The grin without the cat

Lalalala.

2011-10-15T07:43:00.000-07:00

Having a theme song playing in the background every time you walk into a room makes life indescribably more interesting. If only reality was a hindiphilm.

P.S.What would your theme song be?

House-love.

2011-09-20T22:07:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, I used to pass these two houses next to one another every day on my way to school, tucked under a bridge, with their faces turned sideways to the thoroughfare. Large, sprawling, yellow bungalows, right out of a Ruskin Bond book, with dense green backyards and pretty gravel driveways and a pair of enchanted swings in the corner of a yellow courtyard. And every day, I looked out for them from my windows and secretly acknowledged their presence with a deep sense of comfort, like nodding at two strangers you see everyday on the bus on your way to work and knowing everything's all right with the world.
I never knew who lived there, but then again, it never really mattered.

Dammit.

2011-08-13T22:15:00.000-07:00

It's steaming-momos-and-thukpa-with-Gordon-Lightfoot weather outside.
In the midst of which, I have to read Ulysses, of all things. For the love of all that is humane, spare me the horror.

Day 30 – Your favorite book of all time

2011-06-24T23:05:00.000-07:00

At laast. I've never stuck to anything this long.
Will it be cruel if I decide to skip this? Because I'm one of those strange people who doesn't have a favourite book.
And it'll be so aptly anti-climactic and everything.

But no, I promised myself I wouldn't skip anything. So here goes:
(It's not a particularly well thought out choice, but it's just a book I return to so very often, and whose language I aspire towards.)

Isla Negra

Pablo Neruda

Day 29 –The book you're currently reading

2011-06-23T23:03:00.000-07:00

Nine Lives

William Dalrymple

To use a much worn phrase: I'm loving it.

Day 28 –The last book you read.

2011-06-22T22:55:00.000-07:00

The Magic Toyshop

Angela Carter

WhatcanIsay about Angela Carter except that she's crazy beautiful, and her novel is magical and mundane, terrifying and heartwarming, depressing yet uplifting all at the same time. A magical roller-coaster, this.

Day 27 –A book everyone hated but you liked

2011-06-21T22:45:00.000-07:00

Absent in the Spring

Agatha Christie writing as Mary Westmacott

An explanation seems mandatory. Very few people like Christie's "Westmacott" novels, because, let'sfaceit, like with her supernatural thrillers, her 'family dramas' tended to go overboard a bit ( I guess when you're stuck writing detective novels for thirty years, any chance you get at writing anything different is equivalent to a six-year-old on a sugar high when his parents are out of town.)

I'm not sure anyone hates this book. But I've never met anyone who obsesses over the book like I do. It's just one of those inexplicable things: I don't know whether the novel's good or bad, but I loved it when I first read it years ago, and I wasn't disappointed when I re-read it much later.

Day 26 –Favourite Title

2011-06-20T22:40:00.000-07:00

This is a weird one. I presume they (such an useful pronoun) mean names of books?
Well, Alexander McCall Smith always has such funny titles, and as you must've noticed, I'm such a stickler for humour.
A selction: Tea Time for the Traditionally Built, Morality for Beautiful Girls, The Right Attitude to Rain, The World According to Bertie.

Day 25 –A book that you wish you could live in

2011-06-19T22:36:00.000-07:00

Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass

Lewis Carroll

This is a bit "duh!", don't you think?

Day 24 – A book that you wish more people would’ve read

2011-06-18T22:36:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't dream of presuming to tell people what books they should read.( No, really.)
But then again isn't this what the whole meme is about?
So, instead of choosing one particular book, I'd choose a genre that is not neglected as such, but not, I believe, read as much as the novel: the short story, my first love, because as a kid I never had the attention span to finish a nov...

And because pictures maketh the blog post, allow me put in images of the short story collections I've read recently:
Wilderness Tips by Margaret Atwood: Deliciously surreal in places and downright creepy in others.

Numbers in the Dark by Italo Calvino: Beautiful and bizzare rolled into one amazing read.

Day 23 – A book you wanted to read for a long time but still haven’t

2011-06-10T20:43:00.000-07:00

There are so many books that I want to read but haven't (because of sheer laziness in some cases or inaccessibility in others) that this post could fill up an entire er, book.
But to name two that I've recently had an incredible urge of reading (meaning can someone please lend?)

Day 22 – Favorite book you own

2011-06-09T19:48:00.000-07:00

I wanted to skip this because it's stupid.(Ah, if only life was that simple. Don't mind me, I feel particularly philosophical today.) Because of course I own my favourite books. So I can look at them lovingly and stroke their spines and bury my face in them when I'm feeling low, like oldfaithful dogs and warm blankets.
So, yes, I own almost all my favourites (which does not, however, translate into books I own being my favourites. I own a lot of books.)
But I guess if I had to pick one book that's different from the rest I would say my signed copy of Dancing in Cambodia, because it's the only signed book I own.

Day 21 – Favorite book from your childhood

2011-06-08T06:21:00.000-07:00

The Anne of Green Gables series

by L.M.Montgomery

The thing about Anne is that people either love her or hate her. Her imagination (which runs wild all too often), her need to find poetry in the most mundane of things and her insistence that her name be spelt with an 'e' at the end may not be to everyone's taste, but for me, she was always a 'kindred spirit', with her posse of imaginary friends, her storytelling clubs and fiery repartee with her rival schoolmate (and eventual lover, no surprises there), Gilbert Blythe.

And because no post on childhood (or at least, our childhood, I have no idea what kids these days read *insert disapproving shake of head*) can ever be complete without Enid Blyton:

Even though I've read all the Famous Fives and loved her school series (particularly St.Clares and the twins), the Five Find-Outers and Dog (despite their rather cumbersome name) were my favourite, prolly because they were more of mysteries (which needed figuring out) rather than adventures. Not to mention Fatty's vast collection of disguises which I sincerely envied.

Incidentally, I never cared for The Secret Seven. Probably because seven is two too many for a detective club.

Day 20 – Favorite romance book

2011-06-07T08:20:00.000-07:00

The Historical Romance series

by Georgette Heyer

Undoubtedly the wittiest, funniest, most enjoyable romances I've read, with oldfavourites like The Grand Sophy, Arabella, Frederica and The Nonesuch. The writing is smooth and engaging, often even laugh-out-loud funny, the dialogue is sharper than all the Jane Austens put together and the characters are independent, headstrong and sometimes, whimsical. In other words, it's like hugs-and-icecream after a painfully boring day.

(And oh, the men, the absolutely delicious men, from the Rake to the Libertine, the Corinthian and the Cynic.Sigh.)

Day 19 – Favorite book turned into a movie

2011-06-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

I almost always hate movies that are adapted from books, because, let's face it, it's generally a very very shallwesay creative interpretation of what the book is. Fidelity to the book is important for me in a film adaptation, at least as much as is required for the feel of the book to be kept intact. Interestingly, both my choices are animated. Coraline by Neil Gaiman is one of the creepiest children's stories I've read and the film, with its surreal stop-motion 3d animation just takes the creepiness a notch higher. Brilliantly complements the book. As with Persepolis, adapted from Marjane Satrapi's novel of the same name, which sticks as closely as possible to the book's original starkness.

P.S. Another movie I was overall satisfied with after reading the book was Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden. Like the book, the movie is er... luscious, for want of a better word.

Day 18 – A book that disappointed you

2011-06-05T07:44:00.000-07:00

When We Were Orphans

Kazuo Ishiguro

For a long time, I wondered how this is different from an overrated book, but then I figured that disappointment in the book stems from personal expectations, rather than any hype surrounding it.Or at least, that's how I've interpreted this one.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge Ishiguro fan. Remains of the Day and Artist of the Floating World continue to be my favourites. I love the way his stories flow like water, from memory to memory and moves effortlessly between past and present. But this one didn't work for me.I mean, I like it, but it's not a book that, for me, is quintessentially Ishiguro.

Day 17 – Favorite quote from your favorite book

2011-06-04T07:29:00.000-07:00

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

--from The Bell Jar, Slyvia Plath.

Again, this is one of those things that's impossibly difficult to decide. I could have put in a funny one-liner and be done with it, but I didn't.*

Incidentally, this one comes a close second:

"Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world's original sin. If the cave-man had known how to laugh, History would have been different."

- by who else but Oscar Wilde in Dorian Gray.

*Oh wait...

Day 16 – Favorite female character

2011-06-03T07:10:00.000-07:00

Sally Bowles from The Berlin Novels by Christopher Isherwood and Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote. They're both similar in a way, with their inimitable style, their ruthless self absorption and their eccentric charm. Not to mention they've both been portrayed by legends on the big screen.

P.S. Honorable mentions: Granny Weatherwax (from Terry Pratchett's Discworld) who is, in her own way, inimitable. And Miss Marple (by Agatha Christie) who is everybody's favourite crime-solving grandma. Well, more like spinster aunt. (Oh wait, do I notice a pattern here?)

Day 15 – Favorite male character

2011-06-02T07:09:00.000-07:00

Satan from Paradise Lost

by John Milton

I've tried hard (very, very hard) not to make this day's post about literary crushes, like Mr.Darcy, Atticus Finch or Rhett Butler.

So, I went looking for the most interesting male character I knew. And who better fits the bill than Milton's Satan (or more precisely, the Romantic reading of him): the original rebel, who served as a prototype for the badass Byronic hero.

And I love all the modern renditions of him: from Satan in Eoin Colfer's hilarious Wishlist to the magnetic Woland in The Master and Margarita to the devastatingly suave Lucifer Morningstar in the DC comic series, Lucifer.
I mean how could Eve have possibly said no to this?

Day 14 – Favorite book of your favorite writer

2011-06-01T21:30:00.000-07:00

The Great Automatic Grammatizator and Other Stories

by Roald Dahl

When this book came to me post Matilda and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I was stunned. It was like discovering your favourite uncle had a secret double life that bordered on sleazy-psychotic-killer (but much less creepy, of course). But then I got hooked.

And I think Dahl's short stories are the best things he's ever written.

Day 13 – Your favorite writer

2011-05-31T21:10:00.000-07:00

Roald Dahl

No one in their right minds would ever ask somebody who loves to read this question. How can you possibly name one favourite writer? It's like asking someone what one food they would want to eat for the rest of their lives. It's addle-brained, as Dahl would put it.

