yacketayakking screaming vomitting whispering

Hello?

2011-02-12T21:54:00.003+05:30

Everytime I come back here, I feel like Rip Van Winkle. Out of place, out of time. Does the internet have a bridge under which rancid waters pass? I wonder.

I will not deny that this feels good, though.

bookends

2010-03-31T15:31:00.003+05:30

Old people eat alone too. They wait for tables at classy restaurants, take their lonesome seats, place their orders to disbelieving waiters and stare into the distance.

On particularly busy days, the maître d', always keen to maximize the turnover of his tables, pairs singles together and I find myself across Father Time himself, a wizened old man who solves the crossword in the local tabloid (that local tabloids carry crosswords is a discovery in itself; I imagine clues have answers like "boobs" and "sex-tape").

We eat quietly. Our silence is comfortable like the silence of old lovers. As he rises to leave, he looks at me and says with a mischievous glint in his eye, Your food was very colourful.

I grin and bid him farewell.

picnic at hanging rock

2010-03-30T08:14:00.003+05:30

You were the designated bar pimp, with a job description that entailed hollering at passers-by to enter your employer's shady haunt. You were Australian, as was most of the bar clientele, bored expats making eyes at other bored expats to the songs of Men at Work and INXS.

As I walked by, you began your pitch. The drinks were great, you said. Plus, there were plenty of girls. And karaoke, that princess of Japanese recreation. Would I care to have a look, sir?

Only if you give me the answer I want, I replied. Are you a Mark Waugh or a Steve Waugh man?

I look forward to meeting you again.

gaijin

2010-03-29T07:43:00.002+05:30

I was slumped over the sake when you waltzed in. You were American, a typically garrulous sort, and she was Japanese. You said she was your wife. I believed you. The fumes of my hot sake were getting to me. Hot sake is a different cup of tea from the cold variety. You trusted me on this, even though you did proceed to order the strawberry flavour. Come to think of it, this was probably what convinced me that she was your wife.

We spoke of Noh and Akihabara and Kyoto. And Kawabata and Yasujiro Ozu. Bartender-san flailed his arms wildly at this. No-no, it's Ozu Yasujiro, he said (and he was right, of course). You were sadly unaware of Setsuko Hara and Donald Ritchie and Pico-san, though. You had your limits, and I pointed this out.

Yet, you were kind to enough to warn me against Shinjuku (even if I ignored your warning). Before you left me to my inhalations, you handed me your copy of Fodor's Tokyo. It still stands today on my desk at home, you'll be glad to know, a symbol of everything I once had and everything I have lost.

harold and maude

2010-03-03T07:47:00.004+05:30

She loved watched them take-off and land at night. In her child-like wonder, they were always aeroplanes to her, never something pedestrian like planes or airplanes or flights.

Towards the very end, as she lay in a false convalescence on her second-class hospital bed by the window, she watched them wide-eyed with her daughter and reminisced about the good times. The aeroplanes made her spirit soar. After all, the astrologer had told her she would die at 67. She would be flying soon herself, window-shades up and seat-belt fastened, another receding light on the horizon.

This made her happy.

buster keaton

2010-02-25T06:49:00.003+05:30

In my dreams, I see them laughing. Not just polite peals of laughter with hands over mouths, but large, remarkable guffaws reminiscent of canned hyena laughter in some horrific silent movie.

I suppose the joke's on me.

half life crisis (which doesn't augur well for my longevity)

2009-09-08T22:30:00.001+05:30

one of the really key problems with being 24 is that suicide isn't really a very viable option. I feel much too old to suffer any sort of authentic existential angst that would lead to trying something ambitiously melodramatic, i.e., writing a hand-written note filled with words like "empathy" and then popping off with plenty of blood for maximal impact just doesn't appeal to me anymore the way it once did.

On the other hand, I also feel much too young to be weighed down by anything Really Serious. I have had no major addiction issues, messy break-ups(technically speaking), crushingly disappointing children, deaths in the family or been clinically depressed in the formal sense of the term. I do feel fat and ugly most of the time, but this does not appear to constitute - as yet, I hasten to add - a particularly weighty point in my life-taking considerations.

Granted, my work and career (and bank account) are disappointments, and are likely to remain largely inglorious even in the medium run. Finance theory would suggest, within a reasonable confidence interval, that going on like this could possibly be lower NPV (Net Present Value) compared to the expected value of pulling the plug and starting off afresh in the next life(ignoring, in the very best tradition of the greatest economists, any difficult questions regarding bounded rationality [how does one, for example, estimate the probabilities required to calculate aforementioned expected value without knowing one's actions in all of one's previous lives, assuming of course that Hindu philosophy and karma are largely correct], the time of occurence of the next rebirth, the nature of time itself, etc etc).

Clearly, I am losing my mind.

(Come to think of it, that last statement brings into the suicide equation a whole Catch-22 [you know, "mad" people, not wanting to fly and so on] dynamic that further complicates things and calls for mixed Nash equilibria that I just don't feel like estimating at the moment)

I hate this. Go away.

quo vadis

2009-08-24T21:56:00.002+05:30

What happens to a squandered talent?

Does it return to the earth, a sickly-sweet flower on its own grave, its fragrance gradually, inexorably, inevitably overpowered by the putrid stench of a chance lost forever?

I wonder.

tryst

2009-03-06T02:05:00.003+05:30

The night feels like her wet vagina. It is sticky, and there's this strange smell my memory simply cannot place. I wonder if it is the coming of a new era, or the advent of another false dawn, another journey up the rear of destiny.

Sayonara Japan

2008-09-15T17:23:00.002+05:30

I have been putting this off for a while now. I suppose now is the appropriate time.

I could easily paraphrase Pico Iyer and tell you that never has more kindness been shown to someone as unkind and undeserving as I am. Never have I seen more people go out of their way to make me feel at home in their unarguably strange midst. Maybe I could tell you about the Shinsei bank account that still remains open in my name in Tokyo, with a few hundred yen, just in case. Or I could tell you about Roppongi Hills, and the nights that never ended, or the onsens, and the strange thrills they gave me.

Anyway, it is not something about I wish to talk about. I will be back someday. Especially to Kiyomizu-dera. Honeymoon, perhaps.

musings from tokyo

2008-04-13T11:33:00.003+05:30

The first thing that struck me about Tokyo is just how pretty everyone seems to be. From the carefully blown messy hairstyle to the umbrella that seems straight out of a Milanese designer catalog, the average Japanese certainly knows how to present a good first impression. It is, indeed, entirely possible that my observation is biased by the lens of the upscale neighbourhood where I live, but it still wouldn't explain how I've never come across any male on the subway without a suit on. Unless, of course, you count the goth teenager with two piercings and a snarl across his (her?) lips.

This is the thing. In almost every way possible, Japan is a country of remarkable extremes. Places of religion and sex clubs exist freely beside each other, for one. (Of course, some people would argue that they are the same thing. That is a topic for another day). And can any other country lose itself in baseball and sumo wrestling?

We went to Yokohama yesterday, to an amusement park - cum- aquarium. That is because the people I've come here with like amusement parks ( a lot ) and aquariums (a little lesser). One guy declared after riding the rollercoaster that he had just realized one of his greatest dreams. In all fairness, it was his first time on one. As it was, mine. The other "highlight" of the day was being thrown down a very, very, high phallus. (You can see it in the background of the picture) as part of a ride called the 'Blue Fall'. To cut a long story short, I'll say I'll never do such a thing again.

I have nothing against amusement parks, really. It's just that I'd much rather have gone to the Ramen museum or the cherry blossom gardens or even the Chinatown when in Yokohama. I really must find a way to do my own thing.

And they're going to Disneyland next week. God, no.

