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.

Profound What-Ifs Crashing into Consciousness at Inconsequential Moments

2005-09-24T20:20:00.000+05:30

A recent (religious) discussion had me examining my beliefs while I was brushing my teeth this morning (actually, the morning was more of an afternoon). Now, going through my beliefs is something which is not very comfortable at the best of times, and while brushing teeth, well, I wouldn't recommend it. Nevertheless, it happened. The thoughts that ran through my head in the approx. ten minutes that it takes to brush...

- What if you all aren't real. You all. I'm real enough but what if everybody else is just something that my mind has made up. What if I'm living in a world which I've made up in it's entirety. What if there's no reality outside of my mind, but only within it. What if I'm totally and unreservedly believing my imagination and I'm the only person there ever was and ever will be.

- What if there's no heaven or hell but the real place we're going to end up in after we die is a creepy laughing house of those crazy mirrors in a carnival and there's going to be a deranged, murderous clown in the funhouse.

- What if the whole world exists in a big bubble and the time we're here is just a second or two in all of Time... and as soon as the fragile world bubble bursts, we're all going to get washed down a huge cosmic drain and drown. What if the last thing I'm ever going to see is a huge living being staring curiously down at me through the holes of the drain-cap while I am sucked away by the pressure, shouting and screaming. And he'll frown and wonder what I was.

And what if all of the three scenarios above are true at the same time.

This really happened. Yes. Sometimes, I manage to scare even myself. Maybe I'm slowly going insane. But then again, maybe it's just time to change my toothbrush.

Analysing the verb, or, verbalysing that which is anal

2005-09-20T22:47:00.000+05:30

It has always amused me the way my British-curriculum-schooled Bahrain cousins said they were going to 'make' kakka. Kakka - that's the babyname for the more solid of the biological human wastes. Or, to put it bluntly, for shit. Now my point is that one doesn't make shit. We make other things. Like Nargisi Koftas, for example. I do concede that there's a bit of a similarity between the two, particularly in terms of colour... but the shape... well, if we could only lay it out in rounded strips instead of rolling them into balls, maybe there'd be a case here... but, and this is a huge but, the similarity ends there. There's the taste to think of. And the smell. And one goes in one end, the other comes out the other. Perhaps we could put it this way - Some shit was once nargisi kofta. But that's very rare. One doesn't have nargisi kofta all that frequently. Anyhow, now that we have the relationship somewhat hammered out, let's get on with it.

Coming back to what I was saying, we do not make kakka. We do it. The correct verb, people, is do. For I do not see us actually making the stuff. Nor would I want to really, and I do suppose something inside us does make it, not out of thin air, but then what is made out of thin air anyway? Well, mirages are, now that I think of it, but you can't really count those as they aren't really real. You know what I mean? Anyway, here, the point is that somehere inside you, the stuff is made, sure, but when you're saying you're about to go to the toilet and, well, do your stuff, you're not actually making it in there at that moment, are you? You're just getting rid of the alreadymade stuff. Alreadymade - that's a new word I invented just now. And I quite like it too. Therefore, coming back to the point, what you're supposed to say is, I'm going to do shit.

Which doesn't sound quite right either. Drat the language! Hmmm... ok, what you can do is, you can say you're going to shit. Yes. Shit, apart from being a noun, is also a verb. Of course, it's also an exclamation (Shit! What happened to your hair?!), and lots of other things, but we'll leave that for another day. So the correct expression here is, I'm going to shit.

Which might be quite okay with the less evolved among us, but I can see how that phrase is going to give little old ladies apoplexy at the least and instant heart attacks if it comes to the worst. Let's face it, it's not very socially correct to announce that you're going to shit. Actually, at this point, I'm wondering why you're announcing it in the first place. I mean, you can just go and do your thing, but just for argument's sake, let's say you do have to let people know of your absence, we would like to determine what's the best thing to say in such circumstances. And I vote for - Excuse me. I need to go to the washroom.

Which is exactly what civilized people say when they need to 'make kakka'. Learn, Bahrain cousins. Learn! That sentence is correct and socially mature and vague enough. There is no way anyone is going to nitpick about it. Certainly not me. And if anyone else does, well, at least they're not going to rant about it to this extent.Therefore, it's safe enough to use. Whew!

Now... I also wonder why they say they'll take a shower. What exactly are they 'taking' in there...?

Made-up Reality

2005-09-19T17:04:00.000+05:30

He had always believed, after all, that happiness was simply a matter of choice. You could either wallow in regret, even drown in it, or you could choose not to. But he had underestimated the power of habit. Because once you'd started wallowing, pretty soon that's all you were fit for. You grew fins and webbed feet so you could wallow even better. Hell, maybe you even got to enjoy it a little. And then when you thought that was enough and it was time to haul yourself out and go walking on dry land again, you found you couldn't. You had evolved into some wretched swamp-dwelling creature that had forgotten how to do it.

- Nicholas Evans

The Smoke Jumper, pg. 387.

Of course it works the other way round too. Make a habit of happiness. It's rarely ever what life gives to you that makes you happy or unhappy. That's just an excuse to be that way. Sounds too far-fetched? Isn't really. I remember this time I told Taz that the mind is a very powerful thing. How, she asked me. Well, I struggled to explain, it's like this... whatever you think, is. She didn't get it. I started gathering an explanation out of the drizzle around us. You see, I said, this rain falling on us now... it's cold, right? She nodded. But it doesn't affect you if you don't let it, I continued. You can feel cold and shiver like you're doing right now, or you can put mind over matter and feel the warmth if you think about it. She frowned. Close your eyes, I said, imagine you're warm. Feel you're warm. Let the liquid warmth run in your veins. Feel it minutely... give yourself up to it. Believe it, and it is. She tried. She really did for a couple of minutes. Na-uh, I still feel cold, she said. I wished I had a sweater.

Maybe I'm no good with explanations. The theory still stands though.

I Hate Birthday Parties

2005-07-24T22:31:00.000+05:30

Really, I wouldn't mind not going to one in the rest of my life. They're nothing but torture. This is probably an extension of the 'I hate social gatherings' syndrome, but it is important enough to have its own post. The cake, the syrupy sweet Happy Birthday song, the eats, the embarrassed smile on the face of the person whose birthday it is, the sickly sweet anecdotes about the person that guests feel obliged to relate but everyone else ignores, the presents which do not have much thought behind them, all these get to me.

I was dragged to a birthday party today. Not literally, though I don't think that the day is far off. Apart from all the things mentioned above, the additional bad things about this one were:

1. It was the birthday of the daughter of my ex-crush. I had a massive crush on this person for all of ten years (which was documented for posterity here). That crush is a big deal to me and I strongly feel nobody should be allowed to see their ex-crush's wives or children who are in the wrong age group. It does something really screwy to their mental well-being.

2. There was a scrawny black-all-over kitten who kept getting between everyone's feet, mewling pitifully all the while. I think it got kicked once or twice too, though one can never be sure with children who look innocent the moment you look at them closely. I was too worried to eat because I had my eye and attention on the kitten. I was seriously wondering if it would be alive by the end of the evening. And obviously, you cannot think about eating birthday cake when kittens are about to die around you.

3. There were 13 children crammed into a three-bedroom house. Do I need to elaborate? About two days like that would drive me into becoming a knife-weilding, child-carving maniac. Maybe I should seriously rethink having children.

4. I had to stay there for all of 5 hours. Does one lose IQ points off one's score if one is subjected to long periods of boredom?

There surely could have been some way in which we could have been spared the humiliation of going through birthdays. I would have loved it if people weren't born on one particular day, but miraculously came into being over a period of time (or were assembled from parts born on different days maybe?) But no, someone would surely think of celebrating the completion date. Or (horror!!!) maybe even multiple birthdays. I should be content with what I have. It could be worse...

What happened to Chor Police?

2005-07-21T22:56:00.000+05:30

A set of cousins are playing behind the computer chair. Five year olds, both of them, born to different parents. I've been trying to make out what they're playing for the past 20 minutes and I might be able to repeat what the elder one calls himself if I can only make out what he's saying. It sounds different each time but he insists its the same name all through. I'm pretty sure it starts with an X though. Followed by a B?

Right, let's forget the name, their game itself is pretty complicated. Some instructions mumbled in what I suppose are walkie-talkies and hands spread and flicked here and there clutching what I think are capes. Detectives? Superheroes? The next moment one seems to be clutching his heart and dying while the other dances around him. Tribals? A while later one is preening in front of the mirrors while the other looks like he's haggling in a market. Housewives? I look away for a moment and the elder one is spinning some kind of a wheel and saying he will open the way to a new world through that. Teleportation? The little one points a pencil at the other and says 'pssht pssshhhht'. The elder waves his hands, says 'ksssshrrrr...' and the psssht fellow squeals. Yes, squeals. Like an animal. But he sounds pretty amused and is grinning. Doesn't look like the 'ksshhhrrr' was something bad. I catch something about a spaceship in their chatter. All this, they assure me is from a cartoon they see on TV. I ask, is it a mixture of different cartoons? No, they answer. Just one.

The action is amidst the sing-song voice of badly dubbed cartoons. Stilted, formal, north-indian accents. Complete with dramatic voices and weird inflections. Tum ney mujhe woh diya tha? Nahi! Maine usey kho diya hai. Ab hamara kya hoga!! Hum kshitij kaise paar karenge?! Or something like that. Big hindi words which I don't know myself.

They seem so sure and so in tune with each other while making up these complicated games. Some part of my brain says it's making perfect sense to them even while it seems too perplexing to me. I can't help but feel a bit envious. All we had was drab House House, Doctor Patient and Cops and Robbers.

All Taxed Out

2005-07-20T23:58:00.000+05:30

I did my Income Tax calculations for the first time today. I think it should be made mandatory for criminals and men to fill up a tax form a day. This is merely man-hatred merging with tax-form-filling-hatred. We will ignore further references to man-hatred if it comes up again. We will instead concentrate on 40% of my salary less HRA and Pension Fund plus house rent or insurance. And how much DA, PA and PDA I get. There were four pages of these insane questions.

My first question was, "What's a rebate?" Now, in hindsight, I realize I've done really good cos I can see how dumb I was before starting. I wanted something like a Filling Tax Forms for Dummies, but Dad came home armed with forms and an unholy determination to make me see light with regard to filing my own income tax returns.

And so I filed. I went through four pages of crazy questions and calculations at the end of which, in a small, tiny font it said that I was not in the tax bracket. My income was not going to be taxed. This I was told, in a tiny, miniscule font, at the end of the damn document! Now if this information had been at the beginning, I wouldn't have gone through all that because I have not earned enough September through February to pay any taxes! Bloody assholes, people who make tax forms. No brains. Stupid men.

Now my vision of Hell is a calculator, a desk and a chair with a stack of tax forms and a devil with a whip in his hand.

Meet Thy Maker

2005-07-11T22:29:00.000+05:30

Yesterday as I was lying on my bed, I heard the soft drone a plane. And it grew louder. And still louder. And then Louuudddderrrrrr. And I had that image again. The recurring one. The one where a plane comes crashing into my house, the nose coming straight for my bed where I'm lying, all innocent and unaware (yes, with all the noise and tonnage being hurled at me, so unaware). I can see it clearly. So clearly, in minute detail. And then I don't know what happens, I just see the aftermath. The ruins and fire and smoke and people screaming and buring flesh and... well, the scene which happens when a plane crashes. This is somewhat disturbing because I will not be able to see things after I die, and I will die when a plane's nose seeks me. No gentle nudge, that. It's also disturbing because because it seems I'm fascinated by morbidity. (What if I grow up to be a serial killer?!) (I should stop using the phrase 'when I grow up'. Because, in the words of a moron, "How much more will you grow??!")

So back to the topic, I also imagine earthquakes turning my house into rubble, and I wonder at the fate of my grandparents on the second floor as two floors fall on them. Someone stop me.

Little Devils

2005-07-06T21:40:00.000+05:30

The cousins have been here for two weeks of their two month stay and I'm thoroughly sick of them now itself. They broke my photo frame. They broke my showpiece-thingie. My comb's missing. They smeared my bestest white dupatta with vile-smelling-transparent-something. My bedspread has an undistinguishable muddy-reddish stain. My room's a mess. My dressing table's a messier mess. They've downloaded stupid games and I get messages saying my hard disk is full. They're on the computer when I want to be on and they want to see cartoons on the TV while the other one's on the computer and and and and.... Grrrr! And I'm totally pissed off with them.

But, silver lining. Little one. What would the world be without babies? I can go hours playing with her and she's so utterly adorable. Sigh. Now I'll probably dissolve into baby-talk whereas mission of this post was to rant about older siblings' unsufferableness. Nevermind... it's just for a few weeks more. Approximately 6 weeks. That's... uhmmm... 45 days. Well, that doesn't so sound so bad. Hmmm. Ok, maybe I should think of it as 6 weeks instead of 45 days? Yes, that will help. Smaller number.

But Siling. That's short for silver lining. She's soooooooooo cute! I'm in danger of melting into pool of mushiness right here. Sighhh! They should never grow out of two years. That should be the limit. Then after 15 years of being two, they should be transformed miraculously on 17th birthday as 17 year olds. Isn't that so ideal? They will completely take a detour around the unnecessary childhood and the gawky, embarassing in-between period. Be reborn as confident, savvy, long-necked 17 year olds. No puppy fat to get rid of. No breaking of voice. No uncomfortable puberty. And moreover, a year to look forward to being 18 year old grown ups. It's the best thing that can ever happen. I wonder why God didn't think of it...

Adverb Advice or Grammar Guru?

2005-06-13T20:13:00.000+05:30

So my proof reader asks me what an adverb is. And, well, I don't know. Not exactly. Not really. Now, its not that bad cos I can identify it in a sentence where it's present, but I cannot tell her how I do it or define it. So then I think of nouns. Yes, those are things. She looks at me blankly. Like... chair, table... things like that. Blank stare continues. Names of things... like what you can call them. Those things are nouns. And adjectives are things which describe these things. Like beautiful, ugly, etc. And adverbs... they're well, like in this sentence see, 'slowly' is an adverb. She says ok and gets back to her work.

Here, just a warning. Adverbs. They are tricky little things. Beware of the adverbs.