But going by the sheer number of things I've read by this man (from Matilda, Danny the Champion of the World, The Witches,his delightful take on fairy tales that is Revolting Rhymes to his short stories and his absolutely thrilling autobiography Boy and Going Solo) and the amount I've gushed about his brilliantly sarcastic, often wry sense of humour, I think Dahl more or less suits the position of one of my all-time favourite writers.

P.S. And who can think of Dahl without Quentin Blake, another of those men I wish I was related to, so that I could get hand-drawn cards for Christmas. Sigh.

Day 12 – A book you used to love but don’t anymore

2011-05-30T08:04:00.000-07:00

Good Wives

Louisa May Alcott

Little Women was fun, if somewhat moralizing. But re-reading Good Wives, alas, brings home the follies of my youth! I used to like Frederick Bhaer, but then I realized how appallingly patronizing he is. Not to mention Laurie McWhineypants.

Day 11 – A book you hated

2011-05-29T07:54:00.000-07:00

Robinson Crusoe

Daniel Defoe

"What?" you say, "You cannot possibly hate this classic piece of literature that we all remember reading in highly abridged format in our days of innocence?" Oh yes, I can. Because when you read it in the original and go through pages and pages of Crusoe doing the same things over and over again and writing them over and over again (much like this sentence) in his journal, at the end of it all you feel like throwing the book at the nearest available person.

The only thing that made the reading of this book remotely worth it was reading Coetzee's Foe right afterwards.

Day 10 – Favorite classic book

2011-05-28T07:50:00.000-07:00

To Kill A Mockingbird

by Harper Lee

Well, the definition of a classic is somewhat dicey, but I'm sure no one will argue with me on this one. Atticus Finch (ahem, Gregory Peck) is one of the best things that happened to (fictional) mankind.

Day 09 – A book you thought you wouldn’t like but ended up loving

2011-05-27T04:16:00.000-07:00

Orlando by Virginia Woolf
Well, you don't really love Woolf, you appreciate her and her writing style. But Orlando was an absolute surprise, because it was so deliciously humorous (yes, you actually laugh in a Woolf novel) and absurd in a strangely matter-of-fact way.

I Am Legend by Richard Matheson

As a rule, I don't like horror fiction. Or zombie-apocalypses. Vampires, I'm willing to concede, sound sexy, but really aren't. So when I picked up this book on my friends' recommendation I was not expecting brilliance.

But I got it.

Just goes to show,never judge a book by its cover.

Or its movie.

Day 08 – Most overrated book

2011-05-26T04:10:00.000-07:00

The Alchemist

by Paulo Coelho

I know it's been a while since the book came out, but I just had to post this. I never really saw the point of all the hype surrounding this book.

Another book that I thought was overrated was Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. Or maybe it's just me.

Day 07 – Most underrated book

2011-05-24T22:03:00.000-07:00

Down and Out in Paris and London

George Orwell

Yes, yes, I know, this isn't really an underrated book. It's only underrated in the context of the author's other, more wildlyfamous works like Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty Four. The best part of the book is it's part-travelogue, part-journalwriting-on-'slumming' and part-young-man's-first-brush-with-Communism, which makes it such an engaging read. And it makes you want to hitchhike across the globe.
And I just reallywanted to put this on my list. So there.

Day 06 – A book that makes you sad

2011-05-24T06:20:00.000-07:00

Night

by Elie Wiesel

Sad is really not the word. Sad is what The Boy in the Striped Pajamas would make me. This book is nauseating.

Day 05 – A book that makes you happy.

2011-05-23T11:31:00.000-07:00

My Family and Other Animals

by Gerald Durrell

Even though I've read this a hundred times, this book still has me in splits. If you have a family which lets you name puppies Waddle and Puke, you will obviously write a book about them.

Day 04 – Favorite book of your favorite series

2011-05-22T03:40:00.000-07:00

Mort

by Terry Pratchett

Well, not just Mort. Anything with Death, the character, in it, actually. And if that doesn't make me sound sufficiently dark/tortured, I don't know what will.

P.S. Disc-laimer (I'm sorry, I just had to do that):
Mort is not my favourite Death book. I meant it as a representation of all the Death books. I cannot choose between Death and er, Death.

Day 03 – Your favourite series

2011-05-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Discworld

by Terry Pratchett

I feel almost guilty for not placing Harry Potter as my favourite series, because, like every single kid of my generation, I was obsessed with it growing up. (Well, not crazy I-will-now-jump-off-the-roof-with-my-mop-because-I'm-secretly-a-wizard obsessed, but still.) But then, there are series and there are series.

Day 02 – A book that you’ve read more than 3 times.

2011-05-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

Pride and Prejudice

by Jane Austen

But. Of. Course.
From a true-blue Austen fan.

Day 01: The best book you read last year.

2011-05-19T20:47:00.000-07:00

Into the Wild

by Jon Krakauer

I have a hard time remembering the book I read last month, let alone the books I read last year. But I do remember this book, because I absolutely loved it. I'm not a fan of non-fiction in general and travel writing makes me sulky, but this book was so much more than that. It's On The Road meets Motorcycle Diaries meets Catcher in the Rye.

30 day book meme. Starting n...er, tomorrow.

2011-05-17T23:37:00.000-07:00

The bibliophile's version of the 30 day music challenge meme that's been doing the rounds.Also known as an exercise in patience.
Which I am unable to resist getting into. Even though I know I'll regret it five days from now.

A dozen favourite webcomics.

2011-05-17T10:03:00.000-07:00

And because I'm too busy (lazy. Have you noticed how similar those two words sound? 'tis the irony of the universe) to write a proper blogpost, I will proceed to cheat unabashedly. By providing you with a bunch of links that you might've as easily looked up on the internet. (But you won't, will you? Too, er, busy.)

1.xkcd : sarcasm, math, language and even the occasional spurts of romance. What more do you want?

2. Cyanide and Happiness: Creepy, depressing and often downright insane. Perfect for a quiet night of blowing your brains out. Now with doppelgangers. And naked men.

3.PBF: a.k.a The Perry Bible Fellowship. Features a different style of artwork with each comic. And lots of slightly disturbing humour.

4. Buni: Heartbreaking and hilarious at the same time, it traces the misadventures of a ridiculously optimistic snaggle-toothed bunny.

5. Sinfest: Features Jesus, The Devil, a pimp and *drumroll* the big daddy himself, God. You had to be there.

6. White Ninja: Quirky and mild, but very endearing.

7. Hark, a vagrant: Prettily drawn and just the right amount of nerdy, with a few absolute gems.

8. Dead Philosophers in Heaven: Fine, it's a little allusive, but it's deliciously irreverent and even, erm, educational?

9. Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal: Often self-reflexively funny and almost always with a dark twist, ideal for lazy-weekends-webcomic-marathons.

10. A Softer World: Beautiful photographs and snarky captions. What's not to love?

11. Red Meat: One word: disturbing.

12. Dinosaur comics: Same panel, new jokes. Because sometimes he worries his ideas are just too awesome.

P.S. Yes, yes, I know, I didn't include Questionable Content. It's been a while since I read it, even though I loved it when I started. Also, this being an utterly subjective list, feel free to suggest awesome-er stuff.

Aaand...back.

2011-05-17T08:23:00.000-07:00

*thunder, lightning and other cheap special effects*
It's aaaalive!

Oh yesh, it eez.

Hamartano.

2011-03-05T05:19:00.000-08:00

Also known as what-we-do-in-Paradise-Lost-classes.

Of new starts and new methods.

2011-01-23T21:11:00.000-08:00

The problem with Lazy-Sunday-Mornings is that you get used to them so very quickly. And you wake up the next day with that same early-morning fuzziness and sit around waiting for the coffee to come to you while you sprawl on bed, flipping disinterestedly (that is, unless you're reading the tabloid-esque supplementary paper, of course) through the morning paper before it slowly dawns on you that today is, in fact, Monday. Whereupon, you rapidly run through all available expletives in your head and hopefully, spring into action, rushing with almost superhuman speed through the remaining processes of GettingReady, but the morning's brain-fuzz refuses to let go of you till well into the late afternoon.
Anyway.
The year's off to a good-enough start, what with finally making a much-postponed trip to the nether lands of Hostel-Life (but with the advantage of being able to leave while my friends freeze to death in a miserable city).
And even though it's a little late in the day, I still haven't made all my New Year Resolutions. And this year, instead of listing abstract goals like "I will be productive", "I will stop procrastinating", "I will magically transform myself into a shiny blue dragon", I have decided to break my resolutions down to do-able, bite-sized portions. To illustrate:
Instead of resolving to spend less and read more, I have resolved to "stop buying books I will never read just because they are hardbound and cheap." (This resolution, I'm ashamed to say, has already been broken. Damn you, Gariahat!). And instead of "I will pay attention to academics", I have resolved to "stop finishing my term papers in the weekend before they are due."
I'll let you know how it goes.

November is the cruellest month.

2010-11-14T21:50:00.000-08:00

I haven't seen a reallynice crappy movie (pardon the oxymoron) in such a long time. You know, the ones which make your brain melt into a disgusting version of a giant, gooey cheese omelette.
And instead of that rather pleasurable(if slightly masochistic) experience of your brain turning to pulp, I have to read morally edifying tales about the trials of single women in a repressive society (because you can never get enough of that), when I have so many better things* to do.

*like early morning walks around the city in the not-quite-cold-but-getting-there weather (where the definition of early morning is, of course, subject to personal opinion).

Tch!

2010-11-14T21:34:00.000-08:00

The most darnedest things always seem to happen to me. Like bugs flying into my eye even though I wear glasses.

Autumn.

2010-10-03T19:38:00.000-07:00

There's a tune in the air today that dangles in the breeze, and jingle-jangles just out of reach.
Like a wind-chime in a storm.

The four stages of Home-coming.

2010-09-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

People who've seen me on a weekday around six will have noticed the I-have-to-get-back-home syndrome I tend to get each evening roughly around this time. It begins quite innocuously with a few furtive glances at my watch, gradually mounts to the must-tear-myself-away-from-whatever(Incredibly InterestingThing)-it-is-I'm-doing phase and ends in a sort of steely resignation about the thing that is to come.