For relaxing times, make it Suntory time

2008-04-08T19:57:00.006+05:30

Nothing quite like Tokyo. So cold, and yet, so so warm. And don't even get me started on the subway. Never have I seen beauty and efficiency married in such harmony.

behavioral economics

2008-03-23T21:53:00.005+05:30

Amos Tversky, he of prospect theory fame, writes:

"Probably the most significant and pervasive characteristic of the human pleasure machine is that people are much more sensitive to negative than to positive stimuli ... Think about how well you feel today, and then try to imagine how much better you could feel ... There are a few things that would make you feel better, but the number of things that would make you feel worse is unbounded."

It amazes me how I have discovered so much more truth in sociology and economics than in the pure sciences. Physics was beautiful at times, and mathematics still is, but this is something bigger. This is my calling.

sucker punch

2008-03-16T21:12:00.002+05:30

Everytime I try to become a different person, relaxed, happy and even sociable, something comes along to pull me away.

It's no use. I've decided to start hating people again.

forever pale, in
the shadow of the sun
the moon weeps.

combinatorial mathematics

2008-03-13T21:01:00.005+05:30

You and your significant other want to juice up your fading sex lives. By a queer act of fate, a close friend of yours is facing similar trouble with her boyfriend. Hence, with a sense of adventure straight out of Nin, the two of you decide that both couples will spend tonight together. Some rules are defined. Each woman has to sleep with each man, for one. Also, only heterosexual trysts. As much as the men may enjoy it, no girl-on-girl. Of course, neither of you are particularly keen to watch the men get it on with each other anyway. And most importantly, you will play safe.

If all the stipulated rules are to be satisfied, what are the minimum number of condoms needed?

(If you are really feeling like it, you could get together with your close friend and set up an entire orgy. Say N couples. Same rules apply. What is the general formula for the minimum number of required condoms then? This is an old chestnut, I'm told. By a man who has greatly inspired me lately.)

***
In other news, guilty pleasures have ruled my life over the last week. Am I the only one who secretly loves Jamelia's 'Superstar'?

Family matters

2008-03-01T09:38:00.004+05:30

Mine is a strange family. My father is estranged from all his siblings. My mother has seen one of her brothers die in war. The legend goes that when I - the first grandchild on this side of the tree - was born a few months after his death, family ancients swore that my baby-face was his spitting image, that I was his God-given replacement. My grandfather, a keen astrologer, took one look at my horoscope, and pronounced that I would become a genius to rival my celebrated great-uncle. Under the weight of such expectation, I suppose it's hardly surprising that I've degenerated into a verbose, alcohol-guzzling, even inscrutable MBA student. Maybe I will graduate one day to becoming a poor man's Bukowski. That remains the height of my ambitions. Anyway, I digress.

Yes. As I was telling you, mine is a strange family. For many years, I was under the impression that this strangeness limited itself to a deep affinity for melodrama. What you would call 'filmy', perhaps. Never did I expect the players on stage to be capable of such intrigue as I will now recount.

My mother has another brother. One that I was quite fond of, growing up. My earliest memories involve playing chess against him, learning its tricks from an obscure east European book that he had lended to me. As I recall, he was pretty good at chess, even if that only means he used to roundly thrash a little boy, all of six. He was also the nicest, gentlest man that I had ever known, so much so that when I saw him write a suicide note that concluded with "I have no option but to kill myself" in full caps, I told myself he was writing a story.

Incidentally, he didn't kill himself. Maybe he really was writing a story.

Soon, I grew up, and we drifted apart. The few times I visited him and my grandparents (he lived with them), I beat him at chess. He was deadly decent about it, telling me that I was a much improved player. I can imagine that if I were in his place, how I'd have moaned. He was married now (to a real vixen, family chroniclers contend), and had twins. Despite the kids' difficulties - they were both, when I think of it now, definitely dyslexic - his nature remained the same. Kind and doting.

This was about six, seven years ago. I went away to college, imagining, in my naivete, that things would always remain the same. And as people of that age are wont to do, I lost touch with the family.

A few weeks back, my mother revealed that she wasn't on talking terms with him anymore. Why, what happened, I ask. He cut us out of your grandfather's will, she said. After the funeral, when we met to slice our shares, he said that he didn't want to share the fortune (and I really do mean fortune) with us. He said that the will was missing. Lost. Destroyed? The will that my grandmother had so carefully drawn up, before her death, so that her two "girl children" wouldn't have to suffer. My mother and her younger sister.

No one knew who the witnesses were, or who the lawyer was, he said. No one. So I keep the money, he said. And then when she came home, shell-shocked, she received a terse one line email. Let us not be in touch anymore, it said. The mother's sister wanted to drag him to court. The bastard, he's robbing us, she said. The mother let it rest. He's family, she said.

One day, I will return to what is now his house. And across the chess board, I will congratulate him on what was his most unexpected move, brilliant in foresight and devastating in implication.

Then, I will proceed to beat him. And leave.

no country for stupid men

2008-02-27T10:37:00.003+05:30

They expelled a guy a couple of days ago. The head of the committee that did the honours was good enough to mail the entire batch a narrative describing in full the cold and calculating nature of the criminal's misdeeds. With its noir undertones and the starkness of its prose, it could well have been Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon putting pen to paper. Telling us that on the night of the 21st of January, the accused did this. On the 22nd, he did that. On the 21st of February, when he realized the game was up, he confessed. But of course, the mail made clear, the confession was in "close confirmation with the conjecture on the sequence of events made by the committee from available documentary evidence even before his confession." Yeah. Great going, Sherlocks. What a complete disgrace.

The poor boy had fudged answers on to his graded answer script, and submitted it for re-evaluation. He had gotten away with it (along with an impressive 50 point increase) during the mid-terms, and was stupid enough to try it again. Got caught, and got expelled. Deserves as much for being a one trick pony.

Of course, the way I see it, a post graduate institution really has no business awarding grades in the first place. Harvard doesn't. Nor does Wharton or Kellogg. This place is already super-competitive as it is when it comes to landing those plum job offers from companies who don't even pay that much attention to your GPA. The last thing that we need is a diabolical grading system that takes the joy away from learning in this short interval between self-righteous penury and corporate harlotry. But no, the committees that matter like playing cops and robbers, you see.

Lone Star

2008-02-19T02:31:00.002+05:30

In the truest spirit of Jessica Hagy, who was another one of your seemingly endless gifts. Happy birthday, darling.

Jesus etc.

2008-02-14T08:13:00.003+05:30

We sat around the fire. Memories flickered like fireflies in the night, and then died, as is their wont on days like this. We made our confessions, with the thousand yard stares of soldiers who have seen too much, and told our Canterbury tales, full of the intrigue and deceit that so described our lives. Then, we jumped into the fire, sizzling, and then fizzling out when the little boys on the shore broke their little castles of sand all over our Walpurgisnacht-before-time.

We woke up the next morning, and we went to work and we went to college, full of ourselves and our lovers' Valentine messages. For once, we were truly happy, because in the clarity of the morning, we truly understood sunshine, and the warmth it brought with it. Lives that are long suffering in the darkness are thankful for the small mercies, and the big miracles. Here's to you, lover, for walking on water.

the economics of college relationships

2008-02-01T06:51:00.001+05:30

It's fascinating watching people hook up in business school. I am already quite certain that half my class will be married to each other in a few years. When you think about it, this makes good economic sense, especially for the guys. As a disclaimer, I really don't mean for all that follows to sound horribly sexist. This is just the way economists talk.

Like all institutions I have been to, the men here greatly outnumber of women, or to put it very crudely, the supply of women is much lower than the demand for them. Thus, their price increases. This was markedly true during my undergraduate days, where the sex ratio was about 11 to 1. What essentially happened was that a lot of women graduated with an inflated opinion of themselves, simply because they were given so much more attention than they would normally have been accorded. Thus, for no real fault of their own, they became overpriced assets whose values dropped sharply as soon they graduated and entered the "real world". In other words, their bubbles burst, and the fall from Helen to Plain Jane was swift.