I still sit thinking about adverbs for the whole day. I think. I ponder. I think I even scratch head and frown, but I'm not sure about that. And somehow through some complex process I realise that adverbs are things which describe verbs. Verbs are doing things. And adverbs describe doing things. Like snoring softly. Snoring is a verb and softly is the adverb. Phew! Mrs. Oommen didn't fail completely.

Then today co-worker asks me what's past perfect tense. How totally inconsiderate! Humph.

And I'm supposed to be an editor. Woe!

Watch It Slipping Through Your Fingers

2005-06-11T22:19:00.000+05:30

I'm impulsive. And I'm coming to the point where I cannot tolerate people I don't like. People who simper. That's such a sick word. One that rouses only disgust in me and then I lose myself and say something cutting to the person, probably something wildly derogatory and sarcastic. Sometimes they even get it.

Then there are those who play games, saying things they don't mean.

I was talking on the phone the whole night yesterday.
Oh, really.
Don't ask me with whom.

And there's the totally transparent invitation to ask. Just say it, dammit. Don't make me curl my hands up in an effort not to say the derisive things that jump to mind.And when I find both these things in one person, I want to maim her. I want to make sure her condition isn't hereditary. I want to make sure she's never sitting beside me at lunchtime, because I just might turn violent. But yesterday, it happened. Well, she sat next to me. And the abovementioned conversation happened. There I was, trying so hard not to do anything, not to say anything. So thank God I didn't. But I had vivid visions which I don't think I'll get into here. Just that they were... well... homicidal.

So this is why I don't get along with people. Cos I can't follow the rules. I say this and you say that and then I will say this and you ask that. I hate ordered, measured conversations. I'd much rather shock and be unpredictable. It's much more fun. So much more alive than insipid, meaningless words. And wit is treasured above all. If you make me laugh, I love you. Simple.

And hence, with all of the things I can't take, I realise I'll have many more enemies than I need. Where's that open-mindedness I pride myself on? Where's the tolerance? I need to be more accomodating. And that seems so hard right now. Sigh.

Supernova

2005-05-24T02:14:00.000+05:30

There's a capillary burst on my right arm. The inside of my upper arm, to be more precise. Pale yellow skin with little, sparse brownish hair and the striking red dotted cuteness against that. It looks awesome.

Or maybe like I've got the pox or rabies. Actually, what does rabies look like? Uhmm... let's say it's a skin rash. I know what a skin rash looks like.

I showed it to mom and she says it's a capillary burst. The doctor-patient conversation went like this.

Did you get hurt there?
No.
Did someone hold you very tightly?
No.
Then?
What then?
Then what happened?
Shrug.

And then she lost interest. What's with mom-doctors? How can they not know what's happened? How can they take it so lightly? Maybe a bug bit me. Maybe I'm contaminated. Maybe I will die a horrible death in the next few hours. Damn, she's my mother! She ought to be concerned, right? Right?

Well, on the other hand, or on the same hand, it does look pretty. (Hyuk. That was a bad one!)

And I finally told her I fainted. That conversation went like this.

I fainted last week.
When?!
Last week.
Where?
University.
You didn't tell me.
Shrug.

She lost interest.

Ooohh epiphany! There's a pattern here for ones who choose to see. Actually, you'd have to be blind not to. But seriously, lose the shrug, stupid. Be more involved. Result: mother-daughter, doctor-patient bonding. Voilà!

The Needle's Stuck

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

I ate today. I ate a lot today. I shouldn't have eaten a lot today. I shouldn't eat a lot any day. I totally hate people who are obsessed about food intake / weight. All that taken together, I want to change. I want to change from being obsessed about my weight and I want to change my weight. The duality in that sentence is making me go crazy. I am turning schizo about it.

I swear my thighs have grown since yesterday. Not that I measure them or anything (that would be madness), but they just look ENORMOUS. I'm scared just looking at them. It doesn't help that the dumb scale moved just one kilo down over the past two weeks. I mean I'm living on scraps and walking and killing myself and the damn thing doesn't even have the decency to move. The fat is just too stubborn. It is not budging.

This and the fact that I was home all day today made me pig out totally. Binge. At least I didn't eat anything sweet. That would have have destroyed me. Destroyed the diet I mean. I couldn't have gone back to denying everything all the time. Well, I don't really, but that's how it feels. I feel like I haven't eaten anything tasty for the last century or something. I'm down to thinking what something good tastes like. Today I was fantasizing about eating dal chawal. Imagine that! I realized that craving for dal chawal was getting really pathetic. So I made a decision. My sanity was a lot more important than my weight. Therefore, I succumbed to the madness. I mixed an enormous amount of rice and dal and pigged out.

Somebody help me.

Stupid in Love

2005-05-03T23:10:00.000+05:30

I'm getting good at dissuading people from making fools of themselves in the name of love. I wonder what goes wrong in their thinking that they cannot see what they're doing. No respect for consequences, no foresight, assuming things and blindly going and making asses of self. Do they stop thinking when they think they're in love? How can one have such a complete Dumbhead Syndrome?

Anyway, the point here is that I am getting to be some kind of an expert in talking them out of going ahead with stupid plans. I think I will make little visiting cards and distribute them. Open an agency-Foolproof it shall be called. "101 methods and ways to show you how to save face and dignity." Here is a little of the wisdom.

When you think you're in love:
1. Do not make plans. Because, seriously, your mind's screwed up.
2. Do not assume:
a. the other person loves you.
b. is aware of your feelings.
3. Talk to a sane person about it. Chances are, anybody other than you will be sane at that point of time.
4. Do not tell the parents and get them unecessarily worried that you're losing it. They birthed you (sounds like whales :D), so naturally they wouldn't like you acting mentally challenged.
5. Please, really, this is important, pay attention: Think before you act. Think of how it will affect all concerned. Do not be selfish, sicko.

I've had three successful cases in the past. Of making people realise that what they're thinking is not so good. It's nothing less than foolishness. (So is that a good record?) The key is to make them doubt. Sow the seeds and step back. See them burst forth and flower... it's such a mean thing to do. What's the certainty that what I make them do instead is right? Well, objectivity and an unbiased view is alright, but seriously, it's a little like playing Almighty. And it disgusts me. Some consolation that what was going to happen was so oddball and unthinkable. Well, others thought so too.

But still, it's sad that people are manipulated this way. By me.

One with Nature

2005-04-26T10:58:00.000+05:30

It rained last night. Thunder and lightning and winds. And I slept through it all. Not that I'd like to be awake on some crazy hour just to see nature's display, but here the point is that I slept through the total noise. It must have been quite a racket because I found branches of trees on the ground in the morning. Winds and rain which could knock those off... must have been loud. And I didn't wake up. What does that say about me? That I can sleep through Armageddon. (Well, in a way that's comforting.) But, I can also sleep through earthquakes and my house falling down on me. Gulp.

Well, to give myself some credit, I was aware of what was going on. In some dream-like place, I knew it was raining and there was thunder. So, I'd be aware of my house falling down. Right. I'm squished.

Save the Whales

2005-04-04T22:37:00.000+05:30

I am a hoarder. If it can be saved, I will save it. To the rescue, cape flying, goggles misplaced. Me. A chronic switch-offer of lights and saviour of hapless paper cups... I actually ask people not to waste paper cups while drinking tea/coffee in the office. Save the cup and use the same one throughout the day. Yes. Can't help it. Hate waste of all kind. Just think of all those trees. The same with anything. Money. Phone calls. What's the need to make long phone calls after you've just been together the whole day at the office? Paper bags instead of plastic too. The earth would gasp, turn over and die if it wasn't for me.

But when it comes to going places... no worries about petrol or time. Likewise with food. God! Why me?! Why couldn't I have been the no-need-to-eat-more-than-necessary types? Or oh-my-God-I'm-spending-so-much-on-food! But no. It has to come bite me where it hurts, doesn't it?

In Three Easy Do-it-Yourself Steps

2005-03-18T23:53:00.000+05:30

How to Dream about Food
Step 1. Gain 4 kgs.
Step 2. Get on scale in front of Mother. Side effect: Mother freaks out.
Step 3. Have frantic session where you promise to diet until you become stick figure or similar.
Note: Continually monitor Mother's condition during Step 2. Keep water, gloomy face and aplomb handy for emergencies.

How to Diet
Step 1. Don't eat.
Step 2. Don't eat.
Step 3. All of the above.
Note: For best results, combine Steps 1, 2 and 3.

What to do when Tempted
Step 1. Carry pesticide at all times. When confronted with food, spray. (Not to be attempted by suicidal or hysterical persons)
Step 2. Turn into slobbering drooling incoherent moron. (Keep out of reach of children below 13 years)
Step 3. Pass out due to fighting the craving. Alternatively, cry, hate, curse, blame, lie back and think of the Queen.

What to do when people say "It's ok. Just this once" and offer fattening things
Step 1. Throw Sugarfree at them.
That's it.

:(( :(( :(( :((

4 kilos!!! damn. :( That's when I should be 5 less than minus 4 kilos of current weight. According to Mother I should be 5 lesser than 5 less than minus 4 of current weight. We went shopping and bought Tofu and diet mayonnaise, whole wheat bread and low sodium salt, and and and... Sigh. At least I get to eat pears. Silver lining and all...

:((

Going to Foreign

2004-12-01T17:46:00.000+05:30

When one gets admission into a university abroad, suddenly the whole world changes. The candidate has stars in his eyes and a spring in his step. He dreams of success and gori mems, but then tuition fees, bank loans and the apprehension of leaving all that is familiar do their bit in getting him back to earth. Added to this is relatives' advice.

My brother's going to Canada for higher studies. So I get secondhand advice (that's like secondhand smoking). "Take care of your GPAs... don't let it slip in the first year... don't concentrate on activities other than studies. Don't go for debates and other extra-curricular stuff. Just think about your grades. Focus on studies. Get to know the Muslim Students' Association members and don't make any friends outside of those." That's my aunt who lives in Houston. "Don't go for weekend parties." That's her husband with his sole contribution. Yes, I understand. Weekend parties ruin people. Moral hazard and whatnot!

After advice is concern. "Is there anyone there? Oh, your chacha... that's nice then. Will he receive you at the airport? Oh, good... then you won't feel homesick at all. Will you stay with him? That's really nice...."

And they feed him. "Here, have half a dozen more parathas and another gulab jamun." It's like he's going into hibernation not Canada. What's the connection between eating and going? Seriously, I don't understand why the Indian female suffers from what I will call the 'Frenzied Feeding Fever' or FFF©. They insist on overfeeding their children. They like round khaatey peetey ghar ke bachche, nevermind cholestrol or coronaries. Would they like to see us as bloated versions of teletubbies? Sigh. We're digressing.

So coming back to the point, so much is made out of somebody going abroad to study. I'm sick of listening to all the advice they're giving him. "Don't eat outside food." "Don't mix with children who drink or smoke." "Wash your own underwear." (No, I didn't make this up!) "Do shave, they might think you're a terrorist". (This one was mine. Hehehe.)

But you know, it's still not that bad. Bad will be when they insist on coming to the airport stuffed into three Tata Sumos and garlanding him right in the airport terminal... *shudder*

Untingled (or) All that he was

2004-11-23T08:57:00.000+05:30

I was always tongue-tied in his presence. That was what I remember the most about him. Well, that and the magnificient body. A perfect 10 on the Drool Scale. (Damn, he's hot!) Ten years is a long time to have a crush on someone. So, that's just why I didn't. Well, you could say it was ten years, kind of, but then not all of ten years. I mean, he visited every year. So parts of ten years is... about a month per year and it adds up to just ten months, right? Ok, dammit. Ten years. Thirteen to twenty-three. There, I said it! And that's a whole lot!

The crush. It might have been because of the cool pair of shades which I associate only with him. Or his being a pro at photography. Or the way he chain-smokes. So he's probably going to cough his lungs out by the time he's 40 (he's above thirty right now, so make that before he's 50). His lips have turned black and he was huffing and puffing while climbing the steps at Mt. Opera yesterday... but then, the way he holds that cigarette in his hands... I totally hate the smoke and I do not like men who smoke. Normally.

Anyway, the point of the present post is that I've finally (Yes! Yippie!! Yayhoo!!!) outgrown the crush. I think it's got something to do with that spare tyre around his middle, but then what good is a crush when his body has been put to pasture? (So deliciously superficial, I. :D )(The reason for the end might be my maturity level also. We must not outrule any possibilities.)

I was able to talk to him without stumbling, fumbling and generally making a fool of myself (like I've been doing forever.) I looked him in the eye and he called my name... the full name (not many people do), rolling the R like he always does in that special way of his, and there was no answering tingle in my brain. That was the final test. It's now over. He has lost the power to reduce me to a crazed, blubbering nincompoop in front of him. I, people, am liberated!

And he, people, is still a nice guy. He brought me coffee.

Sad Eyes...

2004-10-29T10:51:00.000+05:30

"You have sad eyes," she said, as she sat on the chair opposite, in the two-by-two cubicle. As she looked into my eyes, I could see that she was serious, and maybe... just maybe... she had read me well. Too well. I averted my eyes.

No, wait! Don't go. This isn't an attempt at creative writing like some of my fellow bloggers. I probably couldn't write creatively. Or maybe I could, but it's never creative enough. (Is humour creative?) This isn't about reading people either. Then what is it about you ask. Well, I really don't know that yet.

It's just one of those days when I find myself relatively free and then I start wondering about my neglected blog and my sad eyes. So then I think maybe I can combine them and revel in their oneness. But it doesn't happen that way, does it? Life has a way of making mincemeat of your plans. That statement isn't really related to anything I'm saying here, but I just wanted to say it. Right now, another thing I want to say is - "Nothing ever goes away." That was said by Barry Commoner. Quite an optimist, I see.

Lately, that remark has been coming around from unforseen places and nudging me at the most unexpected moments. Not the Barry Commoner one, but the sad eyes one. Like I was seeing Mr. Prune (aka the 29 year old) in Indian Idol yesterday night, and suddenly, out of nowhere, it pops up. "You have sad eyes." Just like that. Yes, I know Indian Idol is pathetic but at least it shouldn't induce quietly unsettling moments akin to mild indigestion. It's just not right. It scares me. Bad programs having the power equal to indigestion. Terrifying.

But back to my sad eyes. What does that mean anyway? Sad eyes? Like how? Teary? Miserable? Piteous? Wretched? (I actually have the thesaurus open. So, hapless? Pathetic? Misfortunate?...) How does one have sad eyes? My eyes are normal. Like everybody's eyes. Maybe more beautiful, but not more sad than others definitely. I suddenly have this image of a droopy sop of a person, sitting with a long face in a corner. I'm big on images. That I am.

