I did. And they fit. In fact, I have them on now. I've been wearing them for two days. Continuously. I slept with them on too. Now please, do not speculate about the kind of person I am or my mental capability from this isolated incident. Thank you.

Thus, this, my dear people, proves that I've grown up.

My Mom's a Gyno

2005-11-07T02:37:00.000+05:30

Please note: My mom is a Gyno.

The italics in that sentence mean that you do not ask me embarrassing questions about womanly matters. I do not know why your period is delayed or has come early this month. I don't know what you should eat to delay it or to make it regular. I do not know anything about what hormones to take. I don't even know why you're losing hair, although I do not think that's a gynecologist's domain. I studied my basic biology in school, same as you. I never even dissected a frog. We just did cheek cells... and it's a long way to the uterus from there.

I have no idea why my friends consider me the expert on all things that need to be referred to a Gyno. The most recent case was when a friend thought she had miscarried and asked me if she really did. Now, she's in Melbourne and I'm in Hyderabad. I think, even if I was qualified, I'd need to be in the same room to answer that question. Descriptions of bloodied innards coming out followed (at least that's how it seemed) and my pukiness meter constantly fluctuated and threatened to go through the roof. This amid my protests that I will not know anything about miscarriages and its really futile to ask me.

"But your mom's a gyno!" she said.

Right. So right! My mom's a gyno and I am not. I do not accompany her on her rounds or inside those operation theatres. Yes, I'm intelligent and well read, but still, her compounder would give you better advice than I could. I seriously do not know why Taz had that complication after her delivery. How would I know??! Even after she told me all about epidurals and labour pains and other things, even when she described the six hour long delivery in minute detail, I still could not know why her neck felt wooden the next day after the delivery. Why am I expected to know?

"Cos your Mom's a gyno," she said.

Sigh. Well, she is. And I'm forced into being the quack Gyno. Why, oh why?! Does this happen to everyone? Is a cardiologist's son expected to know of matters of the heart? Do neurologists' sons take up cases about sick nerves? Does a sexologist's son... well, maybe if he's interested enough. But really, isn't this crazy? I really do not know anything about what my mother studied, or does for a living. I'm my own self, apart from her. Really. We do not have heart-to-heart conversations about female problems. Never had. In fact, we didn't even have the birds and bees discussion. So really. Please, just stop it. I don't know why things happen to you. I'm perfectly willing to get my mother on the phone and you can ask her. I cannot help it if you're shy and cannot talk to her but would prefer to ask me. I still do not know!

"But how can you not know? You're a Gynecologist's daughter!" she screams.

Well, sadly, it's not in the blood. Otherwise, I'm also an agricultural scientist's daughter. One who invented a new kind of tomato. I don't see you asking me about tomatoes, do I? Huh? C'mon. Ask me. Go on. I'm the tomato girl. What's wrong now? Why don't you?

It's all about what you need. Always.

Aunt?! gasp

2005-11-01T03:33:00.000+05:30

Visited Taz a few days ago. On Friday to be exact. She had a baby. On the 14th of this month.

How was it? It was weird. I mean, really. She was one of us. Now she's this grown up person. Of course a lot of it was the swelling from the pregnancy but more than the appearance, she's responsible for this little thing. Isn't that scary? Sure, her attitude hasn't changed. She's kind of taking it easy about the lil one right now, but, well, breast feeding?! How can that be the same? She has changed. Times have changed. Most of us have changed. She was one of us. Now she's the mother of this little wriggling pink thing which came out of her. Gross! GROSS!

The lil one is without a name yet. And she's... well... little. I won't say cute. There's something ugly about most babies that small. The good part starts from maybe about five months onwards. Then they become absolutely adorable. All of them.

I still want one of my own.

Making all the Wrong Records

2005-10-21T20:12:00.000+05:30

The first - I woke up at 4:30 p.m. today. Of course I slept at about 6 in the morning, but 4:30 is still a bit much.

Now, about the laughing Buddha. I love it. Totally, unreservedly. It's just too cute for words. That still d oesn't explain why my stomach insists on simulating being the laughing Buddha's stomach. I was horrified today. There's a kind of a... bulge... when I sit on this computer chair. And knowing me, I cannot stop sitting on this chair. So, it's down to being horrified and ashamed and panic-stricken and very very concerned. Sigh.