In B school, on the other hand, the ratio is far better, at about 5 to 1. A lot of people come here after working for a couple of years, having experienced the "real world". Thus they are a lot more mature, and tend to evaluate a potential mate on a more wholesome basis than merely their looks. The market, however, remains the same: highly differentiated "products" that are moderately substitutable, especially for those lacking even a modicum of brand loyalty, or those still trying to discover their tastes. In other words, this may be broadly termed a monopolistic competition (I know that's an oxymoron, but hey, I didn't coin it), much like the market for toothpaste.

Sooner, or later, supply and demand reach a dynamic equilibrium. This is hastened by the fact that business school is a lot more permissive than undergrad - men can stay over in women's hostel rooms, for instance. Thus, relationships get consummated and gradually, couples are formed who drop out of the market. If the hook-up (merger or acquisition? do i dare say private equity takeover?) does become long term, you may safely say that the guy has landed a highly valued asset, which through of its education at a premier institution, is guaranteed excellent cash flows in the future by way of salary.

From the women's point of view, things are a bit different. Men abound in elite undergrad schools, without much demand for them. Their price plummets. Which is why you'll see so many depressed post-adolescent boys saddled with inferiority complexes. Much like me, in my time. Further, the women have to deal with a real-life variant of the classic "lemons problem". As they begin dating, they quickly realize that a lot of the guys are weird nerds they want nothing to do with. However, rather than evaluate each date on a case-by-case basis, they automatically lower their valuations of all men in the batch. Which is why there were hardly any relationships (or equilibria) in my undergrad school in my first two years. No equilibrium can be reached, as the women have a poor opinion of even the "good guys", by way of the generalization they've made from a cursory glance at the market. In business school, however, the added maturity of the individuals involved acts as something of a market externality. The old rules simply can't be used anymore.

When it comes to me, personally, on-campus relationships are not my thing anymore. They are much too distracting, valuations are difficult and the proximity can be nauseating. I've realized that it's always advisable to keep business and pleasure as far away as possible. I'm glad my girlfriend is outside campus borders. As any treatise on economics will tell you, foreign trade is super-efficient, and often grants the maximum consumer utility (satisfaction). God, how I agree.

Why I am a fucking drunkard

2008-01-28T04:09:00.001+05:30

I enjoy it, okay? I like sitting quitely by the side with my drink as they gyrate on the dance floor. I positively revel in the cheap thrill of turning down women who want to dance with me. I do it because what they really want is to mock me the morning after, mock me for my two left feet. I am a painfully self-conscious bastard and they are the reason. Watching them make their Victorian-era moves on the floor kills me. Nothing escapes me when I'm drunk, especially irony. Heightened sensitivity is a beautiful thing.

When I'm drinking, I feel good about myself, about who I am. I don't need to get noticed, or be well loved. I can actually talk to people, and say the things I really want to say. Over the last two months, while carrying out my vow of sobriety, I've missed my alcohol. I've missed waiting and watching. I've missed talking, and connecting with people I'd otherwise never chat with. I hate myself for being a drunkard, but that's who I am. A drunkard and a bloody artist, and that's more than they'll ever be. Them with their faux airs and fancy dresses. I really shouldn't bad-mouth them, because deep down, I quite like a few of them. But, as I've come to discover over the years, exaggeration is the bastard child of intoxication. And I'm as stone drunk as I've ever been.

By the way, I chose Yale. Never was in doubt, I don't think. Once a crazed academician, always a crazed academician. Europe will have to wait. Maybe I'll live to regret that particular decision. This is the point where I would quote the great Buddhist Avalokiteswara, but I forget what he had to say about the matter. The matter being the true nature of our lives. This is why I wanted to quit drinking. I have no self-control. I'm throwing it all away. As I write this, tiny brain cells are probably being destroyed. But what the hell. It's not like I plan to do anything significant with them anyway.

Conundrum

2008-01-26T21:32:00.000+05:30

I am not sure I enjoy being spoilt for choice. I bid for exchange universities tomorrow. The GPA based bidding order has put me in a position from where I can either go to Yale, or to some random German university. The dilemma arises because Random German University will also offer me a scholarship of 3000 Euros over the exchange period of three months, which provides enough monetary fuel to finance my travels across all of Europe Yale, on the other hand, will cost me a bomb, and I will in all probability be stuck in Connecticut all winter long.

I suspect that at the heart of the matter is an altogether more philosophical issue. I think it comes down to who I really am, deep down. The academician is me is desperately yearning for Yale, with its lengthy list of Nobel Laureates and its place in the American Ivy League pantheon. On the other hand, Germany, and the money that its government will so graciously provide me, will give me the opportunity to travel across the continent in true troubadour fashion. Backpacks. Eurorail passes. The works. The guy who went to Leipzig last year on the scholarship visited 16 countries. S-i-x-t-e-e-n.

But then again, it's Yale! Yale, which has produced Murray Gell-mann, and Sinclair Lewis, and Jodie Foster, and Camille Paglia, and Tom Wolfe, and Nick Carraway in the Great Gatsby ! (Lets pretend for now that George Bush didn't go there). The sheer weight of its history bears down on my soul. I simply can't turn down an opportunity to go there, can I ?

Sigh.

Watching Juno

2008-01-24T01:12:00.000+05:30

Much in the tradition of Lost in Translation, Sideways and Little Miss Sunshine, Juno will, in all probability, not win the Oscar for Best Picture. Strange as it is, that is perhaps the strongest vindication of its beauty.

I really can't say much more now. I'm quite speechless. Nothing like a comedy that brings you to tears.

what i feel like, these days

2008-01-21T23:22:00.000+05:30

to convey one's mood
in seventeen syllables
is very diffic-

-- John Cooper Clark,

who is the second greatest man I know from Salford, after one Mr. Scholes. And no, that's not Myron. Though he's a bit special too.

clueless

2008-01-09T06:20:00.000+05:30

Something's not right with this year. There is a sneaky feeling that Something Bad is just waiting to happen. A feeling that I'm unable to banish by watching movies that cover the entire spectrum of Hollywood's high school film offerings from the thoughtful, and sometimes even profound Rushmore(1994) to the inane yet strangely enjoyable Superbad(2007). Perking up, in true Phobe Cates fashion, next in this particular line is the Big Daddy of the genre, Fast Times at Ridgemont High(1982), which I will proceed to watch sometime today.

I have something of a penchant for digression. I can't really focus on anything, without letting my mind wander. Perhaps that explains why I cannot drive very well. The instructor tore his hair out trying to get me keep the damn thing going straight on an empty highway. Evidently, watching me 'play around' (and I mean this quite literally) with the steering wheel is not his idea of a good instructional session.

Anyway, I was trying to tell you about That Sinking Feeling that has accompanied the advent of the year. It's a bit like a dirty spot on your clothes that refuses to go away. No one else can see it, but it drives you nuts. And there's nothing you can do about it, except wait for it to go away, the way it came. Perhaps this feeling is borne from the fact that I spent New Year's day throwing up. Don't they say you spend the entire year doing what you were on New Year's? Ouch.

And by the way, apart from a glass of wine on Christmas Day and New Year's eve, I've kept to my word. I don't particularly feel de-toxed, or anything, though. In truth, my hitherto well-functioning digestive system, which has been entirely free of Intoxicant Substances for a month, has been killing me the last few days. I suppose this is what irony feels like, when it kicks you in the guts.

Someone write me a cheque already

2008-01-06T20:01:00.000+05:30

If I were to ever get down to actually writing a book, I suspect that it will turn out a little like Marisha Pessl's Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Nice cherry flavoured gum that you really dig into, until all that remains is the tasteless cud that you feel obliged to chew till the twisted end. But that's what I've always been - heavy on the style, and weak on the substance. Some nights, I like to think of myself as the David Lynch of the blogging world (okay, so I flatter myself occasionally), with works that are aesthetic masterpieces (see Mulholland Drive, 2001)but really don't mean anything. Unless you want to talk of psychogenic fugues or something (see The City of Absurdity: David Lynch).