...And I have sad eyes.

Sigh. Barry Commoner was right. It isn't going away.

Aloneness

2004-10-21T00:41:00.000+05:30

Being alone is not the same as being lonely. Lonely is sad whereas alone is just plain crazy... or so the world around me insists on telling me. Why can't people understand how lovely it is to spend time alone? Am I alone (that word again) in enjoying my solitude?

There are amatuer shrinks who insist on believing that being alone is a sure sign of clinical depression. A childhood friend who moved away from Hyderabad called me recently and during the course of the conversation asked me about other friends we both knew. I said I wasn't meeting them as much nowadays, in fact, I was spending a large part of my time alone. To say that she was shocked would be an understatement. She was beyond shock. And this girl knows me real good. Knows that I'm not much of a talker and do not like to socialize. But this didn't stop her from giving me a half hour lecture, LONG DISTANCE, about how I should be going out more and enjoying. Nevermind the fact that I was trying to say that I enjoy my alone tmes.

Why is it that being alone is considered to be a crazy thing to do? What if I prefer my own company rather than being in the middle of people and still being lonely?

I'm happy alone. I like my books. I like my world. I like my thoughts. I like wandering around in my head behind closed eyes. I'm not depressed. I am not crazy. I will not commit suicide. And I hate the question which goes "Are you alright?" just because I prefer to spend time by myself. No, I am not alright and I probably will not be alright in the middle of a chattering, singing, dancing group of people either. Thank you for asking.

I'd like to think of myself as an e-cluse rather than a recluse. I spend a lot of time online. Some of it with friends, some of it reading. I like it. Is that bad? I don't like visiting relatives. The online world has a lot of like-minded people. So what if they're living in Egypt or Dubai or Timbuktoo (is there really such a place)?

Alone works for me. Is it really that bad?

Needed to get that off my mind... now for the quotes. :p

"Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again."

Emile M. Cioran (French philosopher, b.1911)

"What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlonely being alone can be."

Ellen Burstyn

"Language... has created the word "loneliness" to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word "solitude" to express the glory of being alone."

Paul Tillich (German born American theologian and philosopher, 1886-1965)

"I lived in solitude in the country and noticed how the monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind."

Albert Einstein (1879-1955)

and finally...

"With a rubber duck, one's never alone."

Unknown

Impressionist Triangle

2004-10-08T13:10:00.000+05:30

It's amazing what people around you think about you. I mean, you may not be the person you're perceived to be. Not at all. Like I'm seen as this klutz who's a perfect living example of Murphy's law. Bad karma I say. It's just not my fault. Never is. Like this other day I was trying to lay my aching head on my desk and the chair beneath me slipped out from under me and I banged my head on the desk... wait, you don't need to know all that.

So coming back to the point, I'm perceived as being this person with whom everything goes wrong all the time, but Your Honour, I swear solemnly under oath that I am not that person! It's a case of mistaken identity! Never mind the fact that I just managed to delete my previous blog entry. Single-handedly at that. But, let's face it, mistakes do happen. I was just trying to check something out and clicked the edit button by mistake and I didn't want to edit. so then hit the submit button while it hadn't loaded yet and... *snip* (That was me cutting myself off in mid-sentence.)

To continue what I was talking about, impressions are not very true or accurate. They are almost always based on overt behaviour and that really cannot be the sum total of what a person is. I might be the person who takes around her own personal handful of disaster wherever she goes, but that isn't what I am. Underneath all the falling things I manage to knock down and behind all that stumbling over my own feet, there's this cool, calm, sophisticated, mature young woman. (What?! Can't I even dream?)

Ok, ok. Let's not forget the point I'm trying to make here. Which is, impressions can be wrong. A person has many facets, one of which might overshadow the rest, but that doesn't mean a person is uni-dimensional. Just because a person goes slightly crazy while multi-tasking doesn't mean that the person cannot manage more than one thing. Well, that might be the case, but it might as well not be the case. And if that same person crashed into a stationary lamppost once while backing out of a lane, it doesn't mean that the very same person cannot drive. Plus, if that hypothetical person continually manages to add the wrong people into MSN conversations, it doesn't mean that the imaginary person we're talking about is stupid. All I'm saying here is that you cannot make a judgemental decision (about someone's sanity) based on a few isolated incidences. Well, ok, not so isolated and not very few... but you get my point.

People have a deep personality. (That was such a dumb sentence.) What I mean is, individuals are so much more than what they appear to be. (Ok, better.) There are depths to people which they themselves don't know, and it takes a unique situation to take out that hidden facet. Someone who you think is a clueless moron might just turn out to be the only person who can solve your problems some day. It's just that the time should be right and the particular situation should be just right for it to happen. It's like fitting a triangular key into a square slot. That doesn't mean the triangle is useless, it just has its own corresponding triangle somewhere, which it has yet to find.

Hey!!! That's it!! That just it! I'm a triangle in a world full of squares. Oh, glee! I knew I was on to something when I started writing this...

How to be a Social Worker

2004-09-14T07:02:00.000+05:30

Nah, I don't mean the social worker who works for the disadvantaged, by providing psychological counselling, guidance, and/or assistance. Here I mean - a worker, any worker, who is sociable.

The need for being sociable is very necessary in today's competitive world. This fact has been perfectly thrown in our faces by every Miss Friendly (or somesuch) Award in all of the beauty pageants, and even documented for posterity in the very forgettable Sandra-Bullock-y movie, Miss Congeniality. (Apologies to purist movie lovers for inducing ghastly images of an un-manicured, un-pedicured, un-anycured Sandra Bullock.) Being sociable is one of the ways to be popular, get ahead, beat all those rodents in the rat race and scurry over the finish-line first. Therefore, here is my public service self-help manual for all you rats out there. (It's not much of a manual though, but let's not worry about that.) (By now you know why I do all these selfless acts of service, so I will not mention all of it again. You don't? Okay, for the last time - I have a kind heart. I care. Therefore, I am. Descartes, do a roll over in grave.)(Plus I've recently joined work and I thought I should share my new gyaan with the general blog-reading world.)

So, Manual Starts -- HERE!

Things to do:

1. Smile. This is the single most effective way to make you more popular. As seen in a research on Chimpanzees in a zoo, smiling makes a Chimpanzee more likable to other Chimpanzees. Sometimes it can make a Chimpanzee attack the smiling Chimpanzee because Chimpanzees as such are unpredictable creatures and they probably are a bit dumb too so they mistake the smile for a snarl. I guess a smiling Chimpanzee doesn't look much different from a snarling Chimpanzee, so I don't blame them much for the mistake. Please note: Before trying a smile on your co-workers, please practice it in front of a mirror and make sure it does not resemble a snarl.

2. Compliment. A compliment will win you many friends. A compliment can be anything good which you have noticed in the person. For example, "Ooooh Ravi, you have such a finely shaped third toe on your left foot." That is a compliment. (Please do not use that compliment because it was originally written by me and is under copyright.) For many people, complimenting is not easy. Knowing what to compliment is indeed a difficult decision to make, so let me just give you some common ones which will make this skill very easy to use. Compliment:--Hairstyle / texture of hair / colour of hair / hair clips, bands, etc. (This compliment is especially popular with ladies.)--Eyes / smile / length of eyelashes / features of face. (Please take care to note that lips are not a very good thing to compliment until after you get to know the person a bit... er... intimately.)--Figure. Thin people are easy. They can have figures 'like models'. Fat (or more politically correct, obese) people can have 'wonderfully rounded' figures, or 'cutely, roly-poly' figures.--Dress. Ironed / colour of dress suits complexion / unique or pleasant use of accessories, etc.--Personality. (Personality here is used differently from the way it is used by those over-awed gym fanatics. "Arey gym ko jaake kya personality bana liya baap!" Yuck.) Make your own compliments here. Please note: Here, I am motivating you, giving your creative abilities the true chance that they deserve. (Actually I am sick of this now.)(Probably you are too, but as Shahrukh Baazigar Khan said, "Kuchh jeetne ke liye kuchh haarna bhi padta hai. Aur haarke jeetne waale ko Baazigar kehte hain." :p )

3. The Art of Pop-Up. This, my dear socially-challenged and needy friends, is THE thing to do in an office which has cubicles. A step-by-step explanation is as follows:

a. Get up from chair.
b. Suddenly pop your head a bit above the partition, just enough to peep into the cubicle adjacent to yours. Only the eyes should be visible next door.
c. Smile. Yes, they can't see your lips, but you do know that a smile should reach the eyes, right?Result: Either the person in the next cubicle will be scared out of his wits everytime you do it until he is accustomed to it; or he will overturn his coffee cup, splashing coffee all over his desk - which is essentially the same thing. Both of these things provide an opportunity to laugh hysterically. Hysterical laughter = Instant bonding. And bonding = popularity. Try it.

...to be continued. (Or not.)

(Do you think I'm losing it yet? :p )

Will Heaven Have Messengers?

2004-08-29T16:47:00.000+05:30

Just my second day in my new workplace today. Yes, I am working. Stop laughing. I am not a complete, total degenerate yet. Yes, I know it means I might be a partial degenerate. I am writing this post in the event of total and complete boredom because right now, right here, I have nothing to do. So please excuse the post if it does not match my usual high standards. (Okay. How many of you went 'yeah, right' there? >:@ )

This place where I am working is two messengers short of being heaven. Let me explain. There's air-conditioning. There's high-speed internet. I was just given my own system to use and abuse. Comfy chairs (this is important!). Clean toilets (more important). Unlimited coffee/tea (most important :D). So, for me to spend my days as I usually did at home, all I need are messengers. MSN messenger and Yahoo messenger - my lifelines to real friends in the virtual world. I had not realised how dependent I was on these things until I came here just now and asked our computer guy how to connect.

He smiled at me sadistically and said in a slow voice, "No messengers."

Then he went on to say things about proxies and such... but those two words are still flashing in my head. 'No messengers, no messengers, no messengers, no messengers, no messengers, no messengers, no messengers, no messengers, no messengers, no messengers, n...' -- like that. (That was just an example of how they're flashing in my head.)

So here I am. No work. No messengers. Stupid posts. Weird life.

Have Misery. Will wallow.

2004-08-26T08:17:00.000+05:30

And sometimes, when I don't have misery, I will invent some miserable situation to wallow. I have lots of those in store. Miserable situations. Too many. It can be anything and everything. There are no predetermined criteria for a situation to become miserable. I'm easy that way.

God hates me. My mom doesn't love me enough. The dog likes him more. I don't have a dog. I don't have a him. My life looks like someone's leftover life. I want a dark hole to crawl into. I don't have the attitude. I can't write. I'm not clever enough. Or cute enough. Or bitchy enough. Whatever it is, it has potential for being miserable about.

I am a champ at slowly pushing myself into the quagmire of miserable quicksand, not to mention using big words when I don't know exactly what they mean. And this, dear people, is a carefully learned and cultivated art. The quagmiring, not the using of big words. (heheh... think 'quagmiring' will make JLU lose it?). So getting on with it, this didn't happen overnight. I had to sit in dark rooms with the curtains closed so that even a peek of a sun's ray couldn't get in to light those dust motes floating in my room. (Damn! I still slip up sometimes. That description sounded a bit happy.)

Wallowing, I say, is good for the soul. In the same twisted way that eating divine chocolate pastries is good for you. If you can think past the calories, you're a better person than I am. Or just plain stupid. You'll clog your arteries. Don't you know that? What are you thinking?! But we're digressing here. To come back to the point, wallowing in misery is good. It makes one pity oneself, and that satisfies something in one. (Notice how I said 'one' instead of 'me'? That's called displacement. heheh) You get attention, even if it's only your own attention. And if you're lucky, the people around you will get so fed up with you that they'll give you attention too. Maybe with a hefty cricket bat if worse comes to worse, but hey, attention!

Dodging the great supply of happiness is not easy. It needs single-minded focus. Counting your blessings, thinking positively, babies, flowers, nature, love, hallmark and Laloo Prasad Yadav... all these will haunt you and make the pursuit of misery tough. But one who perseveres... shall be miserable. What I'm trying to say here is that the true seekers of misery should not let themselves be shaken off their path by obscene displays of happiness. Be proud to be miserable, wear your tears as a medal, and your grouchy grim expression as decoration. Ignore those long, peaceful drives, those sunsets along the sea, getting drenched in the rain, pleasant surprises... all these are traps laid for you. Steer clear. Avoid.

And go forth and be miserable. May unhappiness be with you.

This post is dedicated to Pye. And the current mood is dedicated to Script Writer. ;)

Of Osmani biscuits and fate

2004-08-20T13:21:00.000+05:30

There's just something about Osmani Biscuits that makes you feel pukey after you eat more than one. And there's something else, about my grandmother that makes her get these biscuits every few days. And there's something quite different, about me, which kills my resistance for these everytime they're in front of me.

I know that I will feel pukey after I eat them, but still my hand reaches out towards them of it's own volition, like it's got a mind of it's own (what would we do without cliches!). I just finished five of them and there are three more in that floral-patterned plate, looking mournfully up at me throught their fat, sandy-brown countenance like they're asking me what they did that they were left back there on the plate while their brethen were eaten.

All this made me think of fate. (Don't laugh. It's rude.) I mean, out of eight biscuits, five get eaten and three don't. Isn't it just like people? Think of ones who go "Why me?" or "Why her?" or "Why them? or "Why it?" or... Why other pronouns.

This makes me think about the saying that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. I mean, just think of the biscuits. Five were eaten!!! Isn't that a worse fate than being there on the plate? But then when you think that the whole objective and sole aim of an Osmani biscuit is to be eaten, then it does seem kind of sad that three were left behind.

While I was typing this, a steady stream of red ants have walked into the plate and are enjoying the biscuits. So now the equation has changed. The three which are left are also being eaten, which means that they are fulfilling their purpose.

But eaten by ants? Is that as good as being eaten by a human? If you look at it from the point of view of it being the ant's entire dinner, but only a snack to me, then you might think that it's better to be eaten by an ant. But then being eaten by a human is just so much more a cause for pride than being eaten by a measly ant. What a conundrum!

Sigh... I've done it again. How do I think myself into these thoughts which cannot be resolved one way or another?

I'm wondering if the ants would feel pukey after eating them. Somehow, I think that would have a bearing on whether it's better to be eaten by a human or an ant, right?