Now before this seems more than your average dose of Strange, let me explain that I live in a place, that for our purposes will be known as The Land of No Return (LNR), which due to some general consensus (or conspiracy) all autowallahs avoid like the plague. And before I get into my four stages of going home, I'll point out another place, let's call it The Base Camp (around 15 minutes away from the dreaded LNR), which is the last point of civilized safety to which some auto-wallahs will condescend to go.
(And if this part reminds you of your terrible fifth-grade Geography lessons, all I can say is that this will be over sooner.)

Stage One:
Also known as Delusion/ Misplaced optimism/ this-is-what-I-tell-myself-every-day:
in which I think I'll get an auto back home. I mean, of course, who wouldn't want to spend over 45 minutes going to the Land of No Return when they can make about five short trips in any other direction? And in these initial throes of goodwill towards the world (and autowallahs in particular), I , rather contemptuously, throw away a perfectly good opportunity to go to The Base Camp.

Stage Two:
Also known as haath-kaamrano:
As desperation and doubt begin to sneak in, I feel like kicking myself for letting the previous opportunity go.
I forgo all hopes of directly going to LNR and start asking around for autos to Base camp. But, all seems lost. Now the Base Camp autos have mostly filled up and I have no choice but to wait more.

Stage three:
Also known as Desperation.
I abandon all dignity and pounce on any auto in the vicinity asking them to go anywhere near the Base Camp.

"Anywhere around Base Camp? *insert have-pity-on-me face* No? No?"
"No."

Stage four:
Also known as To-hell-with-it.
I take a cab.

The disappearing act.

2010-08-18T08:12:00.000-07:00

Or more appropriately, the disappearing cat.

2010-07-27T19:30:00.000-07:00

Reading Bleak House. And like I did with other interminable Dickens classics (namely, David Copperfield), I shall start a countdown, to keep me, erm, motivated (and not tempt me into reading the oh-so-enticing summary on Sparknotes.)
The book has sixty-seven chapters.I'm now on chapter six.
It's going to be a long, long night, before the light at the end of the tunnel.
Sigh.

Edit on 4.8.2010: The B.H. Project has been abruptly and unceremoniously abandoned due to the sudden arrival of Into the Wild, which I have begun to devour at incredible speed.

Of oldfaithfuls and nostalgia.

2010-07-21T09:52:00.000-07:00

Familiarity is so wonderfully enticing. It reeks of comfort: like old sweatshirts and worn-out easy chairs and dog-eared childhood favourites that you read on lonely evenings.
I'm too old a dog to learn new tricks. But I try. I really do.

Bookering.

2010-07-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

This year I've decided to at least try and keep one of my numerous new year resolutions.This one has been the same for the last couple of years:
Read. More.
(Excluding the stuff that I have to read as a *self-conscious throat-clearing* student of literature. Starting now.)
And in the past month, as far as I can remember, I have read:
1. The Time-Traveller's Wife (Audrey Niffenegger): Though this might've been the month before that. I am kinda on the fence about this one.I think the concept is fascinating and I like the fact that despite the obvious choice of an awesome-I'm-so-cool-because-I-can-disappear protagonist, she chooses to focus on the wife, at least in the title. (In the actual book, however, Clare is the kind of character you think is nice, but can't remember the name of the next day.)
2. The *insert shamefaced grin* Twilight series (Stephanie Meyer): Which are four books, really, if I cheat. But I won't. And what can I say about the book(s) that hasn't already been parodied? So, this vampire is in love with a human (in mortal terms: a human being who is inordinately fond of his/her food of choice) and the ensuing chaos, with lots of teen angst, general horny-ness and other sparkly bits thrown in.
3. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (Mary Ann Shaffer): Which I liked, and not just because of its deliciously quirky name. Because personal histories interest me. Especially those about the Nazi Occupation, in this case, of the Channel Islands.
4. Elephants can Remember (Agatha Christie): Votcanisay? Poirot and Mrs. Oliver. Once again.
5. Northern Lights (Philip Pullman): Because I've accidentally seen the movie first, the tight plot didn't have its usual surprises. But I loved the powerful, often larger-than-life characters, especially Mrs.Coulter who is fascinating in a run-away-screaming kind of way. I'm told the rest of them of the series can't match up to the first. But then, isn't that true of almost all series?
6. The Bloody Chamber (Angela Carter): Whose prose, like a living, breathing, intensely physical thing, instantly wraps itself around you and forces your attention,despite the fact that, being an e-book, it lacks the solid materiality (and of course, the newbooksmell) of a book between covers.
7.Ways of Seeing (John Berger): Surprisingly lucid for a work that is touted as the "one of the most influential books on art in any language".

Not much, I know. But it's a start.

Of old habits and new.

2010-06-21T08:19:00.000-07:00

I chanced upon an old schoolmagazine today. It was funny in a I-will-pretend-I-have-never-written-like-that way. The painful insistence on rhyming in the early years. The flowery descriptions of not-very-interesting scenery that came next. And finally the pseudo-intellectual poetry that crept up between ages fourteen and sixteen and was (is?) so bloody difficult to shake off.
Sobering, really.
On a different note: Must. Learn. Cooking. All my friends (with the possible exceptions of those who are destined to be my soulmates) know how to cook, when I can make nothing more than the occasional instant noodles,cheese-omelette and an odd assortment of friedstuff*. That is, without the microwave. With it, however, I am Kitchen Goddess (ahem, well, almost. I can manage chingrimaach and tandoors and even, *insertgasp* rice!). However, kitchen purists tell me that that, sadly, does not count.(They are all awfully bad at maths, though).

*Besides caffeine, of course. But these were always more of a labour of necessity than of love.

Puddle.

2010-06-15T08:30:00.000-07:00

The monsoons are finally here. Hopefully, for good. And though it inevitably means many hours of wading through overflowing lanes that would put Venice to shame and the ruining of (several pairs of) perfectly-good shoes (unless you plan to go barefeet and risk something, thankgodyoudon'tknowwhat, squishy underfoot),oddly enough, I'm happy. And the plants in the backyard are absolutely ecstatic.

C'est la vie.

2010-06-03T07:31:00.000-07:00

There are times when I look around and think that the grass is green(er) all over the stupid meadow except this tiny patch of barren brown (okay, maybe what-once-was-green and now is the colour of old unwashed carpets and mouldy cheese) that I am standing on.
Brightshiny things happening all around you, but never with you in it.

Ah, well. At least I have the pleasure of wallowing in misery.

She will be loved.

2010-05-12T07:59:00.000-07:00

Frantic procrastination often leads to surprising results.
Like when, instead of sitting down to sort out the massive pile of work that always seems to gather (surprisingly and unfailingly) on my metaphorical plate, I turned on the radio only to discover anew how creepy-stalker-ish most Hindi song lyrics are. *
Almost all of them (yes, I believe in making sweeping generalizations) follow the general trajectory of: Boy (aka lover/stalker) meets Girl, Boy falls in love, Boy insists that Girl must love him back and simply does not know it yet (or, sometimes if he's more old-school, that he will pine and whine away if she, by some ridiculous chance, does not love him back) and Girl, being the kind-hearted (read:unimaginably dumb or maybe, just bored) soul that she is, ultimately agrees to be Boy's love/fetish/obsession by the end of the song, pretending of course, that she had a choice in the matter.
*Case in point, the song that triggered off this train of thought, is a relatively lesser known one (but right up there in the Creepy-Stalker Hall of Fame, with veterans like the Big Brother Song), which begins more or less innocuously with Boy praising Girl's ability to attract (unwanted) male attention and general awesome-ness: "Dilruba maana hai kaatil teri adaa/Laakhon hain aashiq tujhpe fida/ Humko bhi tu aazmaana ..." etc but goes increasingly into CreepyStalker territory:

"Main deewana hoon main deewana/Aise jaane na doonga jaana/Youn na humse nazrein churaana /Hoga humse hi dil lagaana"

And then comes the part where the girl (presuming she is even remotely sane) should ideally begin screaming for a restraining order:

"Bekhabar jaaoge bach ke humse kidher /Paaoge humko jao jidher /Jo chaahe kar lo bahaana
Main deewana hoon main deewana /Aise jaane na doonga jaana" etc.

Only two words spring to mind: pepper spray.

2010-05-02T20:54:00.000-07:00

And how can you be mad (or even sad) at life when it has fried chicken and mayo (or better still, fried chicken with mayo) in it?

Summer interlude.

2010-04-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

After what seems like eons I was out on the street when the storm came.
And the rain hit me like a big yellow school bus.
And suddenly I felt like singing.
Right out of an oldhollywoodmusical, it was.

And then of course, I got drenched to the bone while hanging on for dear life on the auto, ruined veryimportant documents despite my attempts to valiantly protect my bag from the rain by hugging it to my chest like a newborn babe, and had to walk halfway to my house, shivering in the wind, through deserted streets. Evidently, things got, shall we say, not-very-song-inducing.

But the tail end of the storm brought in warm clothes, coffee and Chelsea Hotel mingled with rainsounds, so it turned out all right in the end.

mush

2010-04-17T06:38:00.000-07:00

This post is for you.
For the middle-of-the-week-rant days. The trashy-movie-and-cheap-popcorn days. The Shopaholics-Anonymous days. The stuff-our-faces-till-we-burst days. The I-feel-fat days. The gawd-help-me-pull-through-this days. The autumn-leaf-crunching days. The should-I-really-buy-this days.The count-polka-dots day. The bimboness-is-fun days. The let's-run-away days. The my-life-is-average days. The coffee-and-conversation days. The nobody-understands-me days.
*greatbighug*

P.S. Now can I get my waffles-in-chocolate-sauce treat? :)

The "Why-was-I-not-informed" post.