Also, I've been wondering. How does one land a book contract with a six figure advance anyway?(see Viswanathan, Kaavya) I don't have an agent, or any connections in the right places. I haven't studied English Literature in a fancy Ivy League school. I have an undergraduate degree in Engineering Physics, for God's sake. I console myself saying that there has been a Great Writer who also had the same major (see Pynchon, Thomas. Though, admittedly, he dropped out of Cornell before he could graduate). It is also fair to say that I don't have a pretty face that can adorn the back flap (see Lahiri, Jhumpa) or a literary mother who can tell me what not to do so I can win the Booker prize that she couldn't (see Desai, Kiran). Perhaps I also have a serious shortage of Exotic and Adventurous Life Events (see Pierre, DBC or Roberts, Gregory David).

All I have is this blog. Now what do i do? And no, I will not convert this into a sex blog. Though that appears to be the quickest way to get noticed by some publisher type (see Belle de Jour). What's the male equivalent to chick-lit anyway? Metro-lit? Or do I have to invent a whole new genre now?

Oh, man ( As opposed to oh, boy)

2007-12-11T21:52:00.000+05:30

I just realized today that I am in the midst of my first serious real-life (read non-online) platonic relationship.

I think I can safely say I've grown up now.

high fidelity

2007-12-04T20:45:00.000+05:30

The other day, She asked me why my walls were bare. I'm afraid I didn't know. Every room I've ever inhabited has been distinguished by its distinct lack of personality, and its whole-hearted embrace of the anonymity that I have so craved over the years. The present one is no different. Which makes it quite ideal, in all its unabashed nakedness, for my first megalomaniac pursuit in years.

This hostel room will have a poster. Or a collage of pictures, if you would prefer to call it that. Someone once took the trouble to make me (why me, God only knows) an electronic birthday card which was a montage of all the images that person believed represented my life, and this poster of mine will be similiar in concept, but vastly grander in execution. With pictures of everyone, and everything, that has ever had an infuence on me.

Of course, before I get down to making the poster, I have to, in true Nick Hornby tradition, make a List. Now that I think of it, I really have missed making long meandering Lists, and responding to long inane Tags. Honestly.

Anyway, this is it. I'll append it perpetually, of course.

List of Top Twenty Five Influences on MC's life
(in no particular order)

1. Mom. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm momma's boy, and proud it.
2. James Dean. Rebel without a Cause. Plus, he's my lucky wallpaper.
3. Midori. My favourite mistake. And my most well-intentioned apologies, as always.
4. Stone Cold Steve Austin. Don't laugh.
5. Almost Famous. If only for Penny Lane wearing a fur coat and that dazzling smile.
6. Nick Drake. Has there ever been a better to ode to sadness than Pink Moon?
7. The Fountainhead. I was young, and very impressionable.
8. The Lorentz Attractor. Where science meets art. My favourite juxtaposition.
9. The Catcher in the Rye. Just made me so sad.
10. Franny & Zooey. Just made me so happy.
11. Lost in Translation. Could yet turn out to be the story of my life.
12. Nevermind. Soundtrack of my teenage years.
13. Blow-up. Michelangelo Antonioni at his greatest. And the last scene. Oh man.
14. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. More than the film, the concept.
15. The Laughing Buddha. For being a source of solace.
16. Roy Keane. Only one Keano.
17. Piggy. Could have made this list for me. And got most of it right.
18. Speech Processing. Undergraduate thesis. Work of art, if I may say so myself.
19. R.E.M. I would play Automatic for the People as I killed myself too.
20. Snay. Kindness, personified. Never was 'nice' more appropriate. Or 'adorable'.
21. Economics. My biggest eye-opener in a decade.
22. The Shins. What they said in Garden State about New Slang was bang on.
23. Gregory House. I'd give anything for a little of the genius and the acerbic wit
24. Good Will Hunting. Or Elephant. You'd never have thought the same man could make both.
25. The Stone Roses. Enough said.

What remains now is finding the pictures. And putting them together. This is going to be so much fun.

Where I make my resolutions, before time

2007-12-03T21:23:00.000+05:30

Without wanting to sound overtly melodramatic, I think it's appropriate to say that it has been a fairly life-changing weekend. Visiting home has always given me an achingly beautiful, wretchedly artificial perspective on things, the fleeting whiff of bottled perfume that sugar-coats the rottenness beneath. This time was different, though. This was the real McCoy, the metaphorical Big O that would put all Meg Ryan-When-Harry-met-Sally-fakery to head-hanging shame. And it is the most supreme of ironies that my first satori moments in years came as I lay in my bedroom with those two most potent products of man's decadence - television and potato chips.

Leaving Las Vegas and Reality Bites are, as anyone who has seen both films and appreciates my sudden obsession with cliched metaphors will readily testify, chalk and cheese. I remember reading a review a year back that bemoaned how badly Reality Bites had aged since the heady days of 1994, and I couldn't agree more. (Incidentally, has there ever been a better year for quasi-mainsteam cinema? Pulp Fiction, The Shawshank Redemption, Kieselowski's 'Red' . And Forrest Gump wins the Oscar for Best Film. D'oh.) It suddenly occured to me, as I was watching Ben Stiller and Winona Ryder kiss to one of my favourite guilty pleasures, that at this point in time, I am neatly saddled between two stereotypes. I would like to think that I am still more than capable of picking up a ringing phone with Ethan Hawke's "Welcome to the winter of our discontent", but am sadly as likely to be wearing Ben Stiller's nattily tailored suit as I parade my pseudo-intellecutal tendencies.

Oh, by the way, if I forgot to mention, I go to business school these days. You may now mock me and chant 'Judas', 'Et tu, Melon Collie?', or whatever it is that you like to say when you come across a sell-out. In my defence, I really had no choice, and I don't fancy the corporate life very much. Just looking for a smash-and-grab job, so I can finance my real life thereafter. As you can see, there's but a short step from crassness to nobility.

Moving on, it is now a matter of great amusement to me that where all my girlfriends have failed, Nicholas Cage has spectacularly succeeded (No, i don't mean anything dirty. Shame on you). There are several enduring moments in Leaving Las Vegas, and the crucial question posed is an intriguing one. Is drinking a way of killing yourself, or is killing yourself a way of drinking? I have been a drinker for 18 months now, and a heavy one for atleast 6 of those, and I can see myself as the Nic Cage character some 5 years from now, awash with single-malt whisky and burning out gloriously. Only, I don't think I want it anymore.

I miss religion. I miss sitting in the lotus posture, counting from one to ten. I want that back. Thus, an experiment of sorts. No more wild child business. No more sleeping on tower-tops, with women or without. No more anger, and no more retribution. No more marijuana. No more alcohol (and that includes beer). Atleast for 6 months. Let's see.

Also, watch David Cronenberg's Eastern Promises. Film of the year, by far.

To steal what she never could own

2007-11-29T00:21:00.000+05:30

Just like that, in one fell swoop, two birds were killed with the proverbial single stone. One supposes vultures and pheasants (for lack of a better bird) make for strange bedfellows. Do excuse the pun. You know what they say about love and war.

***

From my eager perusal of the pop culture of the times, I'm suitably informed that smoking the post-coital cigarette is the single most joyous post-coital event there is. Excuse my simplicity, but I've never quite understood why. Even if I did smoke, and were not entirely disgusted by the sheer inelegance of it all, I'm sure there are several better things you could do when you're lying beside a naked woman you've just pounded.