Forti-fried

2004-08-17T06:18:00.000+05:30

I went to the Golkonda Fort on Sunday, August the 15th. Seriously, in retrospect, I think I should have had my head examined, but I wasn't expecting the place to be crammed full of people. And cheap public. Old city types. Aunties in jhingbang shaadi clothes. Guys who would jeer and shout stupid, moronish things when they see a group of three girls (unaccompanied by guys). (See, we're intelligent types. If you really want to make friends with us, do you think we'd be impressed if someone came up to us with a constipated smile and told us, "Hello. Want to do friendship?" Puhleeeeeeasse! *rolling eyes until I feel dizzy*)

The place has really gone down the drain. We went there mainly because one of the three (not me) had an unhealthy fascination for old buildings. (Unhealthy to me. Cos I've already been there too many times and the novelty wore off.) The entrance fee for Indian citizens is 5 bucks, and NRIs and foreigners have to pay $ 2 or Rs. 100. What the eff?!!! They're fleecing the goras! I mean, 20 times???!!! Isn't that too crazy?

Aaanyway, we entered the place and then had the dumb idea to climb all the way to the top. (Actually, what else does one do there?) Now, apart from the fact that my legs are totally refusing to function, the thing that pained me the most was that the old city types didn't let us go to the very top. The 'Bala hisar' it's called and the view from there is fantabulous. There's a very narrow way to get there and all of the cheapos were ten deep all around it. And being the ladies we were, we simply couldn't push through them and go. :(

Totally dead by the time we came down and then I had to drive. Was afraid my legs would refuse to obey me and I'd bash into something/someone. But no. Got home safely. Am writing this, am I not?

ps. Yes, I went all mushy while I was there... imagined the kings and queens and the famous love story and Ramdas and the queens dancing and the naubat playing while I was there. Sigh. It's a lovely place minus the crowds. Methinks the cheapos should be asked to pay 100 bucks. That's what would make it all worthwhile. :o)

Strange Stranger-like Strangers

2004-08-14T08:35:00.000+05:30

There's a new phenomenon happening for the past few days. My planets are into weird revolutions. I say this because nowadays people are talking to me. I mean, people I don't know and wouldn't ever know. Total stranger-like strangers. Very strange strangers at that.

Like the day before yesterday I had gone to a friend's house in Malakpet. I didn't want to park the car in the lane as it was very narrow and someone might be inconvenienced, so I was going to sit in the car while the friend came back after whatever she had to do. Then she called me in after her and I was thinking about whether to keep it there or find a place outside the lane. Suddenly I hear a voice saying "Rakh lo, rakh lo. Main dekhti hoon." I turn around to see a frail old lady hiding most of her face behind her pallu. As I looked at her, she moved the pallu a bit and gave me a full, toothless smile, almost scaring me to death in the process. And then she proceeded to talk to me all of the time I was getting the car into the best position. I seriously didn't concentrate on what she was saying, was just nodding in between... then when we were leaving, she smiled at me again and told me that I was looking good after a rest! I was so totally 'what's going on?'

The same day, in the morning, while I was waiting for my mom in front of a school, the watchman started talking to me. He told me all about how a few days before there had been a parking problem right in front of the school because someone had parked their car there... and he had been called here to replace the person who was the watchman then, etc. etc. etc. on and on and on.

These are just two examples, but really, many more have thought that I am the ideal person to talk to about whatever's been happening in their life. What's the deal? Why is this happening now? It's never happened before. Are they just innocent coincidences or are they all a part of a greater conspiracy?

To those who are wondering, (not that you would, but I'd like to think that you are), the phone menace is over. I complained to my service provider and I think they've done something. :)

Dear Abby

2004-08-11T09:39:00.000+05:30

Just what is it with people who refuse to take no for an answer? Why do they keep hanging on when it's made perfectly clear to them that they are not wanted? If I talk to someone with a straight face just once, does it mean I have promised eternal friendship?

No. Those are not just random questions. There's this person who's calling me all hours of the day and night and I've told him hundreds of times that I am not interested in talking to him. I've even ignored him. I've been abusive (verbally, in case it isn't clear). I've told him very very politely. I've cut off the phone when I see his number on the phone. Then I've shut off the phone completely.

When I am horribly rude to him, he says he is taking it as a challenge. What the heck? He says he will win me over. I wish I could... (insert something at the peak of violent behaviour here). I do not want to be won over dammit! HOW do I make that clear? I swear I am not playing hard to get. I'd puke if someone even suggested that. So please don't. It will not be funny.

To the people who think that I am an egoistic bitch, ohh, get a life, morons. I'm sick and tired of this shit.
Now please, advice time. Where am I going wrong? What am I supposed to do?

I'm simply going nuts. I mean, I am having daydreams about hitting this person repeatedly on the head with something heavy. Fatal hitting. Like in the Tom and Jerry cartoons. That isn't very good for my health, is it? More of this and it might really effect my mental equilibrium. And it's getting into other parts of my life. All this aggression isn't good.

So, well, Help.

Just realised how my posts seem to have the word 'help' in them lately. Perhaps I really need it, huh?

Ohh, and this isn't about anyone on FH. I can think of someone who will read this and instantly think 'ME' - in caps, but no, it isn't anyone who frequents this place. Wonder if that stupid sicko is even computer literate. Grumble, grumble.

Me Too

2004-08-08T10:37:00.000+05:30

Help! Save me!

I have a problem.

There's someone in my head. Or two. Or three. I mean, I have too many lives and too many ways to live them all. Result, MPD. I am too tired being so many mes (plural of me). I don't think this condition is very well-known or well-documented, so please bear with me while I go on inventing words like someone possessed. Possessed by an alternate me, that is.

This thing has grown so big and out of control that I can easily differentiate between the different mes (there's that new word again. Now I use it one more time and add it to my vocabulary. Okay. Mes. And added. How cool am I!) There's the child-me, whose personality is so much like what I am. I mean, so much like what is apparent in this blog. The bubbly, Ms. Sunshine, aka clown, weirdo... reminds me of that toy - you hit it on the nose and he bounces right back. I take you back and you kick me down, Cause that's the way, ahaan ahaan, I like it. Going from one topic to the next, completely confusing the hell out of your poor little heads. *taking a bow*

Then there's the serious me. I don't like serious-me much. She's almost always moping around. All lending shoulders and talking to people like she was about 60 or so. Stupid schoolmarm type. Life for her must be so boring. I shudder even thinking about it. Poor thing.

Then, according to how a friend puts it, there's the goody-goody-me. (perhaps I should let D describe this one, but...) She is even more sugary than all the other personalities put together. Set your teeth on edge types. You know, those people who are always politically correct, endlessly patient, living for others and not letting anything ruffle their feathers. In a word, SENSIBLE. That's goody-goody-me. I mean, she's so damn detatched that she's almost not there. Everything can be looked at objectively and the practical mind always makes good decisions, etc. etc. Blegh!

Then there's the bitchy-me. I kind of like her guts. Stupid thing says anything which comes to mind and creates havoc. (And ultimately some of the other personalities have to make up for the problems she creates.) This female's got a vendetta against the world. Everything's set up to torture her and she tortures right back. Caustic remarks, really sarky personality... you get my point.

There are others but I'm kinda shy talking about them. And if you're wondering who's writing this piece, why, it's me!

Sometimes I wonder how a conversation between us must go. Merely an example:

Child-me: Hey, I have a great idea about this post. It's totally whacko!
Serious-me: Well, okay.
G-G-me: Yes, It surely must be. You're a great writer, you know.
Child-me: Thank...
Bitchy-me: Oh please. Not that good really. I mean, it's good. But not great. She just about manages to string a few sentences together.
Child-me: Oh.
G-G-me:come on. Give her some credit. She's on the top here.
Serious-me: That's just 'cos she comments so much. Each comment gives her three hits. Did you know that?
G-G-me: So? Listen, whatever you say, she's a great writer.
Bitchy-me: How can somebody comment on their own posts like that? Is it even ethical? Bumping the counters. She holds conversations there. The hits just build up. Anyone can do it. It's nothing great.
Child-me: Well, I don't know.
Serious-me: What?
Child-me: Well, I thought...
Bitchy-me: Obviously you did. How dumb!
G-G-me: Stop it. Just look at her poor face. How can you do this to her?

It goes on. And on. Just imagine all the problems I have with all of them talking to each other like that. Giving me (which me? :p) headaches with their incessant chatter. If it goes on like this, I don't think it will be long before I have a very intimate relationship with an asylum.

And you know... all this is in addition to those 'other' voices...

Who am I?

2004-07-31T02:12:00.000+05:30

To all of those people who read the title and thought that this must be one of those soul-searching and seriously philosophical posts, sorry to disappoint you, but I guess I'm not that type. To those of you who thought the same and exited, geeez... we need more patience, don't we? To those of you who are reading this and thinking, 'Oh my God! Not another one of her weird posts', Phbbt to you.

This post has to do with my "professional me". Or, well, since I don't seem to be having much of a profession at the moment, the aspiring professional in me. (Please note AT THE MOMENT in earlier sentence. I am merely unemployed by choice. It's not like people won't employ me or anything. Really.) (By the way, have I coined a new phrase? Unemployed by choice. :D) (I ramble too much, don't I?) (Do these thoughts inside parenthesis irritate you?) (Have you forgotten what I was on about yet?) (Are you wishing I've forgotten too?) (No such luck!) (Muahahaha).

The aspiring professional in me? Hmmm... then I am thinking - do I aspire to be the professional I was trained to be and am going to talk about now? Well, I seriously don't know... but that's not what this is about. OK, ok, I guess you must all be going - Get on with it now!!! So I will.

I've studied Psychology for five years of my life. That makes me a psychologist - with a specialisation in counselling. Now the point of this post is -- that people have so much trouble understanding what exactly a psychologist does. (Ahem. So do I sometimes... but then those are the philosophical things I am NOT writing about, y'know.) (Or maybe those thoughts are plain dumb, but... back to topic NOW.)

Scenario 1: Starring (?) old elderly aunt/grandmother's sisters / most old ladies above the age of... say, 40, and yours truly. My relatives inform the visitors that I am a Psychologist. Instant reaction = wow. And their heads swivel around to gape at me. Mouths slightly open, slack-jawed... you get the picture. (Right at that moment, how I wish I could have grown a couple of horns or tentacles or something.) Then they say something along the lines of, "Oh! That means you can read my mind." Accompanied with a nervous giggle. Then she, sometimes a he too, avoid me crazily everytime I am in the same room as them and when I am there, they speak guardedly, darting inconspicious (only to them) looks at me through the corner of their eyes. Excuse me, but I am not God, even thought I'd like to be. So how the heck can I read all their dirty thoughts? (Dirty 'cos if they were not dirty, then why would they be scared? :p) But this reaction is fun. Can play with it lots. :D

Scenario 2: They inform them that I am a Psych... Reaction: Instantly come and sit next to me and give me their hand, palm facing upwards. "When will I get a job/get married/get rich/whatevertheywant?" Oh my God! What the hell? I am a psychologist. Not one of those fakes who sit on the pavements with a parrot and a deck of cards!! I mean, please. Get a life! Sigh. This reaction is the most insulting really. After studying all those years, they equate you with an illiterate saffron wearing weirdo, and your heart sinks. Sinks, I tell you. Drowns.

Scenario 3: "She's a psych..." Reaction: "So what do you do exactly?" This one is so... well, just so something. I mean, I've been struggling to define what I do for God knows how long and this person comes and asks that to me to my face. If I wasn't such a strong person emotionally, I'd have a nervous breakdown or a fake epileptic fit right there in front of him. This question is right up there with "What's the meaning of life? Why are we here?" It basically has no right answer which I can reply with in one line. And I really don't think the question-asking-person wants to be saddled with a lengthy, winding answer, after which he still is not sure about what I do. So just let it be already.

Scenario 4: After being informed of my Psychology infliction. Reaction 4: "Oh! I have this cousin / neighbour / mother's second cousin's wife's neighbour's far off relative who is mentally retarded. Why does he bang his head against walls / throw tantrums / keep staring at one place for hours?" In other words, the person is trying to ask me - why does he behave like he's mentally retarded? Hello! Missed the bulletin, didn't you, aunty?

Scenario 5: "She's a ... " Reaction: "That's interesting." Then they ignore you for the next two hours and you're wondering what category they fall in. Then they come and sit next to you... "You know, I was wondering... I mean, you're a psychologist and all... so you must be intelligent. You know, my daughter, Blank, she has such a big problem. I mean it must be her age or something, but you know she watches so much TV and doesn't study/ doesn't cook... And then she talks to boys." The list goes on indefinitely. Translation - She isn't the bloody puppet I want her to be. Ultimately it comes down to, "Will you talk to her?" Hmmm... let's see. Now this is so much like you meet a heart specialist and ask him to check out your heart because it's been beating a bit weirdly for the past few days. Now would you do that? No! I mean, how can you remember all the problems you're having with your daughter only when you meet a psychologist? And please, what will I be able to do in one talk?

I'm done ranting. Really. Enough of this now. There are people who react differently too, like people who are genuinely interested, but right now I've worked myself up into righteous anger + indignation, so enough.

Oh, and as a last note, psychologists are people who help you help yourself. They are not miracle workers. They are not magicians. They are not crystal ball owners. They're just normal humans who are trained to help you with your problems and who make you comfortable with life in all its complexity. If you're still thinking what exactly psychologists are, think of us as angels... ;)

For Sale!!

2004-07-22T09:09:00.000+05:30

Blog for Sale

Created on 11th May, 2004, the blog has enjoyed a pampered life, with posts almost daily when it was new... but the frequency waned over time as the owner got busy with real life intruding on her cybertime. Loved and cared for by its writer, this blog has now achieved the enviable poistion of the most visited blog on Fullhyd. Located in a prime location on Fullhyd's bloggers' page, it has enjoyed a lot of popularity and the current owner wishes that it will continue to do so under the new management. It has not been used or abused much - unlike the blogs which have N number of posts, Weird and whacky just has a comfortable 23 (24 if you count this ad). Not too many and not too less.

Weird and Whacky has a beautiful view over aloque's blog, as it overlooks poetry, philosophy, tidbits about the city and random bits of madness evolving out of aloque's fingers as he tip-taps on his keyboard under the influence of godknowswhat. It also boasts close proximity to dessert rose's she, herself and her first blog where you can take a walk around KBR with Dr. Sheila-like creatures or just wander along with a cloud and read its love story.