2010-04-10T21:48:00.000-07:00

You know those days when realization hits you in the gut like an elbowing co-passenger on the morning auto? It happened to me that day while filling out (another one of those) stupid surveys when I came to the "What is Your Age" bit. And as I circled/ticked/marked in other recognizable ways the "20-25" option, I had a Moment. You know, those moments when time slows down around you like a slow-motion clip out of an action-thriller, there is suitably impressive (if metaphoric) music in the background and a tiny voice in the inner recesses of your mind goes "Gasp!" (in other words, a Moment. Made important on paper by random capitalization.)
And all of a sudden, I realized that somewhere down the line I had become what the newspapers call "a young, middle-class woman in her early twenties..."
*Insert deep, booming voice, like the kind one expects in the narration of an apocalyptic movie* In her early twenties.
One moment you are a precocious (as you would like to believe) sixteen year old grappling with teenage angst and adolescent poetry, the next moment you're "in your twenties", expected to take life-changing decisions (and,herecomesthescarypart, stick to them) and constantly hounded by that unanswerable question "What do you want to do with your life?" And the next thing you know, you're thirty and stuck in exactly the kind of job you've always vowed to avoid, falling into the familiar pattern of alternating between cursing your boss and cursing your life.
And it all starts so innocuously, with you (read: your naive thirteen-year-old self) being overjoyed at being allowed to sleep over at a friend's place or to travel alone, that when Twenty creeps up on you, you're still, in your mind, in that special place which lets you pretend to be responsible and adult-y, not actually be one.
Or maybe that's just me.

2010-03-25T06:46:00.000-07:00

It doesn't take much to be happy.
Only a warm bed with plenty of soft, white cushions. A quiet room on the roof, overlooking the city. Nightlights and cityscapes with a cup of coffee and Neruda. With Cohen in the background. Bean bag. An occasional trip through dinghy alleys with camera and paintbrushes. Plenty of fresh flowers in large blown-glass bowls, a windchime that jingles in the storm. Cloud shadows on the verandah on gloomy monday mornings, rain on the window panes. A tiny library in the corner, spilling over with old favourites. Calvin and Hobbes trailing over Marquez. Red afternoons. Freshly laundered cotton curtains. Background music.

2010-03-02T19:40:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, the most awkward five words in the English language are:
"Um, do I know you?"

Quickchange. Superhero style.

2010-02-26T19:37:00.000-08:00

Impromptu holi-playing primarily consists of a series of quick changes which begins with the realization of the stupidity of wearing normal clothes on a day of badeggs, buckets of water colours and utter madness.Subsequent mad dash to friend's house to change into bag-lady clothes and careful wrapping up of everything else in protective layers of plastic. Back to the coloured jungle of unrecognizable faces, tainted with every colour imaginable (and some other sparkly bits, besides). Go from bag-lady to bag-lady-who-stepped-right-out-of-a-painting-of-the-sixties-psychedelia in a couple of minutes. Bump into second realization of the day: it's impossible to return to civilised habitation looking like green faced slug from trashyalienmovie. Enter the loo. Five minutes of frantic scrubbing and a change of clothes later, emerge with an almost-clean face (never mind the faint splotches of blue near the cheekbones) and positively shining clothes (recovered from the said layers of protective plastic) and combed-out hair. Accompany a bunch of holi-fearing others to relatively fancy restaurant without attracting too many stares.
A day well spent.

Birthday blues.

2010-02-19T10:43:00.000-08:00

What's so great about getting old, anyway?

Except perhaps presents.

Ramblings.

2010-02-17T20:26:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wondered how aesthetically inappropriate real life is? It's always so darn anti-climactic, like being stuck in a perpetual, physical irony. (Remember the time when you wanted to quote Shakespeare because you saw Nature at its most beautiful, but all you could manage to splutter was an overused expletive?)
Take heartbreak for instance, the reason why pop songs exist. If real life was more real (and better directed), heartbreak would inevitably be a larger-than-life scenario with oodles of tears, crumpled pages of deep, dark, morbid, poetry and suitably morose music in the background culminating (occasionally) in the slashing of the wrists.(Refer: particularly bad romance novels and family soaps, the kind that refuses to wash off.) But it probably is more like a gnawing pain at the back of your head which hurts only when you touch it, like a scab on a knee.

On another completely unrelated note, I recently discovered that our departmental computers are named Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello and Lear. It would be interesting (infuriating to people who actually wanted to work, yes) if they decided to act like their names. [To boot or not to boot, that is the question.*]

On yet another completely unrelated note, I was (metaphorically) flipping back through the pages of my blog when I realized how very little there is in the box tagged "blue-ish".
I never knew this was such a tra-la blog. You know, one of those nauseatingly brightshiny, overtly optimistic types.

*PJ courtesy N.C. Begyourpardon for not mentioning it before.

The week that was.

2010-02-12T20:49:00.000-08:00

Long walks down sunny roads. Evenings laden with promises of rain.
The campus on a Sunday, beautifully deserted. Lying on the grass, looking up.With the slow, lazy wind in my hair.
Pseudo-spring evenings trailing with classical music in dimly-lit halls.
Synchronised head-banging.
And cups and cups of lebu cha.

A selection of candy bars.

2010-02-01T08:08:00.000-08:00

The book fair, as usual , is torture. Like being ten years old and stuck in an enormous WillyWonka-esque chocolate factory with a halfpenny in your pocket and trying to choose one candy bar.
Oh well.
At least I chose seven.

But the best part of this excruciating decision making process is the coming-back-home part. When you lay your new books out in a magical little semicircle around you and get acquainted with them. That's when you know whether you'll be on nodding terms with them or whether you'll grow old together.
They have a way of letting you know: just by the way they feel in your hands.Or by the particular newbook smell they have.

Happiness is the way new books look stacked into a hurried pile by the bedside table.

Philosophical ponderings. Or, List-making is sometimes empowering.

2010-01-21T07:15:00.000-08:00

1. It's hard to be self-deprecatingly funny all the time.
Clowns must have a really hard time. No wonder some of them end up like The Joker.Only, less cooler, usually. More of an Aahat*-esque clown-killer, perhaps?
Serial killers are too complicated nowadays.Even ghosts. I miss Alif Laila, where ugly demons didn't bother with psychological motivation: they just wanted to eat you (or alternatively, break your neck.) Everyone who ever grew up in the 90s remembers Alif Laila. The same way they remember the lyrics of the opening track of Captain Planet and temporary tattoos . It gives them, us, whaddoyoucallit, a sense of generation.
Coming back to my original point, it's stupid to grin and bear it all the time. So I've learnt. Assertiveness is the key.If you have the right lock, that is.

2. The city looks so very sparklier by night, so much more alive somehow. Like a giant beehive.

3. Browsing through old books is the best thing that happened to the world after browsing through new books. Also, not buying one of them because they are a)either too expensive or b) you have a pile of them waiting to be finished at home gives you that rare satisfaction of taking the right decision.

4. My friend, in her soon to be published best-seller, Car Crashes, Dead Cats and Horror Films, points out how difficult it is take your eyes away from death and weirdly-dressed people.
It's a fascinating study.

5. One trashyalienmovie sandwiched between a rom-com and a quirkyfamilydrama leaves an interesting aftertaste.

6. Indecision is rarely (read: never) a good thing. Especially when you can't even decide on a blogpost title.

61/2. Nothing can tide you over a rough day better than vanilla muffins. Except perhaps chocolate muffins.

*which I believe has been renamed several times over the past few years usually with a great deal of Ssh-ing and exclamation marks in the title.

P.S. -6 and the other half. Gordon Lightfoot and his rainydaysongs are perfect for winter evenings at home. Smooth and mellow.

New year post?

2010-01-02T07:16:00.000-08:00

I don't know whether it's a good thing to start off the year with reminisces (and I have a pretty good hunch it isn't), but I was busy doing completely useless but happymaking things all of December and didn't really have time to write. Well, that's not completely true...okay, it's a blatant lie. I was procrastinating as usual, but I have finally managed to catch up with the Decemberpost in my head so that's a (verylate, but nonetheless) start, right?
December has been good to me. No, I'm not any thinner (possibly much fatter considering the number of stuff-my-face days in the recent past. There's nothing like the holidays to make you believe in miracles. Namely, the ones which will magically make all the calories disappear post Christmas) and definitely not any wiser at the end of the year. But I know now what it's like to stand in the middle of an enormous courtyard looking up at the sky in one of the oldest and finest buildings of the city. To sit for hours at the edge of the maidan watching the city light up at twilight, like fairydust sprinkled lightly onto the dusk. To spend Christmas strolling through overcrowded sidewalks in uncomfortably conspicuous bright-red Santa hats. To light pink candles in the heart of a tiny green garden, along with others who go there to pray. And hope.
And even though I know that these things don't really matter, they make (correction:made) my year, how do you put it, "immeasurably more satisfying" (and if you recognise this phrase, you're more addicted to Facebook tags than you think.)
And the best part about December is that I made all my usual resolutions* again, which await their February graves. But January is always so promising. All bright and shiny and full of general new-ness. So, before this freshness pales, Happy New Year,all. Here's to constructiveness and generous dollops of ice-cream.

*Stop procrastinating.Stop procrastinating. Stop procrastinating. Starting tomorrow.

A Christmas tale.

2009-12-29T20:21:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time,
There was an ancient but beautiful giant...

With a star in his heart,

And flames in his eyes.

I wonder.

2009-12-05T22:31:00.000-08:00

If you could write one book in your life, what kind of book would it be?

Edit:: I mean would it be the fast-paced thriller, the inspirational,highly philosophical kind, the turns-your-world-upside-down-whether-you-love-it-or-hate-it kind, the social satire, the medieval romance, the tongue-in-cheek popular culture tribute or a bizarre mix of them all?Or something completely different?

Six-word stories.

2009-11-25T23:34:00.000-08:00

Of all literary gimmicks, this is the most addictive. The six-word story. Before you read the rest of the post, here's what Sparknotes (my friend,philosopher and guide) has to say:

"When it comes to literary gimmicks, the six word story is one of our favorites. The concept of telling a story in just six words is attributed to Ernest Hemingway, who wrote the following micro-tale:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

It hits you right in the gut, doesn't it? It's tough to compete with Ernie, but it sure is fun to try. Well-known authors have given it shot, and used the six word structure to write their own memoirs for the book Not Quite What I Was Planning. And a few years ago, Wired Magazine collected some of the best six word stories from popular sci-fi writers. Like a haiku, the concept is pretty simple (Use six words to make a story. Contractions are permitted), yet coming up with a good one is harder than you'd think..." Rest of the article.

So, I decided to try a few of my own. Like:

Once upon a time, they died.

The blind man bought my glasses.

They came out of the rabbit-hole.

Ella died.Then she killed herself.

He pulled the trigger and boom.

She started. It was a mirror.

They lived happily ever after. Damn!

The light died. So did he.

"I'm dying",he said.She smiled.