Like listening to The Stone Roses' "Waterfall", for instance. Only a madhouse like Britain could catapult a band like Oasis to a bigger audience. Admittedly, Wonderwall is something of a tune, and I still occasionally go "..there are many things that I'd like to say to you but I don't know how..', but 'What's the Story (Morning Glory)' versus the debut Stone Roses album is a no-contest. I can't even imagine cleaning up jissom to 'She's Electric', for one. God, no. But give me 'Waterfall' or 'Shoot you down', and I am the Energizer Bunny. At a time when, as most men would testify, I am expected to be down and out. Quite literally.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQUxCQxu9og

****

Much water has passed under the bridge. It's good to be back. And this time. I hope to stay.

I am the resurrection

2007-09-07T22:16:00.001+05:30

I miss watching myself waste away here. I had quite forgotten that there's nothing quite like an occasional out-of-body experience. Raises vicarious existence to a whole new level, besides other things.

Epiphany

2007-07-23T07:56:00.000+05:30

That was worth waiting 22 years for.
Thanks, everyone.

Wish, as ever, again.

2007-07-21T19:43:00.000+05:30

I just wish tomorrow goes by as quickly , and as painlessly, as possible .

The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.

beam me up, scottie

2007-07-01T19:31:00.000+05:30

i wouldn't have had it any other way. and perhaps, you wouldn't, too. therein lies our salvation, our cumulative ashes shooting up into the stars in a Gene Roddenberry moment of inspiration, going where no one had gone before, if only in a cliched lame punchline sort of way that really does neither of us any good. but then again, in my defence, what does? we rejoiced in our collective misery, and celebrated our affinity towards the wretchedness we made our live-in home. a wretchedness borne not out of despair, but of the impending doom that became the child of the inevitability of our divergent futures.

a perfect day for bananafish

2007-04-18T22:46:00.000+05:30

Everyday, I get just that little bit closer to finding the perfect excuse for killing myself.

twenty one

2007-04-01T08:36:00.000+05:30

Go on.
Blow the candles out, and make your wish.

me and bobby mcgee - part I

2007-03-16T13:06:00.000+05:30

I know that you deserve this far more than the others('others' almost suggests the existence of a comparison; there isn't one) did, and atleast, whatever comes out of us, I will never regret writing you a post that dips deep into my one and score grams of nothingness and attempts, honestly, if nothing else, to put into words the raw starkness of all the beauty you've fashioned for me. This isn't quite Sartre to de Beauvoir, but it won't embarass you, rest assured.

I know you are less disapproving now of public displays of affection, but I'm thinking that maybe I shouldn't record these thoughts here. I suppose I might as well have mailed you, but what is Blogger's 'Create Post' page but Gmail daubed with nude lipstick of some hue? Then again, you will accept that posterity deserves some claim on this, and who is to predict when your next furious spate of inbox cleansing(at my provocation, admittedly) occurs? It will be such a travesty if this testament to our togetherness, and so it is I hope, withers away alone and uncared for in my 'Sent' folder.

Where do I begin, now? The laughter, perhaps? Head thrown back and shoulders reverberating. It really did shock me the first time. The Ice Queen laughing. And it didn't even sound remotely evil. A little maniacal though, if I may say so. You were going through your James-Spader-in Sex, Lies and Videotape hairstyle phase, intermittently with the slick, spiky Johnny Rotten punk look. I won't go any more into the first physical picture I recorded of you in my mind, especially not of the time you collected your chicken (pepperoni?) pizza and walked away into the twilight in that Red Riding Hood outfit , because otherwise, all these people that read this will begin imagining you, and that will really piss me off.

Inside jokes kill me. I could go on and on about Thelma & Louise, and their defiance, upon repeated experimentation, of the laws of physics (gravity definitely, conservation of momentum, as well?); about the magical night that created 'The White Album' and my subsequent seduction; about mad, mad Maddox and his baptism ; about courtyards and such euphemisms that have surely saved you from eternal parental damnation. We nearly have a whole new language going on, now, don't we?

And, the music. God, thank you for the music. Miracle Legion and Beirut and mp3 blogs and a million girls from Ipanema and cute Google hacks and Sufjan Stevens and Ivo Paposov and Frankie Teardrop and the love for the soundtrack and indie. Very soon, I'll graduate to music slut-hood, and you'll have been the proud pimp. I'm sorry I'm disgusting. And immature. And passive-aggressive. Especially that. I should know better, really. But I suppose boys will be boys.

Bon ecriture, indeed. Fucked off and dead, hardly.
Part Deux will follow, soon enough.

The loss of Innocence

2007-03-13T23:45:00.000+05:30

So I've been away a while. I suppose you'll want a good enough explanation for my absence, and demand to know just what I've been upto, for you simply cannot fathom a better way I could possibly spend my time than whispering my dirty secrets into your all-too-receptive ears.

If you really must know, the only thing I've occasionally missed about you is the joy of a vicarious existence. Nothing quite like the cheap thrill of watching people wash their dirty panties in public . Well, nothing other than waking up on the naked shoulder of the woman you love, and being caught with your fly down by the friendly neighbourhood watchman who threatens to march you down to the nearest police station or wherever it is that they harass young lovers who like their cuba libres with a little privacy.

Talking of which, do security guys get any? Poor, sexually repressed men having to spend long, lonely nights watching over deserted roads, with their only hope for a little fun and games resting on catching couples in the act. I pity them, really. I've even offered one of them a bar of chocolate as he sprang upon us one night, unnoticed. Chocolate with hazelnuts, no less. He refused.

All the action's been going into my head, I know. It's also presented me with plenty of the sort of smokin' reading material that people like to queue up for . Maybe I should just convert this into a sex blog. Homme de nuit. Or Boy with a one track mind, if you like. And even write a book. The Intimate Adventures of a B@#%!@!@$ Boy doesn't sound half bad.

What say?

death in the afternoon

2007-01-10T20:45:00.000+05:30

Today, I imagined myself telling the drama teacher that I had just attempted to kill myself. And pulled out at the last second because the sweetness of the poison interfered with my metaphysical notion of death.

As mood elevators go, it wasn't bad.

cupcake

2006-12-26T15:21:00.000+05:30

everything's over.
i love you .
in italics, no less.

question

2006-08-22T18:28:00.000+05:30

did i ruin your life too? And yours, and yours?

Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me

2006-08-04T07:10:00.000+05:30

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

- William Carlos Williams

The 'Literature and Life' teacher looks like Anne Bancroft, pronunces romance 'ro-maaaan-ce', and spouts Zen poetry. I am suitably impressed.

What's more, I feel like writing again.

Thank you

2006-07-29T12:09:00.000+05:30

Elvis has left the building.

Wish, as ever.

2006-07-21T21:32:00.000+05:30

I just wish tomorrow goes by as quickly , and as painlessly, as possible .

The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.

Thoughts for the day

2006-07-09T20:43:00.000+05:30

"Once You Pop, You Can't Stop Melon. "
- The Advertising Slogan Generator

Forgive me my perverted bent of mind, but does this really mean what I think it does ?

This was beginning to rather amuse me, so I took some liberties. Apologies, again.

"Choosy Mothers Choose Rish."
What can I say? Should I be surprised?

"I Think, Therefore Kristian."
A very tat tvam asi moment, the man would agree.

"Probably The Best Rimi In The World."
Hah! I know it's been a while coming, but there.

"151 Countries, One Jasi."
Absolutely! No one else says ish quite the same way.

"With A Name Like Saba, It Has To Be Good."
Oh, it is.

"Out Of The Strong Came Forth Sidrah."
And here I was, wondering where all that energy came from.

And, the coup de grace.
"Just One Aaki - Give It To Me! "

Prophetic, do you think?

shhh

2006-07-04T09:30:00.000+05:30

and no one dared disturb
the sounds
of silence.

six(ty?) weird(?) things about me(?)