The blog itself is a pleasing dark green colour, with a bulb in the upper right corner, which has never been replaced yet and is expected to give years of service. A consistent font (Times New Roman) and colour (blue) on a white background has been the same throughout, making it a great brand identification device.

Weird and Whacky also has a whole list of established patrons, readers and even fans who visit the blog regularly even when the business of posting is slow. This is attested to by the figures which say that a total of over 800 hits had occured AFTER the last post had seen the relative light (or dark) of the cyberworld. The owner is very sorry that she has not managed to garner hateful comments. To her immense disappointment, there has been no one who posted comments posing as 'Aran's fan' in all of the two and a half months the blog has been in existence. (Ohh and this is also the right place to mention that Amita has her fan who is single-mindedly devoted to her blog, reads each entry and then disses her. That is what I call true worship. Aran does not have anyone like that, unless you count Anoop, who just disses Aran, not the blog, but then you can't count Anoop. Anoop is just... well, not countable, totally unaccountable.)

The blog in question also has a list of favourite links chosen carefully by the owner over time. A special mention is made of the last four links, of which the owner is incredibly proud and which raise the blog's value many times over.

The current owner, Aran, vouches for the satisfaction and feeling of well-being that this blog has given her, not to mention the sudden and spectacular increase in her IQ. In an interview which she gave, she has referred to it as "my baby" and "the most exciting thing in my otherwise worthless life" which is high praise indeed. (Full transcipt of the interview coming soon!) Apart from the above mentioned qualities, the blog can be a jewel in the crown of any blogger. Aran says her social life on the internet has grown by over 85% since she has started blogging on FH. When we asked her about her real life, she started crying... which led to the termination of the interview as a heart-broken female is not something our correspondents are equipped to handle.

Please email for appointment to view the premises. The price is negotiable and all Aran asks is that Weird and Whacky should get a loving home and a new owner who cares for it as she has.

From Hero to Zero

2004-07-09T02:07:00.000+05:30

In spite of the crappy title (which sounds like a really bad Mithun Chakraborty movie) that I've managed to think up for this post, I'll go ahead with writing it without any embarrassment whatever. Yes, some of you might think I've lost it, and perhaps I have.

The topic of this post is role models. Or rather, being one. When you're the eldest in your generation, you naturally are expected to forge new pathways and set new limits, surpassing those of the generation which has passed. (For example, if your father got 56% in his tenth board exam, you get 75%. That way.) Here, I am the eldest one and I thought I had done my duty with the utmost reverence and perseverance, smile on my face in the face of adversity and all that. But recently, I've seen my younger cousins bounding across the limits I've set. The goals I've reached are now just a rest stop for them.

It wasn't that long ago when I had been on a pedestal. All the words coming out of my mouth were listened to with an enraptured expression, sometimes even repeated in an awed voice. Take this for example:

Characters: my cousin who is six years younger to me and I.

Scene 1: I was in the 7th or 8th standard and we were having a discussion about what everyone wanted to be when they grew up. I said I wanted to be a vet. (That was because I loved animals and didn't know that I had to take chemistry in junior college to acheive that goal. When I came to know about the chem, the love of animals understandably went down a bit.) Anyway, I said I wanted to be a vet then. Little, cute cousin asked me what that was. I said it's an animal doctor. Instant widening of eyes and she is looking at me like those weirdo devotees look at their sadhu baba. (I know that's such a yuck comparison, makes me think of myself in flowing saffron with a beard.) But anyway, the point here is she thought I was the coolest thing on earth. (Ok, the devotees do not know the meaning of COOL, so scrap the comparison and let's get on with this). Then, a pause and she says she wants to be a vet too. I was bowled over. I mean, what's more flattering than that? Of course, I did the gracious 'Oh no, you still have a lot of years to go before you decide... you might want to have your own goal.' speech at that time, but I was secretly thrilled. Who wouldn't be?

Now cut to a few years later... scene 2: Cousin stays over at my house and we have a heart to heart. I am, well, grown up and she has just passed her 10th standard. She tells me about the guys in her life. First, I am shocked. Think, she is too small for all that. Then it sinks in, thankfully I make none of the 'you're too young for guys' comments, and then I feel honoured. I mean, she trusted me enough to come and share that with me. Ego swelled to burst point.

Cut to a few days earlier: Scene 3: I enter cousin's house and we have a little chit chat about each others lives. Then she goes-- "Why haven't you filed your nails? They're looking so bad." After a while - "You really need to change your hairstyle." Later - "Don't you use any moisturiser?"

How did this happen? Sometime, when I wasn't paying attention, I moved from somebody she looks up to, to somebody she can look down her nose at. While I was strutting and doing the elder sister stuff, my younger sis grew up and I didn't even notice.

I want my weirdo devotee back.

Surprise!!!!!

2004-07-04T06:04:00.000+05:30

By definition, surprise means:

To encounter suddenly or unexpectedly; take or catch unawares.
To attack or capture suddenly and without warning.
To cause to feel wonder, astonishment, or amazement, as at something unanticipated.

That is courtesy www.dictionary.com. The highlights are mine though. Please take a few moments to think about the highlights. There's a reason behind making those words bold. Read all those reasons. They play a part in my life and I am going to elaborate how in just a moment. Err... I think you can safely skip over definition 2. I don't think I am going to be attacked or captured anytime soon, (but then that's what I think. If someone was going to catch me by surprise, I wouldn't know it now, would I?)

Now, in contrast to the definitions above, I was informed yesterday, that I was going to get a surprise tomorrow. A surprise, my dear friends, is not supposed to be known beforehand. You can't tell someone, "Hey! I'm going to surprise you." It ceases to be a surprise. It says right there on that dictionary site!

And I, by nature, am a curious person. Yes, yes, I know all those things about curiosity killing cats and all, but I cannot help it. If someone tells me half of something I am itching to know, I get consumed by thoughts of that thing day and night and morning and evening and afternoon and... you get the point. It's a disease. It's a curse. It's something I want to get over, but can't. :(

So, since yesterday, I've been obsessing on the fact. What will it be tomorrow? Will I like it? Will it be _________? (fill the blank with a thousand and one different things I have thought about since yesterday). And now there still are about 22 hours before I come to know what it is.

How mean can they be? Why did they have to mention the surprise if they weren't going to tell me? NO! The anticipation thing doesn't even begin to answer that question. I do NOT want to anticipate things. Anticipation is about things you know, not about things you don't know. And please, just take it from me, I am NOT an 'anticipation' person. I am the 'would like to know right now, thank you' person. And if they don't tell me after I bug them for half an hour, I might even turn into 'sicko, just tell me, @%#$%' (followed by more expletives) kind of a person. And then, if they don't tell me still, I turn into the 'Ok, I'm just going to sulk' person. I went through the whole routine yesterday, and still didn't come to know what it was. Not even a hint. MEAN, I tell you, mucho mean. (tee hee, that's spanish I think. Makes me feel cool to write that. ;)

I'm writing this to distract myself from mulling over the fact. And to make some of the frustration go away. It's not a nice feeling, this 'anticipation'. I was told I will feel good when I finally get it after the anticipation. But what if I get disappointed? I mean, I've been thinking about this for so much time now, so it had better really thrill me when I get it, or I might turn into a furious, sputtering 'Stupid Cow! You wanted me to anticipate THIS?!!!!' kinda person and launch myself at my friends' throat.

And well, I still don't feel good after getting all this out of my system. What do you think it can be...? Aaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhh!!!

The Mmmuahhh Science

2004-07-01T02:58:00.001+05:30

Recently read an article on MSN on why people close their eyes while kissing. There's actually a guy who researched it. Yae Muan Ching Sum Ting. He is from Singapore. No, that's not the reason for either the perversion or the research, it's just to explain his name (which I forgot and then invented here, but then all those oriental people have the same kinda names anyway).

Oriental scene.
You: Hai Chhoo!
Five oriental men, simultaneously: Yes?
You, amazed: Err... I sneezed. Pardon me.
Men: Sorry san.
You: Ahuh! No problem.
And you still can't figure out what happened.

Anyway, back to topic; what this Singaporean man found out was that people close their eyes while kissing because:

1. They overload their senses. With the kissing going on, looking at the kissee, with all the kissing sensations, well, all over your body, you want to umm... stop the eyes from overloading your senses with other images. You want to concentrate on just the kiss.

Sounds nice. Makes sense. (To brains like mine. Hehehe.)

But then I read further, and he says it may be because:

2. Vision theory. This says that when one kisses, the blurred and three-dimensional figures of the person whom you're kissing make him look, well, to put it in my own words, not worth kissing.

Well, didn't quite believe this, will have to try this one... (Kiss with eyes open, see blurred man --> Oh my GOD! Get off me! *push, run for life* result: deep psychological scars) :D

Reading further, he said it might be due to another reason:

3. Modesty. They feel shy while kissing and so the closing of the eyes is an effort to ward off embarrassment, preserve privacy.

Okay, could buy this. Yep, people are shy.

But you know what amazed me? This guy, he probably got a grant ( =lots of money) to research why couples close their eyes while kissing, and he just comes up with a bunch of guesses which I might be able to tell him if I thought hard enough. I mean, how hard is it to come up with these things? When you research something, don't you come up with something new, something worth spending all the money on? ONE explanation rather than three 'might be's. Something which justifies your sitting and watching all those couples kissing each other with their eyes closed?

W-A-I-T A M-I-N-U-T-E!!!!! Watching couples kissi... Now if that isn't... WOW! Ahem.

Enlightenment. :D

It isn't such a waste after all. To Mr. Mei Jus Wau Ching, that is.

Why?

2004-06-29T05:10:00.000+05:30

What is wrong with the world? What's wrong with a little platonic friendship between the sexes? Why don't people accept it for what it is? Why do people keep digging for more? If I'm friends with a guy, it HAS to be more than what meets the eye, does it? I'm tired of explaining my friendships now.

I met a group of friends yesterday (grad friends, all female). One friend (male) called up while I was with them. First, they kept staring at me all the time I was on the phone with him. Chins cupped in their hands and unblinking eyes on my face. I hung up in about 5 minutes max, and the conversation which happened immediately afterwards goes like this:

Friends' Question - Who is he?
My answer - (Name), a friend
Q - Where'd u meet him?
A - On the net
Q - How long back?
A - A year maybe.
explanation related to answer - Remember that guy who met me on my b'day while I was with you? That fellow.
Friends - ohhhhhhhh
Me - Yes, that one
Q - So what's going on with him?
A - Nothing.
Q - Oh come on. Seriously.
A - Arey! Seriously. Nothing, just friends.
Q - Then why are you talking to him for a year?
Me, incredulous, - Why cant I?
Q - Well, then take it farther if you like him so much.
A - What the heck????!!
Q - Why not?
A - I don't like him that way.
Q - Ohh come on!
A, desperately trying to finish this, - Well, he's married. (he really is, I wasn't lying)
*dead silence and wild stares all around*

Apparently I should have told them this earlier. This bit of imformation comes in the post mortem, later. I really fail to understand what the big deal is.

Ok, then you'd think it stops. But no. There's nore. Then they just think I am crazy because the information just doesn't fit, and following the questions are not so... serious, but they're there. They're more easy... like how is he, what does he do, u like him n all. Then they continue:

tentatively, Q - Why are you friends with him if he is married?
A - Cos I like him, like talking to him and all.
*uncomprehending stares*
Q - Isn't it weird?
A - No
*wondering what to ask next, the topic cannot be allowed to die down like this. such an anti-climax*
Q - You know his wife?
A - WHAT does it matter?
*pause*
Me - No, I don't.
Friends - Hmmm...
*thinking*
Q - So what did you talk about?

I told them and I am not getting into that right now. It's pretty complicated and well, I'm just not, okay? Then the subject was dropped for a while, we talked about other things. Then they started going over the conversation again.

Q - Why didn't you tell us he was married, earlier, when we started asking you about him?

Gaaawwwddddd!!! How does it matter? I am not his friend because of his marital status. I'm friends with him 'cos I like HIM. And like, as in, LIKE - "friend like" not "romantic like". What is so hard to understand about something as simple as that? I'm friends with girls, am I not? And I'm not going all lezzy about you, so why would I go romantic about a guy, ANY guy, who happens to be my friend?

That is what I wanted to say, but didn't. I tackled it coolly. The subject was dropped. I'm proud of myself. *delivering one pat on back* I'm tired of brains which are wired that way. Every time a gal talks about a guy, the lights begin flashing. *grumble, grumble, grumble...* I think I'll keep grumbling about this for the rest of the day.

ps. A new thought just crossed my mind. What if he hadn't been married? Looking back, that was the ONE thing which shell-shocked, stopped them. What would it have taken to tell them that there was nothing without that bit of info? Any ideas?

Blind faith

2004-06-25T01:57:00.000+05:30

There was a great show on in my house yesterday. It all started when my grandfather's 2000 bucks went missing. They were kept in a folder which he uses for his stuff and according to him, he kept them there and then about two hours later, they weren't there.

So, someone knew about this female who does a seance-type-thing and tells you who the thief is. And this someone decided to tell that to my grandmother and she decided to let the fem come and do it.

The procedure is like this. The seance lady (SL) washes the floor first. Apparently this is very important. Otherwise the dead soul won't talk to you. Dead people are very hygienic, I suppose. Well, anyway, after that, she lights two incense sticks and readies her brass "lotha". For those of you who don't know what a lotha is, sheesh, you're missing a lot of sick jokes in life related to the thing. (It's a kind of a tumbler. That's the best I can do.) So she fills the lotha with water, and, damn, that thing is heavy!

Three people perform ablutions (this is important too, dead people and cleanliness remember?) and sit cross-legged on the floor. Two of these people have their thumbs out (like in a thumbs up sign) and they keep these four thumbs on the floor, on bunched fists, in a sort of a square on top of which the lotha rests. Then the real fun starts.

The SL parks her nose about three inches from the lotha and staring at it intensely, starts murmuring stuff. Then after a bit she starts asking the lotha who took the money. I can't help wondering if the dead soul who speaks isn't pressurised from so much of the attention. I mean, there were about 15 of the people there to see the 'show' and then the SL staring at the lotha so intently, placing all her faith on it and all. Anyone would be nervous and trembling. But maybe dead ones are above all this, huh?