Jack hit her. With an axe.

"And then you push this butto..."

She was unhappy. Then, she married.

I could keep going all day.(In retrospect, most of my stories are somewhat morbid. Sigh. I always knew nobody understood me.)
And I know this isn't much of a tag or anything, but if you do decide to try this out on your blog, your not-so-private journal or on the back of your exam script *[Refer footnote], let me know,I'd love to read. And there's always the comment box. Feel free.

*Only, I don't think our teachers would appreciate a six-word answer. Though I can't understand why not. I mean, think about it;
Question: Critically examine the basic structure of Macbeth.
Answer: King killed. New king. And again.
So much simpler.

The Comfort Food List.

2009-11-16T07:11:00.000-08:00

Comfortfood: n. that which makes life worth living. Alternative description: Like therapy, only cheaper.
Even though it has generally been jumbled together into a hetreogenous mass by the public, to the discerning eye, there are actually several categories of comfortfood.

The not-another-Monday category: which primarily consists of fried eggs (sunny side up), also known as dim'er poach,largely considered to be one of the most happymaking breakfasts in the world. Especially the oozing out of the gooey yolk to be wiped off the plate (messily, I might add) with scraps of bread. And preferably with streaky bacon, fried to perfection.
Also, leftovers. I don't know why, but leftovers are somehow, intensely comforting: especially goodfood left over from last night's party.

The no-one-loves-me category: You know, the days when you're stuck at home, procrastinating, and feeling, let's admit it, lonely. It also works well if you're on your way to recovery from sudden bouts of emo-poetry writing, or from those morbid moments when you think about dying alone fifty years down the line, still playing Farmville on your laptop. Ideal for this category is chicken soup(no, not the book, you're trying to recover, remember?) which is possibly the next best thing to your Granny baking (okay, buying) cookies for you. Also, in this category is the Thukpa, with prawns and vegetables, which, surprisingly enough, is healthy as well as being as comforting as a warm quilt on a winter's night. In fact, don't bother about the particulars, anything hot and soupy will do at a time like this: even soupy maggie with peas and boiled egg-slices.

The if-i'm-fat-already-might-as-well-enjoy-it category: also known as I-couldn't-care-less. Largely consists of cheese, in various forms and sizes. An omlette with cheese dripping out of the thin layer of egg, a cheese burst pizza, with liquid cheese tricking down your chin, cheese and crackers, with a sprinkling of spices on top or even cheese right out of a can. Heaven couldn't be very much better.

The instant-pick-me-up: Fried chicken. Thin slices delicately glazed to perfection with honey and sesame seeds or huge, meaty chunks deep fried in crispy batter. Home-made, with onion rings,dipped in vinegar and coriander chutney. Or shreds of chicken, lighty fried, tossed in with the rice. Life is simple and oily again.

The this-is-an-emergency category: to be used in dire cases of depression caused by inability to fit into old pair of trousers or shortly after attending a family reunion/Valentine's day celebrations alone. Two words: ice cream. Straight from the tub. With chocolate syrup, nuts and wafer. And with warm cake on the side, with strawberry jam. Feels like a hug.

And even though coffee is not really comfort food, it's the best way to unwind after a long, not-so-hard-after-all, day. When in doubt, drink coffee, is what I always say.

Film festival.

2009-11-12T19:25:00.000-08:00

In the mornings, we greedily stuff ourselves with whatever is on display - Turkish, German, Spanish, Italian,French:like a woman on a diet face-to-face with chocolate cake after months. In the afternoons, a classic, with that delectable sense of complacency it brings.And in coffee-littered evenings, there are trysts with short, new ventures, long conversations and rides back home on crowded evening buses.

The Representation of the Self. Or, Is That What You Look Like?

2009-11-02T07:11:00.000-08:00

If you have ever wondered what you would look like if you were a hugely popular,sardonic cartoon and yellow: now you know.
Speaking of which, avatars* are strange beings. They're supposed to be representations of yourself but they are actually what you think is a representation of yourself. You possibly had the idea that you had great hair, an attractive smile and a personality so interesting that it borders on overwhelming, but it turns out that other people think your hair's just about okay, your smile's either sleazy or vaguely dumb and your personality is not so overwhelming after all, merely annoying in the way a mosquito is when one's trying to take a nap.That's why 'realistic' representations of yourself is the stuff of fantasies. After all, it's hard enough living with the stub nose or the balding hair without having to ruin a perfectly good cartoon with it too. (And after all this is cyberspace where lying isn't really lying. It's a tweaking of the truth. And you're not really balding.Not yet, anyway.)

Ah, well. Vicarious living. For all it's worth. And yes, I believe you if you say you look like that. Really I do.

*For those who have lived under a rock and/or never had a yahoo id in their lives, here's what the word means. My apologies if I have underestimated you.

Fall.

2009-10-31T22:22:00.000-07:00

It's that time of the year again. When everything is just-right. Mellow and inviting.
Autumn in the city is associated in my head with new books. Bouts of frantic movie-watching and scattered art exhibitions.The nip in the air which makes you reach out for morning blankets. Sports days. Old love. Frequent trips to New Market for paisley-printed scarves in end-of-season sales. Crisp afternoon sunshine. Dimly-lit evenings with steaming cups of coffee. Long walks in the city through paths of fallen leaves that crunch under your feet like glass. The beginnings of cake season. The smell of naphthalene as old, winter clothes are retrieved from backs of closets. Birthday treats. General end-of-term laziness. Glue, glitter and squabbles over paint for school art projects. Nostalgia.

Question.

2009-10-20T06:23:00.000-07:00

Every year we have a fair near our house during the Diwali weeks (pre, during, post) and every year I listen to a medley of assorted advertisements for miracle drugs,cheap utensils and household requirements(ranging from the safety pin to the all-purpose bucket) interspersed with bursts of shanai playing or the occasional bad singing/recitation (with the constant 'hello, hello, mic testing, 1,2,3...' in between)that is broadcast 'live' from the para'r pujo mondop with the help of a loudspeaker right outside our window.
It surprises me how every year people throng the fair to play the same games (which is mostly designed to never let you win and gives you a completely useless trinket as a prize if on an off chance, you do win), eat the same food (the over-spiced popcorn,the soggy telebhaja and the chicken roll that spills over with blood-red sauce) and buy the same stuff (the glass bangles that the shopkeeper assures you will never break, or at least not till the fair is over, the trick playing-card set at the 'magic' shop at the end of the lane and possibly a fish from the local dealer who provides free fish food if you buy the aquarium as well). Perhaps there's something innately attractive about a fair that makes even the most ordinary things seem nicer(read: worth buying), somehow more enjoyable. Possibly it's an aftermath of the festive season: what's left of the communal spirit of the pujos.Maybe it's just all the pretty lights.
Whatever it is, the fair is a hit. Every single year.

Interval.

2009-10-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

I don't know why, but travel writing never comes naturally to me.
Not that all other kinds come in bursts of 'spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion' , but travel writing, for me, needs much more tending to than others.
Maybe because my travelogue inevitably begins to resemble either a longhand memorandum of facts, names, kilometres and careful lists of places of interest, or an inspired description that is so vague that it's difficult to recognize whether the place is a tropical paradise or a temperate ... er, hell. I envy those gifted people who can fill entire books(not to mention a mere blogpost or two) with beautiful descriptions of the place and anecdotes of the people with just the right amount of interesting snippets of history and topography thrown cleverly in (so that you know that you aren't reading a highly flowery novel, but not so much that you begin to be reminded of school.)

However, since I'm not one of those people,I have to be content with fragments of memory, fleeting images sketched by a rather wobbly hand:
Standing at a tiny, godforsaken airport surrounded by desert mountains topped with snow, the wind rushing through rugged, barren rocks, carving and moulding them on its way, giant cloud-shadows on cold, silvery, sand dunes, dinghy alleys flanked by roughly made stone houses with pigeons cooing on their broken parapets, shady nooks opening into tiny,Tibetan markets that sell quaint curios and rainbow coloured shawls, open-air bakeries that smell of freshly baked croissants, golden-pink clouds rolling in on an endless range of purple mountains at twilight.

The pre-vacation trailer.

2009-09-09T20:39:00.001-07:00

And we're off.

Uh, well, not yet.
But we will be. At least, I hope so.
I'm dying to go on this vacation.Not literally, of course. I don't think corpses/ghosts/undead etc are much bent on travelling, they seem to be more attached to a particular place. But that's just Pratchettspeak, I have no way of verifying it.Anyway, I was speaking metaphorically.
More such inimitable rhetoric coming your way shortly.

Watch this space.

See you later, alligator.

Au revoir.

*insert other farewell cliches*

P.S. If you can't remember the cartoon who used the second catchphrase in every episode on Old School CN, you're probably too young to read my blog. Come back in a year or two, or as soon as you can find the said cartoon on Wiki. But remember, I've stopped awarding Brownie points since last September.

Foodpost.

2009-08-22T22:09:00.000-07:00

I've been watching numerous cooking-related shows this past week, from Nigella Lawson and Rachel Allen to Curtis Stone and Jamie Oliver. There's something incredibly relaxing to watch these beautiful culinary masterpieces being made and know that the water won't boil over, the fish won't burn, the cake won't be soggy , the eggs won't slip and fall and that everything will magically be clean afterwards. (Like knowing that the hero won't die. Even after being attacked by twenty goons with revolvers.)
Not that I'd attempt to cook any of it.Ever.

Anyway.

While we're on the subject, gourmet food is all very well, but I think it's street food that defines a city. There are so many tiny niches of goodfood in the city that so very few people know of. Come to think of it, isn't it impossible to get a real taste of any city unless you know someone who's lived all his life there, carefully sifting the good from the bad, the ugly and the overpriced? Someone who'll show you all those pockets of flavour which are tucked away in dinghy alleyways, behind unprepossessing government offices or staid middle-class homes, invisible except for the initiated.

That tiny restaurant which you have to reach through narrow, disgusting lanes laced with fresh filth and gutters, but whose steaming tibetan food is well worth the trouble. The garage-turned-cafe that serves great sandwiches or plays great music. The grocery store that doubles up as a stall selling the most amazing pakoras, after five, when the afternoon business is done. The tiny one-room eatery in the very heart of the city that makes the best kebabs and firnis. The makeshift tea-shop with long wooden benches and a view of the park, that is ideal for evening cups of milky, sugary chai.