2006-06-24T11:07:00.000+05:30

I can't ride a bike gladly accept positions of authority comb my hair into a semblance of order discuss girls with boys pun sing to save my life write meaningfully on paper fold long bedsheets play for second place lose weight shoot a basketball use a pen whose cap is missing chill out, whatever that means, blow a bubblegum volunteer for anything have a conversation with my dad read blatantly misogynist homophobic semi-pornographic material like American Psycho and not have a real ball rhyme talk coherently on the phone touch my nose with the tip of my tongue dance when someone's looking be unselfish or considerate do small talk use expletives in public tell Armstrong from Ellington from Davis or Haydn from Lizst or Plath from Hughes or mushy from cheesy resist staring at skimpily clothed foriegners and wish that low neckline was just a little lower shower in cold water enjoy my birthday or anyone else's sleep wearing a watch give money to the beggar down the street say good morning good night and really mean it whistle really loud go out with people and have fun, both at the same time look at the mirror without a certain distate count on my fingers show you my pain live for today be startlingly original in anything i do period

p.s. tagged by rish.

go away

2006-06-19T08:58:00.001+05:30

i am tired. okay ?

office haikus

2006-06-12T08:56:00.000+05:30

Sunny, banana peels.
Power trips, AC
ice cubicles melt.

two Waterfalls. golden
showers, on the rocks.
automatic flushes.

not basic, pearl?
visual see, plus,
plus smile, child.

Podcasts( , ) Shoots and Leaves

2006-06-04T20:12:00.000+05:30

Material pleasures. Yeah, baby.

(W)Retch

2006-05-27T12:01:00.000+05:30

What's in a name, you might ask? A melon collie by any other name would sound as depressing. And what's with the whole 'yacketayakking screaming vomitting screaming' deal, eh? Is vomitting even spelt that way? When have you ever lived upto the name? All you are is a whiner. A smooth-talking whiner, I'll give you that, but a whiner nonetheless.

So you threw up all through last week. Vomited, with the single T. Retched. Regurgitated. Digression, if you please. Note that I didn't use 'barf', or 'puke'. I know how you hate four lettered nouns with the emphatic first syllable. They're all so uncultured, I agree. Like 'fuck'. Or 'crap'. If there's one thing we share, it's our liking for the apposite, refined word. In true Flaubert fashion .The facade of nobility, when we truly belong to Le petite bourgeoisie.

Yes, vomited. On the very day you are to meet the star? Ha. I always suspected that you lacked the stomach for it. Or just going a little down south, the testicular fortitude. What's your story, buddy? Performance anxiety? Oh, it was the noodles you had last night? I'm sure. Quite the online stud, and little else, it would seem. What's that? You're ok with being unimpressive, you sleep better? Ripping off Zach Braff a lot nowadays, aren't we?

Of course, as with every passing week, you've learnt your fair share.Life is metaphor. Eternity is a perfume by Calvin Klein, and not, as you are previously informed, Gucci. Kafka is the Czech word for Crow. On embedded systems, static memory allocation works more efficiently as compared to dynamic allocation. In dreams lie responsibilities. A lot of Beatle covers are better than the originals. Sarah McLachlan's 'Blackbird'. Joe Cocker's 'With a little help from my friends'. Dare you say Beck's 'A Day in the Life'?

And you're going to 'so totally', to borrow from the teen parlance that you so abhor, suffer from premature ejaculation. Yeah, it's a hard life, I know. Deal with it.

dirty linen

2006-05-14T20:22:00.000+05:30

Four months pass, sometimes slowly, sometimes in a hurry. Home. Again. The concept of eternal return. Nietzche smiles. "I told you so".

Home, where the heart is? Zach Braff, Garden State, "You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore.. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know."

For whatever its worth, and for the lack of a better word, home. The curtains are drawn. The actors take the stage. The make up artist has done a great job with the mother. She looks so old now. So old, it scares you. Do people really change this much in a few months?

"How could you possibly become so thin ?" The delivery, as ever, strikes exactly the right note. Just the perfect mix of worried concern and playful ribbing. And unquestionably sincere. A Dame Judi Dench in the making, you wonder.

The father sizes you up, the top-to-down all encompassing glare that is now a trademark. A grunt ensues, and the moment passes. Method acting at its finest. Think Marlon Brando, A Streetcar Named Desire, exuding raw power from every pore. And clad in a vest, to boot.

The sister, as is her wont, sleeps through the opening act. Bless Shirley Temple's soul.

***

The first weekend. The honeymoon period. The mother showcases her not inconsiderable cooking abilities. Everything's perfect with the world. Picture postcard material, even. Think The Wonder Years, with the running voiceover. That's you.

Monday, manic monday. The internship commences. Air conditioned cubicles, and super-cool bosses. Work from eight to eight, well beyond office hours, and enjoy it. Think of the potful of gold at the end. Call yourself a masochistic whore. And wonder if that's an oxymoron.

Same story, different day. The week moves like a playlist stuck on repeat.Again and Again and Again and Again. Four times, for Tuesday to Friday.

****

The second weekend. The roles are getting blurry, and the masks are slipping. Pleasantries are still exchanged. What's the good word honey, perfunctory?

The battle lines, erased in honour of the return of the prodigal son, are redrawn. The conch, in true mythological fashion, is blown. The father, Stanley Kowalski reborn, launches into the mother, a vicious, vitriolic verbal assault designed to break down and disintegrate. The mother, armchair feminist and delicate soul, duly crumbles. There are tears. Plenty of them. You, the eldest son, and the sister watch quietly. As you have all these years. Nothing ever changes. One day, perhaps all of the pent-up emotion will be released, in blind, unadulterated fury. Like in the movies.

And what's a play without the concluding monologue? You just want to say you are sorry. For emanating an air of such disinterest. Perhaps, growing up as an idealistic kid in a dysfunctional family has affected you more than you can imagine. This is why you are so wary of people, and so untrusting, and so reserved. You cannot speak to anyone anymore without being acutely self-conscious, and not everyone is going to be very patient with you. You know you've got to get your game on, son, before it is too late.

Exit stage left. Curtains fall.

How Melon Collie Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life (appended)

2006-05-05T09:53:00.000+05:30

For Teah
Here's to a lifetime of juju and goo and ish and sitch, and all the other strange words that you will doubtless inherit from mommy, and proceed to befuddle me with.

***
You will appreciate that unlike the unfortunate Kaavya, I derive my inspiration, or must I say, "unconsciously internalize", from rather more esteemed sources than an ex-Cosmopolitan editor. Not that being a Cosmo-editor is something I look down upon, of course. I fully realize that it takes more than just a little talent, and ahem, experience, to come up with a cover story on "The Full-Body Orgasm". Yeah, baby. Total head-to-toe fireworks guaranteed.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the spring semester of 2006.

If there's this one thing that I've learnt to appreciate this semester, sunscreen would be it. Trust me on this, especially in the 40 degrees (celsius) temperature and 80 percent humidity. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of this discourse has no basis other than my own meandering experience.

Read.Intellectual snobbery, if you are suitably well-qualified, is, if little else, atleast enlightening. Indulge. Read The Virgin Suicides, and convince yourself of the depravity of this age. Imagine Louisa May Alcott doing this to her Little Women.(Or her Little Men, for that matter. I'm curious about the latter though. Do the Little Men procreate with the Little Women and have Little Children ?)

Love.Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours. You'll soon see that she's not The One. Walk away before you are disposed of. And, cliched as it may be, there are plenty of fish in the sea (and honey-bees in the hive). Swim. If you don't know how to, nevermind. There's a kiss of life waiting round the corner.

Let go.Once every week. May your erstwhile unfashionable room transform into the epicenter of all bohemian activities on campus. Mine certainly did. Ask B and A.

Explore.Art-house cinema. When you can have Japanese, French, Mexican and Polish, why stay put in Hollywood? Reserve your opinion on the greatest film of all time till you see Kurasawa's 'Shinchinin no Samurai', Truffat's 'Jules et Jim', Kieselowski's 'Trois Coluers:Rouge' and Bresson's 'Au Hasard Balthazar'.If you still contend that 'Titanic rules, man', don't act too surprised when you are branded a philistine. And don't be sorry, the world needs some of those too.