So the result of all this - the lotha is supposed to rotate when the name of the thief is pronounced. And the SL, while talking of who she thought the thief was, was almost shouting at the lotha, compelling the damn thing to move. But it didn't. The show was a dud.

Then SL decided one of the two people thumbing the lotha weren't supporting it properly and she moved them and sat down herself to do it. This time, of course, once the name was uttered, the lotha 'spontaneously' started to move. Surprise! It moved slowly, all of one inch and then started toppling off and had to be removed from the thumb throne. I was thinking maybe it would do a full rotation or something, but you know, it's kind of difficult to move your thumb so much, that too inconspicuously. To those of us who were looking at this as a sort of enjoyment, with absolutely no belief that these things work, it was clearly apparent that SL was moving the thing with her thumbs. To those who were blinded by the stupidity, the thief was found out and chai was passed around and all of them were happy, satisfied, relieved.

Is there no end to stupidity?

I must say though, that I was kinda disappointed. I would so have liked this thing to work. I mean, it would have been an opportunity to know of all the answers which have plagued my conscience!
Did that snotty nosed boy in 2nd S really take my glitter pencil?
Is 5th July really the day I'm going to get lucky?
If it's not, am I ever going to get lucky?
Can I ever have a baby monkey as a pet?
Will I ever land a dream job? (def: Where I don't have to work and I get paid lots.)
Can I persuade my parents to paint my room a hair-raising, blinding shade of orange?
When will Thackeray die?
Will I ever learn to fly a helicopter?
Will I prove them all wrong?
Is there life on other planets/space/inside my fridge?
Why can't they get better looking heros for telugu movies?
Do I have a birthmark in... *someplace*? (this one is for checking :))
What's Sujal's telephone number? address? likes? dislikes? (okay, okay)
What's Milind Soman's ... *droooooool, dissolves in a puddle just at the thought*
When will I be famous?
When will I be infamous? ;)
World peace? (dumb question)
Will I have to change my cellphone number because of the sick crank calls I'm getting?
Did HE go watch 'Girlfriend'?
Why yellow?
Ten inches??!!!!

Sigh. I could go on and on...

Whats so "cure" about a pedicure?

2004-06-18T06:16:00.000+05:30

Yesterday, at about 6 in the evening, the power Gods - aka the new government - decided to switch off the electricity in our neighbourhood. I was feeling a bit depressed and so decided to go have a pedicure for the first time in my life. A friend swore by the feelings which ran through her whole body as supple hands played with her feet. (Err... that sentence is not meant the way it sounds.) She said it would cure my depression and make me feel good.

The idea to go was not a very good one because you should never... I repeat, NEVER go have your first pedicure alone. It can ruin your self-confidence and leave you feeling like a nervous wreck who can just say "Huh" in various tones and differing stupid expressions to go with the sound.

So there I was, in a posh place at bjr hills, and I get into the black shiny door into a glittering place which is just bustling with white aproned smiling busybodies. One of them pounces on me when I'm half inside and leads me to a chair. Now this chair is anything but comfortable, but still, I'm willing to suffer a little discomfort for the feeling sold to me by the aforementioned friend.

The smiling attendant lines up about 15 bottles and a big wad of cotton next to her on the floor and sweetly looks up at me. "Non-acetone or regular?" The first missile is launched.

Me: "Huh?"

She looks at me. The smile is still there. "Do you want non-acetone remover or the regular one."

My expression remains frozen into a confused mask.

"Nail polish remover?" she prompts.

Ahhhh... I see. "What's the difference?" I ask her.

She looks at me with something resembling pity. "The non-acetone is less dry and better for the cuticles."

I nod and wonder if it makes a difference. After all, my cuticles have done fine in the 23 years of their non-pedicure existence. I mumble something. The smiling girl at my feet nods and picks up one bottle, presumably at random, and begins rubbing something weird-smelling on my nails.

Then I realize that I didn't have nail polish on my nails in the first place. Oh, well!

After the little cotton rubbing, my feet are put into a tub which presumably has only warm water, judging by the colour, but then there's a different sort of a smell wafting up from it – a bit like the sharpness of lemons mixed with something rotten. It's kind of hard to explain smells… so forget it. I ask her what's in the water. Big mistake. (Why do I need to know?)

She gives me a long, rambling answer which has stuff which is mentioned in percentages. The only thing I understand is that the water content in that… muck… is only 23%. I decide not to think about what else could be in there in spite of it looking so innocent. Innocently dangerous. Like Loch Ness monsters lying in the depths of serene lake surfaces. Of course I am exaggerating, but well, it's not really a good thing popping your feet into something which has 100-minus-23% of chemical content, right?

Anyway, the next thing I know is that she's rubbing my foot in small, delicate, circular movements with something like sandpaper. Now if she had rubbed it a bit harder, with more pressure, it would have been okay. But the way she was doing it, with small, feathery movements, it tickled! And I squirmed and pulled my foot out of her hand reflexively. Apparently, that is just not done while having a pedicure. I learned that bit when she looked at me like I'd done something really unpardonable.

"Sorry", I mumbled and she deigned to forgive me and went back to her sand-papering.

Next, massage creams. That part which the friend had talked about, supple hands on foot, which would make me feel good. Except that it didn't. It started with "Regular or Lavender?"

Me: "Huh?" part II

Pedicure Lady, with barely concealed patience, "Do you want the regular massage cream or the Lavender?"

Me, in a small voice, "What's the difference?"

"The lavender smells of lavender."

Wow! How truly amazing! I opted for lavender. Why not?

The next few minutes were good. Really they were. When she wasn't massaging very hard and when my feet didn't feel like Dara Singh trying to crush them, and when the cream didn't feel slimy and sick, it was good. At least my feet smelled of lavender. That has to be good.

Now, next, a heartfelt warning here. Do NOT let other people clip your nails after you have passed the first 5 years of your life. Because it hurts. Physical pain, I mean. And I'm very serious about this. They can't feel your pain and they do not know what they're cutting off. It's supposed to be just the dead part of the nail and not your skin. Even remembering about it… *shudder* I let out a big shriek right in her posh parlour… enough. You know what I'm talking about here. After people staring at me and making me feel like some weird freak, the pedicure went on.

After things like stupid cotton balls between my toes, and getting them painted with a transparent nail polish (I forgot what fancy name she called it), after about an hour, I emerged into the gently fading light and was walking back to my car when the locality's power was cut off. It wasn't so dark that I couldn't see my car so I started towards it and the next step landed in a puddle of water which had accumulated on the road after the last shower. My sandal, the lower part of my churidaar and my newly pedicured foot sank into the murky depths of the roadside, dirty puddle and… was totally ruined. It didn't smell of lavender anymore. :(

Perhaps pedicures are just not for me. And as for the friend… well, I'll meet her sooner or later, won't I?

Ohh, and to cure depression, eat chocolate. Lots of it.

She Hugs

2004-06-16T04:26:00.000+05:30

I've just been through a visit from an aunt. She's about 60 and 5 feet tall (or short?). She's a doctor. And she hugs. Me. (WHY? Why me?) Shouldn't there be a law against unwanted hugs?

I have no idea what all this is about. I really don't show any interest in her or the never ending tales of her grandson (he's almost 2 yrs old and very cute). I almost always answer her with a fake smile and a murmured 'mmhmm' - you know, that uncommunicative noise which says you're listening but are not interested? That one. But it doesn't seem to work.

She turns up at my house every two weeks and is so interested in my life. She tells me about job offers at places I would never consider working for. She asks about my correspondence course. (I regret telling her about that now). She asks me what I've read recently.

And she hugs me three times during the entire meeting. Once when we meet, once when she leaves and once in between. What is it about the hugs? I mean, doesn't she notice the way I try to fight out of the embrace? Should I try harder?

This is not about her, it's about me. I am not a people person. I am a loner and I like it that way. I just want the pc and a good book, occassionally tv. I don't like to make small talk with people. I hate to talk about inconsequential things. In fact, I hate parties and those sort of social gatherings.

How do I get the message across? The aunt just threate... er... told me that she'll invite me over to her house for a chaat party. And I'm so confused. I like chaat. Sigh. What should I do?

Weird and Special

2004-06-11T05:32:00.000+05:30

I've been feeling weird lately. 'Things' have been happening to me. Weird things. No, it's not like "I see dead people" kind of things (Thank God!), but it's still weird in the unweird life I've lead till now.

My father's been calling me up from his office and talking to me about everything and nothing (How's my day been, what am I doing...). My mother's been calling up in the middle of the day and asking me if I've had lunch. Don't get me wrong... I'm not saying it's bad... it's just that it's a teeny bit unusual. Like how'd one feel if it snowed in Hyd tomorrow? Good, but weird, right? So that's how it is. And these weird new ... er... developments have been making me feel really (guess what?!) weird.

And they've made me wonder if I'm about to die or something.

I mean, when people are about to die, they get all these little kindnesses done to them. Like I've been informed that I am special. About two days ago. I'm wondering how they found out about the speciality suddenly after 23 years of my being special. And they don't even know about the blog. So it's not as if they think I'm going insane. (Is insane the same as special?)

It's making me paranoid. I mean, what's changed in me now? A few spontaneous bumps appearing around the head overnight or bloodshot eyes and the general belief that I'm about to keel over and die soon? It's making me look into a mirror, and after I get over the initial fright and when my heartbeat gets back to normal, I don't see anything abnormal staring back at me. Well, at least nothing that's not been there before.

It's making me nervous. I'm peering around corners and staring into nothingness for hours at a time, then waking up and realising I'm looking at late night TV in the dark. The kind where they try to sell you cheap looking pearls or the sharpest knife in the world on TVC or some such thing. So, I mean, this is cause for concern, isn't it? Would someone readily admit to watching Jackie Shroff (with bags under his eyes) sell pearls? No!! Of course not. And when I am admitting it, it has to be because of something really serious. 'Cos I'm trying to seek help here.

I'm trying introspection. I'm trying to turn around and look at myself inside. (There's something wrong with that sentence but for the life of me I can't figure out what.) I'm trying to search for answers in this big, black (at least I think it's black), uno and cipher world of the world wide web. I'm questioning the mortality of my life.
And am I getting an answer? Oh yes... of course. There's an answer for everything on the net. And it threw the death clock at me. I think it's supposed to make me feel good... oh, well...

True Love (without quotes)

2004-06-04T10:54:00.000+05:30

Hokay! So I realised that in my last post, I talked about how quoted "True Love" is not very true. I didn't exactly finish all I had to say on the topic and I realised this after reading aloque's comment to that one (ty, guy). Now I'll go on about what true love without quotes is (to me).

Roses, notes, candlelight dinners, necklace road walks (huh? What? Did I say that?) are all fine, but that cannot go on and on. And that is basically courtship, not love. It's just a honeymoon, not the whole of the marriage. It cannot go on when you are 45. Not all of the time. Well, some people do it, but if someone did that to me, I'd ask him what's wrong. I mean, necklace road walks at 45??!!! Get a grip! Bye bye neclace road walks, hello arthritis is more like it.

Love is when you get up at 6 in the morning to take HIS dog out for a umm... call of nature thing, when he's laid up, even though you hate the mutt because it hogs all of his attention so much of the time. (He never pets you like the way he pats the mutt when it gets his newspaper first thing in the morning. I mean you don't exactly expect him to pat you, but here we're talking about the bonding, you know? If YOU give him the newspaper, he just grunts. The bloody dog knows how to get into his good books, huh? (Well, some people ARE jealous of dogs, ok?! It's allowed. And it is NOT abnormal. And it's definitely not pathetic. It's not funny either. STOP LAUGHING. It hurts. Wait till it happens to you... Humph!) Anyway, the dog's vet bills are more than your beauty parlour bills and everytime the hair shedding season happens, YOU are the one who gets down on your hands and knees brushing the carpet. You wish you could gladly mix some deadly poison in the dog food which that mutt has every morning and evening in the monogrammed dish... Sigh. I could go on and on about the dog, but that's not exactly what we're talking about here.) So, what I am saying is, love is when you take the bloody mutt (translated - sworn enemy, other camp), out for its poop walk in the morning when he is sick. ('He' is the loved man, not dog. Dog is referred to as 'it' here. Stupid inanimate thing. It's not like it's human. Why should it be afforded respect?) So, ahem, back to topic. That is love.

Love should be comfortable. It should not be a show-off. It should not be doing something just because you are expected to do it. It should be something you are doing for the other person because you want to. Small things. (No, small things does not mean buying her skimpy lingerie). Regular things. (Yeah, think 'flannel nightgown'. Why? Because it's soft. And it's not for you, it's for her.)

Love is telling her that you do not feel like shaving (and "would you do it for me honey? Please?" Woohoooo! *shakes head to get THAT image out* End of dream... ahem... *blush*) ...*blinks* where were we? Ahhh yes, so love is telling her that you feel too bloody lazy to shave and to expect her to understand. Love is telling him "Sweetie, it's one of those headache times" in bed and not having him go mean on you a whole week afterwards 'cos you hurt his ego.

Small things. (Geez! You're still in Bikiniville? Get a life! *rolling eyes*) Everyday life. It gets real. It gets dreary. Day after day living with a person. It's so easy to forget what you loved in the other person in the first place. Love is NOT forgetting those things. It's appreciating your partner for all of the stupid quirks (s)he has, and enjoying those.

It's not swooning everytime you see her (well, might happen if she is wearing those skimpy things you insist on giving her, and all your blood rushes from your head to your nether regions), but well, you know what I am getting at? No, you're not? You mean I'll have to write more on this? Sigh. Well, ok. Love is not a 100 bucks worth of roses or even a 1000 bucks dinner at a posh place, love is more like helping her wash the dishes or kneading his shoulders when he has had a bad day.

The rosy, mushy, goody-goody picture is what I am against. Sure, it might be there (M&B get their material from SOMEWHERE, so somewhere there must be some people who are the red roses, staring into eyes for hours type). But all of those movies and romance novels are misleading. Love is more low-key, more real, AND more powerful, more lasting than all that amateur fluff. It might start that way, but it settles into something more usual, something which is more comforting rather than a take-your-breath-away feeling.

Well, I am at the end of this post now 'cos I'm tired of typing, and I'm wondering if I said all I had to say on the subject, and if I said it the way I want to, whether it means what I want it to mean. Well, hell. I don't know. If I haven't, I'll just have to say it again, won't I? :D

"True Love"

2004-06-03T02:17:00.000+05:30

This is not one of those mushy mushy posts. It is about "true love". In quotes.