Evenings in the city smells of fresh coriander and tamarind sauce, mingled with the overpowering smell of hastily scrambled eggs frying in oil. Heady, intoxicating flavours that hit you like a big yellow bus. And leaves you blissfully content.

P.s. And because a little (or lot) of self-indulgent publicity never hurt anyone: click.

Harry Potter six: (un)review.

2009-08-08T21:42:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know. Everybody told me to not watch it. But there's an almost-masochistic impulse in me that compels me to watch movies which I'm warned against. Sometimes, I find them rather well-made, no matter what other people say. This is not one of those times.(On the bright side, I have something to write about. Easy-to-chew subjects are so incredibly difficult to come by these days.)

I swear I wasn't expecting the book when I went to watch the film. (Hell, I'm not even close to those people who know the middle name of that random teenage wizard who appeared on the second line of the fourth page of chapter 16 in book five to say "Snape wants you in his office" and then diappeared into nothingness. In fact, I haven't re-read the books in ages.)
But what disappointed me in the film was the indecision. On the director's part. On whether to make it a teenage-angst ridden romance with undertones of darkness, or a chilling, suspense thriller (complete with zombies and creepy stalkers... er, brothers) with the romance as a part of the plot. Result: it's neither.

The saddest part is of course the end, which (I must admit, even though Rowling can sometimes be a tad too melodramatic for me) was quite beautiful in the book: what with the tragic hero (come on, you seriously didn't think that Snape would still be the Bad Guy in the end, did you?) having to put his duty and honour before his personal anguish and kill his mentor, who heartbreakingly says: "Severus, please...". In the movie however, the whole thing is as matter-of-fact and as mundane as Professor D. asking for a nice cup o' tea, and Snape obliging (that is, if the tea was green and acid-y and shot out from a wand.)

And I hesitate to even mention the sheer waste that was Greyback and the cardboard cutout of a protagonist that was Harry (reminds me a leetle bit of smell-the-fart acting, if you know what I mean.)

The only redeeming factor in the movie was of course, Tom Felton (a.k.a. the silver lining) whose sheer hotness was emphasized by the dapper black suits he wore throughout the movie.

Analyzing Alice in...Alipore?

2009-07-30T08:05:00.000-07:00

Not that I live in Alipore. I just wanted the title to sound beautifully enticing (like this), but as usual, it ended up sounding erm...what's the euphemism for stupid, again?
If you want to ruin a good book, analyze it. This,of course, is the oldest maxim in the world (formulated,no doubt, by some long suffering student of literature), but to analyze something as deliciously nonsensical and random as Alice... it breaks my poor heart. Of course, mostly because paper submission looms like the Queen of Hearts over my head, ready to "off" it any moment now.
This is a perfect instance where background music in real life comes in extremely handy. Now, if reality was better organised, it would have pages flipping, the clock turning (or quick successions of day and night, whichever is cheaper), me looking diligent, poring over (at least, pretending to) a few books and shuffling some papers; all with an appropriate, easy-to-follow-and-sing-along song about 'working harder and touching the sky' or something on those lines ("Sprouting wings" or "Never give up" would do too) playing out in the background (slowly at first, then rising climactically when I finish my hard work) and voila:
the work would be done, the paper submitted and/or presented and I would already be beaming at the camera as the last fading(preferably bass) notes of said song die away in the distance.

The problem with reality is it never ever learns from art. It would do itself a lot of good if it did, once in a while.

The computer is impersonal again.

2009-07-26T19:30:00.000-07:00

After almost a month of being virus-ravaged, my old faithful Local disk(C:) bade me a reluctant farewell last week. Now, I have a shiny new C: and latest virus detecting software, media player, Downloader and suchlike: in other words an almost whole new computer which is cold and quite unfriendly.
Not that my old computer and I were the best of friends (in fact, now that I think about it, we hated each other with a vengeance) but we knew each other, so to speak. It bore its overburdened desktop (with an infinite number of shortcuts, favourite songs and old,unused folders) with apparent equanimity, and I bore its ridiculously slow booting with infinite patience (No, really.) Most importantly, we knew each other's tricks. (One of its favourite was to freeze at the end of around seven pages of careful typing in MS Word. After the first few times, I realized it couldn't be a coincidence every time and eventually got the upper hand by frantically clicking the 'Save' button after every new comma. You live and learn.)
This new one, on the other hand, is impersonal and supercilious, with such an air of squeaky-cleanness about it that I feel slightly intimidated. Especially because my folders are messy, cluttered and disorganised. (I have moved them to another drive for safe measure, in case it ever decides to clean them up on its own). And to top it all, its sound device isn't working, so I can't even play songs to break the ice a little. We just sit there in absolute silence and have what is generally termed as a cordial, working relationship.

Sigh.

The Toothbrush Survey, revisited.

2009-06-28T23:19:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time my friend and I conducted a toothbrush survey, which (if I lay aside all those important and complicated sub-issues it raised as to the nature of psychological responses to colour and its socio-cultural ties to gender) raised the simple and most fundamental of questions:

"What is the colour of your toothbrush?"

And while the most obvious answers were blue and red ( people seem to have a curious fascination of one of these colours when it comes to toothbrushes), there were some interesting anomalies (like the Yellow Polka Dotted Variety or the Dino Toothbrush) .The entire process also raised several mind-boggling questions like "Are red toothbrushes primarily used by girls?" or "How far does the colour of your toothbrush depend on the colour of your towel?" (and whether you are insane enough to match them) or "Does the Walrus really like oysters?"

Unfortunately, the Great Judean Toothbrush survey, like all good things in life, fizzled out due to lack of resources and complicated pie-charts.

But I'm curious: what are your thoughts on the matter? Or, if you are incapable of thinking, what is the colour of your toothbrush?
P.S. Of course,I'm allowing anonymous comments for this post, so if you do have a Powerpuff Girls/ Star Trek toothbrush, this is where you can own up.
Fearlessly.

Not again.

2009-06-02T21:31:00.000-07:00

My writing skills are comparable to bad plumbing. The pipes get clogged(mostly by reality shows, overeating and oversleeping) and have to be cleaned out so frequently that the entire process has ceased to be even remotely amusing.

And the plumber always promises to come but never turns up.

Time management.

2009-05-23T05:39:00.000-07:00

Now that I've managed to get the uncomfortable things (read:reality) out of the way, at least for the time being, I don't know where to start. There are so many things that I need to do: some favourite things which have been regretfully set aside for a brighter day (like catching up on my reading, taking the camera out for walks more often, mending my broken relationship with my sketchpads) and some less than favourite things that have been conveniently postponed for tomorrow (like re-organizing, decision making, de-cluttering, exercising).

Mornings are for writing. For slowly, very slowly dragging myself out of that ignorant abyss of tech-retardation and properly exploring photo editing. For learning to make dainty little low-fat lemon and strawberry tarts to go with my well-balanced nutritional breakfast(*All together now, breakfast is the most important meal of the day*) of fruits and wholewheat bread. (Oh well...I can dream, right?)

Afternoons are for discovery. For oldforgotten paint brushes, crayons and pencils. For messy art projects which take infinite patience and serve no purpose whatsoever after they are done. For movie-watching.And remembering old songs.

Evenings are for reading. For countless cups of coffee. For rain. And for those ridiculously relaxing sessions of mindless TV-watching with a plate of something deep-fried and cheesy.

I hope I don't waste time doing something remotely constructive.

Then and Now.

2009-05-10T20:56:00.000-07:00

This article is about the changes in writing styles. For the VH1 not-so-good show try Then and Now(disambiguation).

It's perhaps interesting to note how often a writing style takes in external(read: current book you're reading) influences and moulds itself accordingly. More often than not it's like one of those giant chameleon-like creatures in movie adaptions of StephenKing novels which can take the shape of the first person it comes in contact with.
Take this creature at ten, for instance, when it was littered with descriptions of camping, secret societies, and heather (inevitable remnants of Enid Blyton) and of course with at least one character called Dick (okay, I was ten, so let's not read too much into that) or Peter.
Then a couple of years later came what I mentally call the Era of the Ellipses when every other sentence (or phrase or paragraph) ended in those three tiny dots to make it sound sufficiently mysterious... (For instance a poem would be somewhat like: The sun filtered through... the busy streets of May... I wondered where the roads went...past the city's grime and grey...)

And then of course comes college which changes your writing forever. Take for instance this paragraph:
"I love the summer rain. The sudden gusts of wind throw the leaves around in the street.The rain dances off the asbestos roof of the house across the street, making that familiar pitter-patter which I call rainsound in my head. A bunch of schoolgirls rush down the street giggling madly; an old, tattered umbrella pirouettes away in the wind with an elderly man running frantically behind it, trying to catch up."

A simple enough description.
Now observe closely:
*pulls out the box of Oldest Tricks in the Book*

"Sweet summer rain. The scent of wet grass in the air. Restlessness lingering in the wind.
My soul has sprouted wings.
I hear sounds of broken laughter. The dust envelopes its shattered pieces.
The rain sings alone. A sad, lonely song which pierces the evening.
And after the rain, all that is left is a tattered umbrella lost in the streets."

Observe the pregnant pauses and the attempted use of Conceit. Realize that this is part of a common vocabulary now, the same way every other essay used to start with "It was a dark and stormy night" in sixth grade.
Nowadays the poet doesn't say,he emphasizes, instructs, reinstates, believes.
The author does not merely write well but "uses the narrative structure to uncover the structure of the narrator's unconsciousness".

Don't get the wrong ideas.I'm not trying to be sarcastic here. All I'm saying is that all these recent complaints of writing no longer being honest, of being a mode of alienation of the self rather than an expression of it...(Ah, how perfectly glib!) is nothing new.
Was writing ever completely honest, completely free from others' influences, whether at seven or seventy?

P.S.My friend has also discussed something on the same lines at her blog.

The imaginary room.

2009-05-01T07:05:00.000-07:00

I've always wanted a room on the roof. A chilekotha'r ghor , so to speak. Perhaps it's a remnant of summerafternoon trysts with a certain boy in Dehra, whose name began with an 'r'. (And I mean Bond. Ruskin Bond.)