Cry. No matter what they think. It's the most cathartic thing there is.

Smile.A wide, thirty-two-teeth brandishing one. Or like Aaki. All lip, and no white. Any way you do it, rest assured that it will brighten someone's life, if only for a moment. And that is perhaps more important than anything else you'll do today.

Learn. You've only got a few years before Mr.Alzheimer pays a visit. Think on your feet. Do not copy that nice Mr Ottino's work for that fluid-mixing term paper. It builds character, and a certain mental fortitude you could use.

And Live. Only for the cheap thrills, if you must look for a reason. Thank you, Anna Z, for not dying on me.

Dr. Strangelove

2006-04-29T15:16:00.000+05:30

Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Campus-Life

The story of my semester. Due Thursday, May 4.

Starring, amongst others, (in alphabetical order) : Aaki, Anna Z, B and A , Baz Luhrmann, Bhoomi, the City of Joy, Honey-Bee, Jeffrey Eugenides, Jenna Jameson, Julio M. Ottino, Krzystof Kieselowski, Penny Lane, the Park Sheraton, and Zach Braff. And You, in some form or another.

Four exams(read catastrophes) down, three to go.

pipe dreams

2006-04-20T21:34:00.000+05:30

Should I smoke?
If I must, then dear god, please grant me the power to smoke like a woman, elegantly, with long painted nails and manicured hands wrapped around this most phallic of man's poisons.

elegy

2006-04-14T04:18:00.000+05:30

I couldn't take my eyes off her tonight.
She's just so much better than I am, or ever will be.

jabberwocky

2006-04-07T07:09:00.000+05:30

Things are getting, in the words of the very trippy Alice, curiouser and curiouser.

****
The recently concluded Advanced Physics Lab, despite its natural inclination towards inducing mind-numbing lethargy, does have its redeeming features. Much of my time there this semester has been spent actively seducing the lab assistant, slowly, surely entrapping her in the web of my bedeviling charm, subjecting her to a veritable cascade of flirtatious overtures that she cannot resist. (In her defense, who can?)

She's probably about forty-five. I wonder if she's married. With that Cheshire cat smile, and those dancing eyes, she'd make a fine Mrs.Robinson. Not quite the svelte figure, but beggars can't be choosers, can they?

God bless you, please Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
hey hey hey

***
It seems that over the past week, I've become something of a celebrity on campus. (Not for no reason, I might add, but that is best kept under wraps) People have started giving me the oddest stares, the likes of which are normally reserved for monkeys fornicating on the hostel terraces unmindful of the gawking, drooling, spectators below.

Off with their heads, I say. The fawning multitudes, I mean, not the monkeys.

All Fools Day

2006-04-01T21:49:00.000+05:30

There are, after all, 10 kinds of people in this world. Those who know binary, and those who don't.

The birds and the bees

2006-03-24T07:55:00.000+05:30

It's the old mid-semester phase again, replete with the regular medley of seemingly random events that escape undiscerning eyes, forming labyrinthine webs that are dictated, if a little injudiciously, by the overbearing hands of karma and kismet.

All sure to make sense in the end, no doubt. The scriptwriter upstairs, with his penchant for the neat ending, sees to that.

In other news, women students have now been accorded permission to enter the men's hostel, and vice versa. Whether this means that the powers-that-be are unconsciously echoing the much vaunted sexual revolution touted to be sweeping the country, or are merely demonstrating their (often questioned) sound mental health, is, of course , debatable.

The one certainty of this turn of events, I suppose, is that the chances of me stumbling upon couples coochie-cooing in ostensible privacy have taken a nosedive. Make no mistake about it, my campus is a voyeur's dream, and I have never been shy of cashing in, shameless pervert that I am.

1)The library
How about the air-conditioned reading hall? Always empty, of course. You like it hot and grimy? Please proceed into the magazine section. You want a great view too? Yes, I know just the place. You'd prefer the little cubicles, perfect for two? The ones with the green chairs ? No? You find pink sexier ? This way please.

Oh, you do know that nobody uses the toilets on the fifth floor, don't you? And did i forget to mention the elevator? Passe, you think ? Yes, I agree. Bad music, too.

2)The temple
"Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity."

Ah well, you can't blame Einstein for never sitting with a pretty girl in a temple. Places of worship, if nothing else, freeze time. You can, quite simply, go on and on and on. And where better to consummate a relationship than right before the watching eyes of providence ?

What nobody cares about, of course, is what the venerable goddess Durga thinks of it all. Divine interference can meddle with the theory of relativity, but is powerless in the face of animal passion.

Albert, eat your heart out.

3) The stadium
Football pitch sized, floodlit with lights off. Proximity to the girls hostel. Deer grazing by the side. Starry, starry nights. Need I say more?

This list, incidentally, is much longer.
Yes, I know. I am a sick, sick boy.

diamonds and rust

2006-03-15T20:25:00.000+05:30

My gift is my song and this one's for you.

****
Uno

Let me sing you a waltz, out of nowhere, out of my thoughts. A long long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. Summer of 69. Anarchy in the UK. Sitting on the dock of the bay, wastin' time. Pretty woman walking down the street. Something in the way she moves. Judy blue eyes. You sexy thing.

"Ooh my little pretty one, pretty one.
When you gonna give me some time, Sharona? "

"Dream on."

"Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please. "

"Save tonight , fight the break of dawn.
Come tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be gone."

"You can call me Al."

***
Dos

Dancing in the dark. Singin' in the rain. Nights in white satin, never reaching the end. I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom for me and you. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

****
Tres

And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid.
Like I love you.

Under pressure. Every rose has its thorn, every night has its dawn.

"I want to break free
I want to break free
I want to break free from your lies
You’re so self satisfied I don’t need you"

"Why do you build me up, buttercup bab-y,
just to let me down, and mess me around ? "

"I hate everything about you ."

" What else should I be, all apologies . "

*****
Quatro

Was I outta my head, was I outta my mind ? How could I've ever been so blind ? No woman, no cry. NO woman, NO cry. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar. Red, red wine. Go to my head. Make me forget that i still need her so.

But it hurts me so just to see you go around with someone new, doin' that thing you do. Oh, bab-y bab-y, it's a wild world and I'll always remember you like a child, girl.

*****
Uno

1979. Motorway to Roswell. Sitting on a park bench, eyeing lil girls with bad intent.

"Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name ?"

The circle of life. Que sera sera , whatever will be, will be.

*****

With permission, of course, from (in this order) Elton John, Julie Delpy, Don McLean, Bryan Adams, The Sex Pistols, Otis Redding, Roy Orbison, George Harrison, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Hot Chocolate, The Knack, Aerosmith , Eric Clapton, Eagle Eye Cherry, Paul Simon, Bruce Springsteen, Gene Kelly, Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, David Bowie, Poison, Queen , The Foundations, Ugly Kid Joe, Nirvana, Fastball, Bob Marley, The Doors, UB40, The Wonders, Cat Stevens, The Smashing Pumpkins, The Pixies, Jethro Tull, The Doors, Elton John, Doris Day. Phew .

P.S
For a few hours, a couple of days back, I had shut down this blog. Here I am again, for better or worse. Here to stay , hopefully.

joie de vivre

2006-03-06T20:08:00.000+05:30

I'm tired of living my life like a wallflower. Dance, anyone?

P.S.
Oh, and this site intrigues me. Do me a favour, will you.

Einmal ist Keinmal

2006-02-27T20:56:00.000+05:30

Trips home, (ir)regular these days as drops from a leaky tap, are like riding the rollercoaster in your neighbourhood amusement park. They take you down a familiar path, yet leave little time for nostalgia.