Recently, I was caught up in a situation where I was explained the true meaning of "true love" - in quotes. (The person actually stressed on the words, and if he had been writing them in MS Word, he'd have changed the font size and emboldened them and maybe even have underlined them. Italics too perhaps. Whereas I am just using quotes. So thank your lucky stars.)

The main crux of the gentleman's discourse was that "true love" (in quotes) is supposed to be self-sacrificing, it's above everything in life, live to experience it, meaning of existence, love everything about mate, holding hands and staring into each others eyes in public, (annoy the hell out of people watching you), flowers, chocolates, notes, phone calls two times per day, sighs, sleepless nights... you get the point.

Excuse me; and as ar would say, call him uncle and smack him on his um... tushi, but that is not how "true love" (notice the quotes) works. Well, it might, for about two years max, if you're that guy who was telling me about it, but then either you or the mate will get so sick of it that they will probably shoot you the next time you bring them flowers and call them with the special name you have for them. What is it about special names between couples anyway? What's so special about Baby-boo or Ikky-Bikky or even Coochie-coo?

Anyway, what I was saying was that "true love" (ahem... quotes) is not so rosy. It's not all good. It's not everything in life. It's not perfect. Okay, I'm not saying it doesn't exist. It might exist between some people. It might even last a whole lifetime; BUT (yes, there is a but) it's rare. Very, very rare. Like 'not seeing buffalos on hyderabad streets' rare.

When men and women are together, there will be fights, disagreements, tears, ruffled feathers; not just chocolates and candlelit dinners and flowers and mush. It's just the way we are. That Mars and Venus thing. I mean, how can you be goody-goody devoted like that to somebody all your life? There have to be days when you'll feel grumpy and when she asks you to shave two times a day cos the stubble... um... is not good at certain times, you'll glare at her, maybe even give her a sharp retort. It's bound to happen.

Most of this stupid naive romanticism is among the young stars-in-eyes generation. I wonder what causes it. Yash Chopra type movies? Mills and Boon? Oh, and while we are on the topic of Mills and Boon (we're not exactly on topic here, but I take the creative license of being the writer of this blog and force it down the throat of anyone who is reading), those novels really do the young women in with a black haired muscle-showing guy encircling his arms around a half-naked girl, (well, it's lacy lingerie actually,) who's just waiting to be taken. Filled with words like "unsheathed his manhood" and "deflowered" and "she melted against his hardness", these novels are just fillers for those waiting in the dentist's office times. Not to be taken so seriously so as to believe in "true love" (in quotes).

Wake up people. That's not "true love", with or without quotes. Life is not a Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge. Life starts after the girl hops on to the train after clutching the outstretched hand and then she chastises Mr. Baadshaah of Bollywood for not having the effing presence of mind to pull the chain to stop the train. Happily ever after are not the words which will be written in your life story. Your happily ever after will happen one day at a time and -- wait, take a deep breath -- the ever after MIGHT NOT EVEN BE HAPPY!

End of Grumpy morning rant. Have a nice day. Smile and the world smiles at you and all that too.

Consistency in typos

2004-05-29T13:18:00.000+05:30

What is it about some words which refuse to be written the right way the first time around? My fingers seem to have learnt how to type them wrong everytime I try. I am not talking just typos, I am talking consistency in typos.

How many people can boast of typing related as realted every time they try to do it? Or consistently using 's' when I want 'd' making wouls've and couls've and sanselion. (Well, I don't type dandelion all that much, but used it to illustrate my point.) Then there is because. I invariably type it as beacuse, I have no idea why. So I've learnt to do bcos most of the time. Then there's the normal 'adn, teh' - which I think half the population suffers from. 'waht' for 'what'; 'wehn' for 'when'; 'taht' for 'that' - that's the H syndrome.

I can't let this be without mentioning the 'ck' mix. For example, most of the time 'smack' is 'smakc' or even 'smcak'. There's just something wrong about the placement of c and k on the keyboard. The same with b and v, x and c, k and l, a and s, q and w, g and h...

Youre Sleeeeppppiiinnnngggg

2004-05-28T01:05:00.000+05:30

I have a problem. Well, I think I do. It's not a very big problem. But it's somehow a pretty persistent problem. The person about whom this problem is doesn't think it is a problem. But that's what he thinks. To me, it's a problem. I think. (Therefore I am. Yeah!)

Everytime this person calls me, (let's call him D, only because his name starts with the letter), I somehow manage to lull him to sleep. Now, is that something worth being known for? Is that even good? Putting someone to sleep on the phone? Is that desirable? Would any of you want that ability?

It starts off pretty okay. We talk about normal stuff, how has your day been, how has your life been, how are my boyfriends, how are his girlfriends, etc. etc. Then somewhere around the half an hour mark, there's one tiny stiffled yawn. And then a minute later there's another... and slowly it gets to the point where there are these silences to my jokes, to my questions, to my existence on the other end of the phone! I tell him, matter-of-fact, that he's falling asleep. He denies it (as if it's the first time it's happening.) I persist. He acknowledges that he might be a tiny bit sleepy. Tiny bit my @... Then he says, wait - hear this, takes the cake - he says that it's actually very nice that I put him to sleep. That he feels so comfortable in my presence that he can relax and fall asleep.

Sheesh! What am I? A massage? Comfortable indeed. Who wants to be comfortable? Comfortable is totally the opposite of interesting, funny, shocking, vibrant! Do I even want to be comfortable? No! NO! I don't. Anyone out there who's willing to work with D and me to make me not so comfortable to him? (Hehehe... I somehow like how that last sentence came out.)

But then... maybe... perhaps this is not so bad after all. Putting people to sleep has to have some advantages, right? I think I should try a career in hypnosis... those suggestion-induced slumbers where you can almost play God. And then I'd hypnotise D and... mwahahahaha.

When he is only the man

2004-05-25T13:24:00.000+05:30

There are days when I am infused with the urge to take shots at people, to do something semi-worthwhile with the time that I have been wasting on fullhyd, to take control of other's lives, to sit in my 'puter chair and count the only man and four women on the top charts. I take a deep breath and parody the lovely blog entry of Script Writer.

I have just now found the undeniable need to prove my worth. I have lots n lots. And, in addition to it, I am almost an FCP, a thriving art I must say. I am sexist and a proud one at that. But mediocre? Huh? Word doesn't even exist in my dictionary.

I am not the average indian female who believes that women should be confined to four walls. Why the f*** should the males be allowed to rule the world? I firmly believe in the doctrine of equality - they slogged their balls off and got all the glory and devotion (maybe also those cheerleaders on the side) and why did we sit at home and provide emotional, physical and all other words ending with -al comfort to them and their children? And what did we get in return? Just that you gave us 'something' when we discharge our conjugal duties and pat us on the heads to keep us quiet?

For a long time we did not complain. We kept our mouth shut because we knew it was a better deal but couldn't it get better than that? And then we committed a brilliant act that changed everything - we burnt our bras. Why? Because it was too good seeing those jaws drop. ;)

But look at what that one moment of intelligence got us. We no longer just sit at home. We have our money, we can cook a decent meal anytime AND we still have you wrapped around our little finger. Somewhere along the line, we allowed you to think that you are our equals, and how we tittered. We let you believe this and you didn't even get a hint despite the obvious 'headaches' when you came back home from a day spent fervently praying that tonight would not be the night for them. But seriously, I hate to give the secret out, but what were you thinking? You, equal to women? How could you aspire to be that?

The victory cannot be undone. You have brought this upon you. We wanted work, we got that. We wanted to be independent. We got that. Now we want the men to work too and they will. We don't demand, we persuade. It's not unjust either. What else will you do if you don't work?

Oh I'm a girl and I didn't lose anything. You men are bigtime suckers. You'd do anything for a woman when she so much as smiles at you. And we would want to do everything more 'cos now we've got you on the defensive and it's a much firmer, sweeter hold over you. It IS a woman's world. Always has been. Always will be. There's been no change. It's still working as smoothly as it has been. Check out the top five blogs. It's nice that we let you be up here with us, no? And to counter Bertrand Russel's words:

After the women's liberation, all of the world is happy. Hey men, you better be! It's a woman's world after all. ;)

(to be taken with a grain of salt)

Top 10 Junk

2004-05-24T04:34:00.000+05:30

For some reason my spam has been increasing lately. When I checked today morning, there were 56 messages in that junk folder. And that after I cleaned it yesterday evening. Because I cannot get myself to delete anything without at least reading through the subject lines, I am now going to inflict... err... share the choicest and the best among those with you, the exalted reader of my blog. Accompanied by my comments, of course.

1. :_ RND08:{zero-cost_bussiness_ops_information}Hartsell_-_Latoyia -- poor thing who sent this has a broken keyboard and is also acutely dyslexic and may also be a closet schizophrenic. Rightful place is in an asylum with 24/7 care and a padded cell.

2. Keeping We1ght Off -- Listen sicko, I've known people who tried to keep weight off. I've seen them do acupunture, that fleecing called HerbaLife, some weird weight reduction pills from an upmarket clinic in Bjr Hills and also the whole massage, sauna, diet routine in those 'beauty parlours' which guarantee weight loss of 5 kilos in 10 days. It never happens. Unless you're talking about surgery to take all the fat off, just tell me WHY the F would I want to open your mail and see what else you have to offer?

3. Do you know beans about coffee -- now this one was nice. Unique. A pure gem. Don't think I got this ever before. Made me stop and look at it in amazement. It might even be the work of a genius. I mean, to think that somebody sat there and thought and thought about what would be so unusual and out of the blue that it would snag my attention when I'm going through my spam! It's such a nice thought. I paused in my rant and smiled.

4. CIAL1S & LEVITRA starts W0RK1NG up to twice as fast as VIAG~RA & last up to 24... -- Notice the way it trails off after 24. 24 what? Minutes? Hours? Days? Omigod?! Heeeelllppppppp...

5. WANT^ A_ VE-RY BIG C,O-C'K ^' plskbaefjnpvd -- Apologies to the people out there who have trouble seeing the word c**k, even when punctuated with commas and hyphens and apostrophes to completely distort it and make it slip though the filters I have set up, but I needed to comment on this. I was just wondering that if I took these messages to heart and if they were true, by now I'd have a 50 feet long pe... You get the point.

6. FW : do you feel like cutting your pen1s off? -- Oh My GOD!!! I swear I didn't make this up. It was there among the other almost innocent junk. I'll even forward it to anyone who wants proof. I'm still not over this...

7. Get an SANY0 C0L0R Cell PH0NE with N0 CREDlT Check, FREE! -- sigh. I bet this fellow is related to the hundreds of Nigerian dictators who lose their kingdoms and manage to slip away with billions of dollars all wanting to deposit them in my account and then I get half just because I helped him get the money out of there.

8. Aran, Looking for love, not age reply -- How nice. He even wrote to me personally. Too bad he ended up in my junk mail folder anyway. Stupid person! If I was looking for love, do you think I'd be spending this time in front of the 'puter? And excuse me, looking for love, not age? Why not age? Why exactly do you think I am not looking for age? Do you think I want some 90 year old doddering walking stick dependent? Do you think I'm not good enough or nice enough or slim enough or tall enough or fair enough for all of those YOUNG morons who write to the personals for someone who fitted the description of Ms. Rai?

9. bazooka pen1s pi11 -- yes, I know this is getting a definite A-rated slant but well, I couldn't pass this up. It's such a perfect example of two words which should not be used in the same sentence. (The first two, if anyone is wondering).

10. C0MPLlMENTARY Restaurant GlFT Card enclosed for *****, NO COST -- Confession time. I once clicked on this and it led me through five pages of filling up forms before I realised its just something stupid and closed those windows. Warning you about this is my good deed for the day.

So ladies and gentlemen, there they were, the ten noteworthy junk emails I got today. Hope you had fun with 'em; this was Aran, reporting for the junk email section of Weird and Whacky and I'll return you to our main desk in the studio now. Have a good day and don't forget to smile. :o)

Five to Ten

2004-05-23T06:33:00.000+05:30

I was supposed to meet my friend at a predetermined place yesterday. We decided on the phone that we'll meet at a particular time.

"So I'll see you there at 1:30?" I asked her.

"No, I'm terribly sorry, you don't know how long it takes me to get my hair in order and them I really need to choose my accessories carefully and then if I can't find the handbag, it'll take me twenty more minutes and then the traffic... let's just say I'm pathetic at keeping up to my appointments and I'm crap and I'm just not very concerned about time."

That is what the nice sounding voice on the other end of the phone should have said.

But does she? NO!

She told me she'll be there and when I called up an hour after the meeting time to ask her whether she's in some life or death situation so that she can't even call me to tell me she is late, I hear that sick, immortal phrase...

"I'll be there in five to ten minutes."

Instantly I know it's a lie. "Five to ten"?

Okay, I swallow my irritation and instead of pointing out that she has a problem with time keeping and has already not been true to her word, I hang up.

Five minutes happen, ten minutes pass, fifteen past I wonder why I am doing this and between visions of my doing things to her which would get a PG or an A rating (for violence, silly. What did YOU think? God! You're all alike.) she arrives.

Can't say what happened after that 'cos I want my blog to be read by kids too. But the next time you hear someone saying "I'll be there in five to ten minutes" do not believe them. Take it as seriously as a man saying "No, of course you don't look fat in that." It's pretty much up there with great untruths like "I'll pay the rent by tomorrow, honest" or "Prakash! What have you done to your hair?! No, no... of course it looks fabulous that way" or "Aloque is smarter than Aran."

Moral of the story: Don't believe the "five to ten" people.

Poor Colourless Beings

2004-05-21T11:25:00.000+05:30

What is it about guys that makes them unable to distinguish the subtle differences in colour? What makes fuchsia merely pink for them? I'd be obliged if some guy actually attempted to answer this question, you know.

Today I was talking to a friend of mine in messenger and I changed my text colour from red to teal. Immediately the next message was -- "Why the yucky green text colour?" I merely informed him that it's teal. In a nice way, mind you. Didn't lose my patience. Very matter-of-fact. Not even sarcastic. After all, he was a guy. Next message says, "Well, whatever. Looks green." Now excuse me! I try to enlighten my poor colour challenged friend and he refuses to be enlightened? How can teal be green? How can teal be anything but teal?