Why I wish cancer was just a disease

2005-10-10T01:39:00.000+05:30

It all began innocently enough. My brother sent me an email with the subject - Google failure or US failure. In it was a the by-now-famous thing about typing "failure" (without quotes) into google's search text box then pressing the 'I'm Feeling Lucky' button. It leads you to a page with George W. Bush's biography - apparently a government page. You'll agree, it was innocent enough. But then I made my first mistake. Or maybe it was the second one after doing what the mail suggested, but anyway, what I did was that I actually started reading the page instead of smiling and closing it after I got the joke. But no, I had to read it.

Among the first things I noticed was that he has twin daughters, Jenna and Barbara Bush. Well, nice, I guess. Then I read that he's married to - First Lady Laura Bush. That's how it's written. Somehow I couldn't figure that out. It just isn't right. I somehow don't think First Lady is part of her name, she got to be that when he became the President, and when you're writing about who the President of the United States is married to, I think the best way to put it is - the first lady, Laura Bush. Yes? No need for capitalising the first and the lady even. Ok, ok... I know it's the editor in me who's not yet dead, but I'm trying to quash that, yes, I'm trying. But really! Even if First Lady Laura Bush is exactly how they have to write it according to American law or something, it's just so wrong! That's it. I have pronounced. You, minion, shall concur.

Then, hold your hearts o ye faithful readers of my blog (who am I kidding), I read that he was born on July 6, 1946. And I took a deep breath, curled up and died. Well, I didn't really, but how I wish. How I wish! Because the date - it is exactly a day before my own birthday if you don't take into account the year of course. Which means, (gasp!) that the dumbest President of the United States shares my sunsign. Next follows the thought that the Crabs are supposed to be homely. And I think yes, he's probably got my share of the homeliness too. Then I stop myself short just as the horror begins to dawn upon me. What the hell am I doing??!!! I am somehow associating him with me! In whatever vague roundabout way, I am reaching out to him from accross the oceans and feeling at one with him. (Please, all say with me - Yuccckkkkk!)

So I do the only thing possible that can save my sanity. (Hehehe... I said 'my sanity'. Tee hee. My sanity. Hehe. My sanity? My sanity? Such a deliciously abstract concept!) I back up into denial. Yes, I do that very well, I'm the denial queen. Unfortunately I could not deny his birth or mine or the days on which we were respectively born, but I did the next best thing. I denied the whole sunsigns concept. I mean, to think that a person is the same type as someone who was born anytime in an entire month with him. That's surely madness. So I now believe in stars and their alignment. Obviously, when I was born, the stars were in some definite point in their journey across the cosmos. And when GWB was born, they were in another definite point. That definitely makes us infinitely different because the stars, they keep moving every minute, every socond. So I'd be the same as someone born in the exact same second as me and no one else. So it makes us several hours different when each precious second counts. And when we consider the years... whew! See why I am so much more evolved and smarter than him? Yes? I always knew I could run 10 Americas at once.

Angst

2005-10-09T00:33:00.000+05:30

I just realised that the word angst makes up part of the word gangster. Gangster. See? Right there. I'm not sure how they are related and what the hidden meaning of that is. I'm not writing this in my blog to speculate about whether gangsters are angst-ridden (of course they are) but because the thought just occured to me and I thought that my random madness should be captured in its entirety. Well, I have. Captured.

I present to you... the Family!

2005-09-30T23:14:00.000+05:30

Cast of characters:
Amma - the grandmother
Papa - the father
Mamma - the mother
Baba - the grandfather
Maid: the... well, maid.

* * * * *

Amma: Machine theek se nai chalri.
Papa: Kaunsi machine?
Mamma: Machine MaCHIne!
Papa: Washing machine?
Mamma: Nahi ji. Seene ki machine.
(Too many machines around...)

* * * * *

Baba leisurely takes off his running shoes (which he doesn't use for running, thank God!) after coming back from wherever he's been, then looks at them and back at his feet in amazement.
Baba: I didn't wear socks in them.
Papa: It's a little late to wonder about that, don't you think?
Mamma and I start giggling.
Baba: They're laughing at me. I say I didn't wear socks and they laugh at me!
(I think he's caught my alzy. Maybe even the dramatizing.)

* * * * *

Papa, while talking his daily cup of coffee from the maid: Did you make it with water?
Maid: No, diet milk.
Papa: I told you to put half a cup of water. We're fat.
Mamma: Just give him a glassfull of water from tomorrow.
(She's very conscious about diet - ours)

* * * * *

They're very entertaining sometimes.