A lonely spiral staircase leads up to it.
A ramshackle shadow of a room full of forgotten toys, broken kites and trailing glitter,with that heady, familiar smell of old books and damp walls.
The afternoon sun sneaking in through the half-shuttered window.Bringing with it the hint of open, blue skies.
The evening storm dancing around it, washing away the mundane, the everyday with rain.
And then, darkness. Interspersed with sudden glimpses of a starry, starry night.
A room made primarily of memories.Cobwebbed and stale. And solitude.
And perhaps a ghost or two. Of the Past.

Once upon a time, spiral staircases made me giddy. So I couldn't climb up to my room on the roof. But I always knew it was there. Waiting for me, like the bicycle I never rode. And I know it's still there. If only in my head.

*long, poignant pause, pregnant with nostalgia and unspoken, preferably morbid, poetry*

On a more tangible note:
The heat in a room on the roof would probably be so unbearable that it would melt away the remains of said poetry. And no, cursing counts neither as 'being morbid' nor as poetry. Darn.

On another tangible(and delicious) note: There are chocolate muffins and feta cheese waiting in the fridge to fulfill their destinies of being eaten. Do you still wonder why the ending of this post is so abrupt?

Verylong post. (It's the heat, I tell you.)

2009-04-15T20:20:00.000-07:00

Summer, for me, always brings back memories of comic books. I don't know why, because presumably comic books can be read even in winter( you know, sitting by the warm hearth, under a blanket, that sort of thing.) But I generally associate them with the seemingly endless summer vacations. All kinds of them, from the "Summer special" editions of the somewhat preachy,Tinkle, and (the horribly illustrated, usually overtly moralistic) Champak, to the brightshiny (and usually too expensive) Archie series (it's fascinating how completely I related to the adolescent loves and lives in an all-American fictional town) to tattered, out-of-print editions of old british comics that I used to borrow from a friend.(I remember a particular one set in Nazi occupied France called Mam'zelle X, which I have never come across since, not even in veryold bookstores). And of course, there were Asterix and Tintin, which I read in all available languages.

But that's not the point. (Yes, I know I ramble.)
Therefore, it was not unusual that while walking down that stretch of the city where street booksellers are rampant, the spotting of little piles of old comic books would rekindle memories of childhood summers spent in perusing the same in an isolated corner with a mango drink(namely Frooti) in hand.
Anyway.
I couldn't buy them because the prices were too steep, and I haven't yet mastered that brilliant art of haggling.
Which brings me to the point(yes, finally): that bargaining/haggling is one of the most neglected of art forms.
After extensive research I've come to the conclusion that there are three main approaches to the above mentioned art:

The direct approach:
How much?

100 rupees only, madam.

50.

Na, hobe na. Impossible. kena daam 80. The cost price is 80, didi.

50.

I've just opened shop. bouni'r dor.

50.

My kids will starve, didi.

50.

Ok, 50.

(However, this method should only be tried if you have what it takes in you. They can smell weakness.)

The emotional/indirect approach:
How much?

100 rupees only, madam.

(looking shocked) 100?! parbo na. Impossible.

It's cheaper than any other shop, didi.

Dada(note:never address shopkeeper as kaku/uncle), kotha theke pabo? I'm just a poor student, I don't have that kind of money.

Ok, 90 rupees, for you only, madam.

It's a gift, dada. And I have a budget. I really want to buy it. Please, I just have 70.

Na, didi, I can't.

Accha, let's compromise, 75?

80.

Na, dada, Erom korben na, 75.

...

Please?

0k, 75.

The slow-walking/Very Indirect Approach:
How much?

100 rupees only, madam.

Dhur! I got it the other day for 60.

It's impossible, didi. I sell the cheapest stuff here.

how much will you give it to me for?

90.

Naah. Make it 60.

Impossible, didi.

Tahole charun. Leave it.

(now, here comes the important part. Walk away slowly and deliberately, yet pause to look over your shoulder once. If you did it right, after a few steps, the shopkeeper will call you back)

Didi. Shune jan. Listen.

(You come back, acting surprised)

60.

60?

(Shopkeeper, dejectedly):yes.

Of course, the implementation is much more difficult.

Confessions of a Shopaholic.

2009-04-06T20:11:00.000-07:00

Not that I'm one.
A shopaholic, I mean.
Well, liking shopping is completely and utterly different from being addicted to shopping. I mean, yes, there are times when I buy stuff I don't particularly need (like my all-new Refreshing Aroma therapy Bath oils and Candle set, which I admit is a little pointless because I generally race through the shower in order to stuff my face and reach university by twelve), but then I also refrain from buying absolutely pointless things (like that hand-decorated shampoo bottle designed to add that luscious shine to wonderfully straight locks, even though they came in red, blue, green AND purple, because as a friend pointed out, my hair can't really be called 'straight'. Except by a veryfar stretch of imagination, of course).

So, you see, I'm not addicted to shopping.
Sometimes, you have to agree, it's therapeutic, especially after a long, hard day of ...you know, un-bimbo things.(Ah, the pleasures of sighing over a beautiful black dress which A> You cannot even dream of affording or B> even if you did, would never fit into it, unless you're one of those freakishly thin people who eat like, no offence, a pig, but never grow fat. You know who you are.

And sometimes, it's essential. I mean, you need to have a basic black shirt in your wardrobe and what better time to get three of them than a Miraculous 50% off Sale. Even when you secretly know that they increase the prices first and then pretend to give you discounts.
Which has led me to believe that shopkeepers(read retail giants) have an astute sense of human (specifically, female) psychology. That red bag which looks so perfectly adorable with those shoes, or that Pure Silver Platinum coated Blah-di-blah bit of jewellery that "completes" (according to the tag) any woman's "Sophisticated" look.
And of course, the strategically placed price tags, which you never notice until you're at the cash counter.
And books. They can't count as shopping, can they?Of course, they can't. They enlighten and broaden the intellectual mind, and let's face it, there's a limit to how many library memberships you can have. It obviously doesn't matter that you already have about seven new ones waiting to be read on your over-crammed bedside table, you have to get that Pratchett you've never seen in this particular store before.
Unless of course you're distracted by stationery.
I follow the golden rule which says: You Can Never Have Too Many Post-its. Also known as, It would Be A Sin Not To Buy A Multi-coloured Post-it Pack.

I really don't know why I titled my post the way I did.

Jood comic two: It takes all kinds.

2009-03-31T07:55:00.000-07:00

And the customary holi post.

2009-03-13T08:05:00.000-07:00

Holi is that time of the year which helps me be what I'm really good at:
Being messy!
And I'm talking about the oh-my-gawd-what-on-earth-hit-you kind of messy here.

Thank you all for a really messy afternoon.Like the ones I used to have making mud-pies in the backyard when I was four.
It was just as much fun.

And since I suffer from Blogger's block...

2009-03-08T19:35:00.000-07:00

This is quite an old post I rummaged from another blog of mine.
It fits in with the general depression of growing so old that we begin to say things like "In my day..." and "Back in the 90s...". Yes, people, there are at least two generations after us.Live with it.

Enough garrulous rambling.Now for the post(with a few modifications).

"We're growing old, I tell you. Really old.
I saw a blogpost on old cartoons yesterday and that got me thinking.I miss the old cartoon network.I miss it a lot.The cartoon network today is mostly crap. Also, it's not for kids anymore. It's all new-fangled gadgets,weird looking creatures and jap anime.(Yes,I sound like my mom.*sigh*)
I remember the good ol' cartoon network days.
The Flintstones,with their modern stone age family, and the brilliant innovations they used to come up with for hot-water showers, electric razors and aeroplanes.The Jetsons, of course, were the complete opposite.(I think The Jetsons are the main reason why nearly all Sci-fi movies then used to show flying cars.Some still do. *cough* Bollywood *cough*). I loved Rosie, the robot housekeeper.
Then, of course there was the one and the only,The Scooby-doo show. Do I need to say more? (Scooby Snack anyone?)
The Looney Tunes Show was great fun with Elmer Fudd, Wiley Coyote(not the roadrunner one, this one used to talk only in signs), Sylvester and of course, Bugs.Then there were Yogi (of Yellowstone National Park), The Powerpuff Girls (though I always thought they were badly drawn),Johnny bravo and (a shorter series), Mike, Lu and Ogg, with Lancelot, the tortoise.
And then, my two favourites: Dexter's Lab ("Ooh...What does this button do?!") and Johnny Quest (I mean, really, who didn't have a teeny-weeny crush on Johnny when they were ten?)
And I'm not even going into Tom and Jerry here.

Nickelodeon also had some really cool shows.Remember Hey! Arnold!? Poor, poor Helga and her unrequited love for Arnold.So deliciously adolescent.Also, there were the two other teenage-girl-suffering-from-teenage-angst shows aimed at thirteen-year-old schoolgirls and which I religiously watched: Clarissa and As told by Ginger.
And of course, who can forget The Legends of the Hidden Temple? One of the best game shows on teevee.Go, Blue Barracudas!

Edit::
A few more.Those who have been rescued from the dark pits of forgetfulness by helpful peers. Yeah, erm... whatever.

Josie and the pussycats: I loved Josie and her band, and especially the last song that happened after every adventure had been safely wrapped up.
P.S. I've always wondered why most girls of CN looked like Daphne; unbearably skinny and long-haired.
The Adams family: Cousin It!
The Lulu Show: The brilliantly endearing Lulu."

Enough of the gushing.And if you've read through all that, here are the two videos which could've accomplished (with greater efficiency and less pain)what my rambling blogpost had been meaning to tell you for this long.

This and This.

P.S.Anyone remember Wishbone, the dog, from Nick?
P.S.(2) The Wild Thornberries! Of course.I finally remembered the name!

Don't go anywhere!

2009-02-24T19:34:00.000-08:00

We'll be back right after this short commercial break.

blah.

2009-01-28T07:56:00.000-08:00

I have realized that even though my computer and I have the occasional tiffs which sometimes descend into petty name-calling (mostly on my part, I'm afraid, and a stubborn refusal on its part to oblige,my computer having mastered the subtle ramifications of the Silent Treatment), we cannot live without each other. And even though we hurt each other cruelly at times( by way of my computer's vengeful freeze in the middle of my typing out of veryimportant term paper and my [ahem!] sadistic pleasure in constantly pressing the reset button in said situation), the bond we share is, in fact, eternal.
The above mentioned revelation came in those long, bleak hours of separation when my computer was cruelly dismantled by a breed of curiously annoying people, armed with rusty saws, who came for the supposed 'renovation' of the house.
All utter nonsense, of course. Since all they do is carry the furniture around from one room to another and spread liberal amounts of sawdust all over in the process.