The same case with another person (male, of course) who refuses to understand the nuances between fuchsia and pink. Fuchsia, my dear people, is a strong purplish red. There is a reason why the english dictionary has a word called fuchsia. It's not merely to be dropped in conversations to show your mental superiority, but you'll know why it exists the next time your girlfriend wears that and asks you how she looks. You can come back with - "Gorgeous, fuchsia is definitely your colour." You can never go wrong with that.

Then there's this fellow who asked me what my favourite colour was. I said yellow and he goes "Whaaaaaattt?" Geez! I have to explain to him that yellow has many different shades, mine is a nice pale lemon yellow, not the MSN smiley yellow or the Govinda pant yellow and then he attempts to nod and desperately tries to understand. I almost feel sorry for doing that to him.

And there is a big difference between mauve and purple. I went shopping once and I picked up a light mauve shirt which I thought would look really nice with black trousers. It was a lovely colour and I show it to him and he says, "Purple?!" with a horrified look on his face. I wouldn't recommend purple to people I liked even if my life depended on it. Purple is worn by gay singers or Vivek Oberoi in a ridiculous coke advert. Not by people I know. And mauve is definitely NOT purple! It's not even light purple.

Come on guys! Life is just not a colour wheel of red, blue and green, okay? What are you going to do when your girlfriend asks you if she should use the Sandalwood Beige or Buiscuit Brown lipstick? Are you going to go "HUHH?!" No, of course not! Empower yourselves! Go out there and learn to distinguish the bronze from burnt sienna, the khaki from ochre, the olive green from chartreuse. You have it in you! You can do it!

If you can mollify the unforgiving girlfriend,
With colours other than green, red and blue -
Then yours is the Earth if colours you comprehend,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, won't you!

With deep apologies to Mr. Kipling. ;o)

Family Err

2004-05-20T06:38:00.000+05:30

There are some things which family members should not know. I consider myself really broadminded and all but I realised that the statement above is really a true fact of life without which life is really pathetic. Or it could be if you don't realise this NOW.

I recently got this forwarded email which classed people into certain sexual types based on the part they washed first while showering. (Leave your addy and I'll forward it to you. :D) I have no idea whether this has been experimented upon and found true or is just a smart outlet of an idle brain. I'm putting my money on the latter. (How can people say anyway? I mean, if you didn't like what you were based on this test, would you stop washing your umm.. hair first and start washing the err... shoulders or something? These things are so stupid. I have no idea why I forwarded it to other people. And did you read that one about the way you sleep and then it linked it to your personality? Was it true?)

Me, in my infinite broadmindedness sent it to my brother. And he sent me an answer saying he washed his chest first.

Now, people, I ask you. Is that something you would do? Is that something ANY self-respecting brother would do? Isn't that cruelty towards all sisters and also humankind in general? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy he washes anything at all considering the way he is in and out of there like a hurricane-with-a-female-name, but that stuff is information I DO NOT NEED! Why do I need to know what he prefers sexually? Geez! It's just something I send him and he sees it when I'm not there and he forwards it to his friends. Does he really need to tell me?!?!?! *rolling my eyes* I almost went into denial when I got that email. Sibling rivalry is fine and we may have tried to kill each other when we were younger but doesn't he even care about me that much to save me from this trauma?

Are family ties sacred no more?

The Roadside Romeo Effect

2004-05-18T04:02:00.000+05:30

Really influenced by aloque's entry about road rage, I couldn't help but shout out at a guy who was crossing the road in front of me yesterday. I was driving along, minding my own business, when this roadside romeo - red shirt with obscenely yellow stripes and trousers of indeterminate fungus-green colour (A perfect goonda type with those flashy clothes. I have an allergy to those types. They think they're God's gift to women and give a sick smile, with paan-stained teeth whenever I look in their general direction. YUKKK!) - he simply sauntered in front of me.

I probably wouldn't have minded if he was just crossing quickly, I let them do that sometimes; but what got me was the casual indifference of the man. He was fairly dragging his feet and taking ages. I slammed on the brakes, leaned out of the window and... shouted. It wasn't something dirty though. Just something to the tune of "Abey Andheeyyyy. Dikhta nahi kya..."

The effect was really unexpected. The guy stopped right in front of my car and stared at me through the windshield. Amazed expression. Looked like he lost the ability to speak or think or move.. totally braindead, moronic, stupid, crazy, half-dead upright vegetable. (Damn! I feel good after that).

Not only the guy, but the traffic around me slowed and stopped. The traffic cop standing nearby stared. The cycle fellows stopped and stared. One auto fellow stopped and smirked. For about a minute, it seemed like I'd done something totally unthinkable while everybody slowed, or stopped and stared.

Is it still a novelty to see a girl shouting at a guy who tries to die in front of her vehicle? I mean, why can't we? Only the males have the ability or right to shout out obcenities, or what? Geez! It wasn't even something bad. I wonder what would have happened if I'd done the shocking words list.

Hey people! Wake up and smell the exhaust fumes. The girls are getting down and dirty. Live with it! (If you can't, then blame aloque. :o))

Singleton

2004-05-16T01:43:00.000+05:30

There was yet another marriage I attended recently. A close relative. An aunt. Now that she's married, that's the end of all the single people in that generation (R.I.P) Being the eldest in my generation, that makes me the bakra... sigh... or rather, the bakri.

So that's why my father's chacha's daughter's husband's second cousin started asking me about my love life. For a second I was really shocked. I mean, here I'm sitting in a function where there are 'only' about 1000 'close' relatives (I was sure there were more - especially counting the insanely shouting running brats who seemed to run about playing without a care for life or limb. One even bloodied his nose somehow. In a marriage finction?! God! How can kids do that to their parents? How can kids do that to anyone...)

Well, anyway, I find myself sitting next to this hulk of a woman who is overflowing out of the rented white plastic chair, and she sweetly turns to me and the first thing she asks me is "So do you have your eye on someone?" with a leer which sickened me to my stomach and threatened to make the half-cooked shaadi chicken (you know that red thing which you find only in marriages) come out the way it had gone in.

I stared at her and debated on whether to answer her with "Listen lady, I never met you before in my life, I don't even know you and even if I did know who you are and how we are related, I wouldn't tell you if I had anybody hidden around in my love life simply for the reason that you have a sick expression on your face which suggests that you want the information just because you want to spread it around the whispering gossippy ladies." But, I controlled myself. I smiled. Sweetly. And muttered something to the tune of "No, no auntie."

Did I think the topic was closed? She came back with a "You can tell me you know" accompanied with what I believe was an attempt at a confidential smile. I smiled and remained silent. I underestimated her powers of eliciting answers though. She kept looking at me with this enthusiastically expectant expression until I could scream. "No, there is no one auntie," I said finally.

"Ahh ok."

Just as I was sending up a heartfelt thanks about the message being sent the way I wanted it to, I was met with "What do you think about X?" X being the measly, nerdy son of a family friend who, apart from being the last thing I would marry, also happened to be two years younger to me.

TWO HOURS of non-stop matchmaking later - to totally unsuitable candidates, I so wished I had a lovelife. Sigh.

Bloggity Blog

2004-05-15T13:10:00.000+05:30

I just read Fallen Angel's blog. Yes, it's nice. It's funny. It's great. It's fantabulous. But for 5 minutes after I read it, I see these black and white stripes on everything I stare at. Am I going blind? Or is there a problem with that template? It's the template. I'm too young here.

Ohhkay, so I don't have a topic to write about. So what is so wrong about writing about FA's blog anyway? I like it enough. And then JLU doesn't like me commenting on my teachers. (I'll have him know that there were two who influenced me too - to balance out the two... er... maybe more whom I can make fun of. So there!)

I come here to write in this blog instead of watching a balding guy romancing the world's most beautiful woman in '94 -that's Taal (What the F was Anil Kapoor thinking when he did that role anyway?), and well, there is a choice of Govinda (groan) and the same gal on another channel, or a sci-fi movie, or Star Parivar Awards (OMG, did they really do that?!) and now what do I end up doing? Writing crap. Pathetic. Ahhh! Such is life.

Here, I'd like to point out that YOU are reading this. Hehehee...

Watch this space. :p

Joo Park Manazement

2004-05-14T02:08:00.000+05:30

The title is misleading. This post is not about the management of The Nehru Zoological Park. It's about people who talk Tinglish. Tinglish is talking English in a Telugu accent (and also sometimes anglicizing Telugu words. God help me!)

Pet irritant alert - I'm going to rant about the biggest thing which irritates me about Tinglish (by the way - Tinglish sounds like such a nice word too. Like something related to ticklish or tingles - a cross between the two. :D But it's not. Just another example of nice words not being fit for their meanings.)

I think I became aware of Tinglish when I was in 9th standard. My class teacher, who taught us Maths (yuck), spoke fine Tinglish. I don't mean speaking Tinglish is fine, I meant that he did a fine job of speaking Tinglish. There's a difference between the two. The only sentence I remember verbatim, coming from his mouth, is - (ta da!) "We will go to the Joo Park. We will manaze." Let me explain. The poor guy was not nuts. I'm quoting him out of context. Well, the context was our annual excursion. He was planning to go to the Zoo and he was planning to manage 120 kids there, without losing some in the process. Though why would someone want to get lost in the zoo is really something I cannot comprehend. And someone who doesn't want to be lost, sees to it that he isn't. Problem solved.

I digress. (No, not tigress. Digress. Yes, this is a post which mentions "zoo" but still it's not tigress.) So what really amazed me when I heard that sentence is that the guy can pronounce both the sounds of "z" and "j" - BUT HE USES THEM IN THE WRONG PLACES! How wow is that!

Now Tinglishers, due to my inherent kind nature and because I do not want to hear 'z' and 'j' interchangably, I am writing a little exercise exclusively for you out there! (People who do not speak Tinglish: please help me spread the message) Tinglishers - repeat after me -

1. ZzzZzzzzZZZZzzzzz - Zoo. (Do that five times. If you cannot, try saying manaze and try to understand what you do with your tongue when you come to the 'z' part of manaze, then do that with Zoo.)

2. Jojo - Jiji - Jaja - Joy - Japan - MiraJGZSHe (mwahahahaha. No, forget mirage, that's beyond you. That was my idea of a cruel joke on you poor speakers of Tinglish.)

3. Now try this sentence - We will go to the ZZZZoo Park. (yes, stress the Z. You can do it!)

4. Now try - We will manaGe. (stress G/J part. Yes, like that. Good!).

5. Repeat 3 and 4 till perfected.

6. Go out and get those chicks and dazzle them with your new z-j skills. Enzoy! ;)

Disclaimer - The above is meant to be a public service exercise for the Tinglish speaking people. No, no. No thanks necessary. Really. I don't expect monetary benefits either but I realise you might feel inclined to offer me something because I've helped you change your accent and your life. I understand gratitude. But I don't take cheques. For cash gifts, leave a comment (clearly mentioning the amount you intend to err... donate,) and I'll mail you for the details on how the transaction can be completed. Have a nice Tinglish free life.

This entry is dedicated to my 9th standard Maths teach - Mr. R. Thank you, Sir, for making me aware of the existence of Tinglish. As they say - knowledge is power. See where it got me!

GRE and Talcum Powder

2004-05-12T00:18:00.000+05:30

I'm just back from my early morning class of GRE coaching. To all of you who are intelligent, you know what GRE coaching is all about. To those who are semi-intelligent, you have a vague idea, try http://www.gre.org/. To those who are dumb, you don't need to know, so don't even think about clicking.

My class starts at 7 a.m. It's a rotten time but that can't be helped. I was swindled into it. That's a long story for some other time. What I was trying to tell you here is that I need to wake up at 6:30 and drag myself there after a half-asleep brushing of teeth and if I'm lucky, a cup of coffee.

Now the guy who teaches us the verbal part of the coaching, (well, perhaps guy is not the right word, we'll go for man) is probably retired from a position of principal of some school. On the first day of the coaching, he had talked about how he was wanted to teach English to some high profile chain of colleges in Telangana region but he turned it down because he was more interested in working for the betterment of students who really needed him, etc. etc. (rolling eyes). Basically, he's just too full of himself and he's also full of sandal scented talcum powder. Yes, you read it right. Talcum Powder.

Today as he entered the class, there was a cloud of sandal scented air which entered with him. The class is air-conditioned (yeah!) so we had to tolerate the suffocating, gagging, puky smell for almost two hours. I think I'm in awe of this man. I mean, I drag myself out of bed a mere half hour early and into the class, almost half asleep, and this man manages to look like he woke up at 4 a.m and had a shower and then emptied half a bottle of Ponds' sandal scented powder on himself. (How do I know it's Ponds'? B'cos my grandmother uses it. She uses the pink one though... not sandal, but once the shopkeeper had given her a sandal scented one sometime back and I had to breathe the fumes for about a month. Thank God she's back to pink Ponds'.) Plus, the really funny thing is that he looks all white. I was concentrating less on the analogies and more on this white-washed, sandal-scented almost-apparition who had hair coming out of his ears.

I wish I could tell him this. And Mr. P, if you're reading this, errr.... I could crawl under a rock.

Sigh. What all I have to endure in the name of education!

First post -- Eat Feat

2004-05-11T03:40:00.000+05:30

I'm going to start this thing with a post about eating 'cos that's SO what I am. Sigh. That sentence just had me imagining myself as a big hulk of matter... fat drooping from every angle and almost like a giant dollop on the ground. Umm... well, if it gave you that idea too, you are so WRONG! How dare you?! I mean, you just sit there reading blogs and imagine all the nice people who have our nice, interesting, entertaining blogs to be fat blobs or what? Uh, you do? Humpphhh! Let me tell you that I'm ravishing and witty and I could probably intimidate you into scared, trembling silence. So there! Coming back to the topic, (did we go off?) I went to that Famous Ice-cream place in Mozamjahi market and had the chikoo hand-made ice-cream. It's heaven. So I had it four more times. Well, yes, I know it's probably fattening (I don't want to talk about fat, ok?) but see, once in a while never hurt anyone, right? So five times in a night doesn't either. I meant eating ice-cream, sick weirdo! (Great God! Is that ALL you can think of? I bet you're a guy.) Anyway, five times - that is - ten scoops in a night is, well, a little too much, I agree. But what is life if it's not to be enjoyed? We have anyway been thrown into this place to fight it out so what's wrong if we have some fun along the way? See? It's all about perspective. See the big picture.

And I'm not fat.