[Insert obsessive compulsive paranoia stemming from the occupation of privatespaces by random strangers.]

But at least it resulted in something good.
Acute appreciation of my advantages.
One small step closer towards nirvana, I'm sure.

Ah, Nostalgia!

2009-01-13T18:14:00.000-08:00

One of the best feelings in the world is that warmfuzziness of meeting your kindergarten teacher, who'd taught you to spell.
And when she remembers you perfectly and asks what you do now.
And the glow on her face as she tells you, "I see my little student is all grown up!"

Better late etc.

2009-01-03T20:31:00.000-08:00

Yes, yes, two(or is it three? Blogger's calendar is very messed up) days later, but what did you expect? (ahem!Purely rhetorical question, by the way.)

Happy New Year, all.

Holiday Season Revelations.

2008-12-28T18:56:00.000-08:00

1> Do not venture into overpriced card shops on Christmas Eve. The incredible cuteness of completely useless Christmas baubles and the Christmas spirit( in the shape of insistent shop attendants and mushy songs in the background) will get to you. Sooner or later.

2> It is advisable to carry short spiky sticks, knuckle dusters and/or sharp poking device(s) with you if you're anywhere near the vicinity of St.Paul's cathedral on Christmas Day, in order to avoid getting trampled under a seething mass of Christmas-hungry visitors-to-the-city.

3> There is nothing that a good, grilled ham sandwich,with lots of cheese and mustard, can't solve. Including holiday season blues.

4> However, stuffing your face with too much of such epicurean delights is only a good idea if you plan to spend the night at the restaurant(in cases where your father owns the restaurant, though I admit, it's somewhat unlikely). Or if you have faithful friends to carry you home. Not, I repeat, when you have only the immensely crowded public transport to take you back.

5> If you plan to photograph every single object in your path when on an outing (and especially if the 'you' is more than one person), it is best to either
a) gag fellow friend(s) as they groan in frustration when you stop every two inches
or b)bribe them with offers of undying devotion or brownie-and-icecream.

You have been warned.

My (failed) attempt at rambling.

2008-12-05T19:27:00.000-08:00

Procrastination is the best thing that has happened to the world, I tell you.
Also the worst.

*Sounds of internal struggle off screen*

I had an incredible urge to end the post after the first two lines, because that was all that I had to say.
For the life of me, I can't seem to write those deliciously rambling, seemingly chaotic posts that many of my fellow bloggers seem to throw together at ease.Ideally,however, this post has to be nice and long and pointless to take my mind off the incredible amount of work I have pending and to lull me into believing that I'm actually doing something constuctive (as opposed to doing absolutely Nothing*).
So,I've nothing to write about,but I'm determined to write.Well, that's not entirely true because of course, there are a gazillion things that I should write about, or want to. Yet, somehow, the most important things never make it to the blog, vanishing into wisps of nothingness almost as soon as they're born. Conversations, for instance. My friend was telling me the other day that many of the most ridiculous, humorous and touching conversations never survive more than a few hours.Let alone be written about.
Which brings us to the 'moo' question: What filters do we use to pick What-goes-onto-Blog and What-won't-make-it.I've always wondered.

Which of course brings me to T-n-t and Trent, the obsessive compulsive blogger who blogs about Everything.Or tries to, at least.
And here's one of my favourites. On photoblogging.I plead guilty.

*The underlying one bird in the hand principle, if you notice carefully.

P.S. Well, this isn't exactly long, but it's long enough to be not embarrassing and avoid 'cryptic-post' jabs. Now for some sitting-around-and-doing-nothing.
Sometimes I'm amazed at myself.No, wait. Make that always.

You and me and P.B. Shelley

2008-11-21T19:38:00.000-08:00

What is life? Life is stepping down a step or sitting in a chair.
And it isn't there.
Life is not having been told that the man has just waxed the floor,
It is pulling doors marked Push and Pushing doors
marked Pull and not noticing notices which say
"Please use the Other Door".
Life is an Easter Parade
In which you whisper: 'No darling,if it's a boy
we'll name him after your father!" into the ear of
an astonished stranger because the lady you thought
was walking beside you has stopped to gaze into
a window full of radishes and hot malted
lemonade.
It is when you diagnose a sore throat as an unprepared
geography lesson and send your child weeping to school
only to be returned an hour later covered with spots
that are indubitably genuine.
It is a concert with a trombone soloist filling in for
Yehudi Menuhin.
Were it not for frustration and humiliation
I suppose the human race would get ideas above
its station.
Somebody once described Shelley as a beautiful
and ineffective angel beating his luminous wings
against the void in vain,
which is certainly describing with might and main,
But probably means that we are all brothers under
our pelts,
And Shelley went around pulling doors marked Push
And pushing doors marked Pull just like everybody else.

-Ogden Nash.

On my shelf. (Or more likely, bed.)

2008-11-17T07:02:00.000-08:00

Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a Traveller and The Catcher in the Rye by Salinger.Can't wait to get started.

Also want to read On the Road, by Kerouac.If I can get hold of it.

Jood comic one :The badly drawn one.

2008-11-14T06:26:00.001-08:00

Why I want to be the Grinch who stole Diwali.

2008-11-03T07:19:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know diwali is long gone and we have all had our share of sweets,Bursts-when-You're-Least-Expecting-It firecrackers, toonibulbs,Be-sure-to-have-a-Safe-Diwali messages and the lot.But, unfortunately the para I live in always has a hard time letting go of the festive spirit. Every year, we have a huge, sprawling fair over a gigantic area of the neighbourhood,which refuses to move until about Christmas, or at least until CESC decides that they have had enough and cuts off their power supply.
Well,I quite like the whole idea of playing impossible-to-win games, shooting at balloons which are deliberately placed out of the shooting line, buying halfpenny, tuppenny stuff which are,(and this in bold, black lettering),'Fix Price' and cannot be exchanged(mostly because they tend to break/come unglued/ don't work moments after you bring it back home). But the problem lies in what masquerades as the 'Cultural Programme' of our local club, and which forces you to eavesdrop, whether you want to or not, by way of mics put up on every possible place along the whole line of the street(and adjoining ones as well, I think).
So that you get to listen to every possible detail of every possible thing going on at the park nearby. Hurray.
This includes recitation,possibly forcibly extracted by anxious parents from unenthusiastic kids, interspersed by cries of "mic'er modhye bolo baba", "ektu hattali din, dorshok bhai bone'era", "ma, dekhona o kirom korche" or painful silences when the poor children stop midway in their exaggeratedly sing-song 'recitation' voices in an attempt to remember the words.
Yesterday, as I entered the house, I was greeted by a completely original and utterly tuneless rendition of "Chand mera dil" (or something to that effect). The 'singing' takes me by surprise. Every single year.
And as I type this I can hear the audio part of an enthusiastic dance competition, which seems to be happening right outside my room.This is the fourth time I'm listening to a particular song which goes "moyna chalak chalak". Not to forget the helpful splattering of cries of "Jore hattali!" by the anchorperson.

Well, now I have an excuse for flunking all my tests this week.

Recap.

2008-10-28T22:25:00.000-07:00

Went to Modern Book Emporium today.( ha! now I know the name of the shop.*holds up applause card towards audience*).
Rediscovered the Blytons.But they(um, he,to be precise) do, in fact, sell a lot more than that.
The childhood image is a tad tarnished. But on the other hand, it's always a pleasure to find lost, buried-in-your-pocket-since-ages coins again.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about...this is where I (ideally)ought to have said 'then, sod off', but what with my meagre amount of readers who tend to wander off quite often and my insatiable and unabashed pursuit of publicity, read this.

And now...tada

2008-10-24T19:54:00.000-07:00

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Spooked!

2008-10-03T21:33:00.001-07:00

So I've been meaning to write this post for a long time, but procrastination (my daily dose of sedative to deal with excesses of reality) got the better of me.(Yes, yes, this is where all those who know me smile their smug, oh-don't-I-know smiles...There it is. Right on cue.)
Anyway, the above opening being excessively long,and garbled(enough to put even my faithful followers off the post), I shall attempt to rewind and restart.

There are Horror movies.And then there's Evil Dead.
For all those who've seen the movie, this is where you smile and wave. And for all those who haven't: come on, it's a cult classic. Well, I'm not a particular fan of horror movies. But when a movie has battering swings, headless body parts moving around,maniacal laughter, "Ash-lay, oh Ash-lay, I don't wanna die" and (the icing on an, admittedly, grotesque cake) a woman being raped by the woods (yes, yes, you got that right), it decidedly raises considerable expectations even from a generally non-horror movie person such as moi. And trust me, it lives up to all of them. (Although, on second thoughts, it is advisable that you do not watch it with a bunch of friends who refuse to shriek at the right moments,laugh quite a bit through the 'scary parts' and insist on analyzing camera angles.)

Which brings me to wonder: why do almost all horror movies inevitably involve the group of lost (teenage) protagonists spending the night in a spooky little cabin (or Adams-Family-esque Mansions complete with creaking doors)? Why cant they just spend the night in the car? And, haven't the characters ever seen a horror movie themselves? I mean, really: Creaking doors, swings swinging by themselves, unnatural gusts of wind and old books covered with demonic symbols = tell-tale signs of spirit habitation: Run. Now.
Do not, I repeat, do not wait for the freaky zombies with molten eyeballs to show themselves before you say, " Dammit! I knew there was something wrong with the house."
Come on, guys, show the ghosts a little respect. Aren't they giving you enough signals? Instead, after your hand draws by itself (and a positively horrible drawing at that), you calmly sit down to dinner. What's a ghost to do?

Okay,since this has already started to resemble an epic, I'll cut short my other astute observations (saving them for my thesis: A ghost's perspective on Horror Movies.) and let you carry on. But before you go, this is a picture of a 1930s pulp fiction crime comic:-

Um, so the maniacal axe-killer randomly goes into a house and hopes to find an axe lying about on the study desk and then murders the person(s) in the house with their own axe? Innovative, yes. But isn't that leaving a lot to Chance?