As you will surely admit, your memories are little more than show-pieces of the past, exhibits in the museum of your mind, 'Look; Please don't touch.Thank you' ; and your life is merely the handiwork of some Grand Old Lady, knitting her giant patchwork quilt, a complex, eccentric tapestry defining the fate of every little drop in the ocean of humanity.

Home-coming is a time for reliving the old experiences, without feeling the deja-vu. Like getting drunk the second time. Or falling in love, again. Each time a little different, each time really the same.

It is a time for visiting the flea market, for hunting down the movies you never could find elsewhere. Ozu's Tokyo Story. After all these years .The elusive son of a gun. Discussions on Bergman, no less, with impassioned pirates, eager to unload their booty before you can say 'Wild Strawberries'.

It is a time for used bookshops, the swanky new malls, and all the particles of sand that slipped through your clenched, impatient fist.

It is a time for espying old flames, walking down the streets of your youth, hand in foriegn hand, each step a cold dagger piercing your broken-heart, each unrequited love a flag-bearer of your eternal defeat.

It is a time for your favourite at the restaurant, still crowded after all these years, and the chocolate chip sundae, and the long walk home.

But all in all, deep down, you know that it is a time for all the things money can't buy.Perspective, for one.

.

2006-02-23T17:58:00.000+05:30

I sometimes wonder if full stops at the beginning of sentences are rather more apt than at their end.

Not that it makes a difference, of course. What's done is done.

waiting to exhale

2006-02-19T21:04:00.000+05:30

As cities across the Islamic world continue to endure the spiteful bites of the Great Dane, I will simply paraphrase the words of Luis Bunuel, and say - ' I'm still an atheist, thank God. '

my bloody valentine

2006-02-14T21:50:00.000+05:30

It seems that today, hands have officially been washed off me.

"I wish things could have been different
all i do is miss you and the way we used to be
nothing ventured nothing gained
I ventured all and still I failed.
The test , the mirage,the blue oasis,
I dont really know who fell more,
I hate myself and I hate you more."

Damning evidence, you would agree.

What else can i say?
I'll take all the blame.

And I look back over the past year, and wonder, has anything really changed at all?

Melon C

2006-02-05T21:06:00.000+05:30

It is a wintry, cheerless Friday night. I sleep tumultously, tossing, turning, teetering on the brink of another introspective, infinite journey into nothingness.

Sadness, you will agree, is an intensely personal experience. Nobody shares it with you, no matter what they say. Ennui, loneliness and depression make for a heady mocktail. Lap it up while you can.

There is someone at the door.
I ignore, like I do the now incessantly vibrating cell.

The knocks intensify, to raps, rattles, thuds and culminate in a crescendo of thunderous booms, startling me out of my reverie.

I open.
It is A, dapper as ever, with K.

Nobody's ever visited me in my room before. Not for a year atleast. This calls for a minor celebration. I make a mental note.

"Get dressed. Collar shirt. And shoes. They don't let people in without shoes. And ID card, just in case."

The message is clear. I am to be initiated tonight. And I know that in this state, I simply don't have the strength of will to resist.

Orders followed, I trundle down to the car, where we are joined by B, and C. Do remind me to tell you about B sometime. Quite the character.

The place, I'm told later, is called 'Bikes and Barrels'. Whyever, I cannot fathom.

I walk in to the strains of 'Sweet Child of Mine'. As I remember telling B at the time, that is a great song to enter to. In many ways, like 'Summer of 69', 'Sweet Child' is the song of my misplaced, lost, wasted adolescence.

She's got a smile
that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky

Nothing like a familiar song to get you relaxed. Especially a familiar guitar riff. I feel immediately at home, despite the decidedly alien environment.

There is plenty of smoke in the air, and my eyes begin watering. I leave the ordering to B, and let the atmosphere sink in. The music changes to hip-hop, and the wonderfully named Pussycat Dolls begin to pose their intriguing queries.

Don't ya wish your girlfriend was hot like me
Dont ya wish your girlfriend was a freak like me

I contemplate the lyrics, and dig into popcorn and salted peanuts.

The waiter arrives. A pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea is placed on the table. The glasses are filled, with a deep brown, translucent liquid.

I am toasted, and asked to go first.The first sip stops short of spectacular. For a cocktail of rum, gin and vodka, it takes quite a while to make its presence felt. A couple of glasses down the line, however, and I feel my legs separating from the rest of my body.

It feels lovely. The light-headedness, the lack of control, and after such a long time, the happiness. Nothing matters anymore. Not my summer unemployment. Not my rejection. Not how people trample all over you when you are down. Not how people you would have done anything for cannot spare a few minutes for you when you need them. Not the loneliness.

Tonight, I don't care.

I complete the night's bacchanalia with a gin and tonic, and we head back. The afterhours are spent drooling all over Kate Beckinsale in 'Serendipity'
As I walk back to my room, I look up, and see Cassiopeia.

And in my heart, I know I need to do this more often.

What can I say?
Happiness is a warm gun.

eleven and out

2006-01-30T21:05:00.000+05:30

1) I have been much too depressed for much too long. Not just depressed, to be honest. Moody is more like it. On top of the world one day, the pits the next, and so on and on in an infintely complicated emotional rollercoaster that refuses to let me get off.

2)I have always kept to myself . How introvertedness turned into excruciating shyness is beyond me. I just can't talk to anyone anymore without being agonizingly self-conscious, and judgemental.

3)There's not one thing I feel really strongly about. I'm absolutely bereft of passion. What I needed, perhaps, was a Muse of some sort, something or someone that could've filled out the emptiness.

4)Everybody I know has the paths of their lives charted out to the smallest detail. I, on the other hand, have never felt more aimless. Ambitions have never been my thing, and deep down, I know that I'm driving down to a dead-end.

5)I always grew up considering myself to be gifted in some manner. You know the standards - math whiz, super writer, star athlete. As each year goes by, you strike one off the list, till one day you wake up to the fact that you might as well have torn off the page when you were ten.

6)The other day, it just struck me that I can't do anything. I can't ride a bike, drive a car, cook, play the guitar, sing, fix the radio, dance, sew, paint.Nothing.

7) I'm fat and ugly. And I'll never forgive You for that.

8)Lately, I've taken to listening to sappy love songs, and watching the most unbelievably mushy candy-floss. I don't know if you do this too, but I seem to have gotten into the habit of imagining myself as the actor on screen, especially during all the making-out. I'm sure it isn't healthy thing to do. Kissing Kate Winslet did feel rather good, though.

9)I tried to make a list of the people who would miss me. Really miss me, truly wish I was still around. Afraid not too many made that list. And I can't blame anyone for that. If I were you, I wouldnt miss me. Eminently forgettable I am, if little else.

10)Spending long hours online is a sign of social dysfunction. Perhaps if i had tried to go out and talk to real people, I wouldn't be as lonely as I am now. Virtual relationships are easy to make, and from personal experience, very convenient for people to walk away from. Use-and-throw has never had more license.

11)I hate my ego. It is just so suffocating.

the amazing race

2006-01-21T21:36:00.000+05:30

two rain drops
fall, cheeks apart.
which one first?

survey

2006-01-20T20:20:00.000+05:30

Would you rather see me fast unto death or hang by the ceiling fan?

DT

2006-01-18T23:25:00.000+05:30

Deutsche Telekom Laboratories do not deem me worthy of a summer internship. What's more, they do not believe that I'm even good enough to make the shortlist.

My dreams of frolicking in the Rhine this summer, during the football World Cup finals, no less, are dashed. Shattered. Beyond repair.

What else can I do now but wistfully paraphrase the immortal words of Amy Sedaris ?

"When shit gets you down, say 'fuck it' and eat yourself some motherfucking candy."
"Bitch. I'm here to tell you that it's going to be all right. We'll get through this shit, motherfucker, just you wait"

Yeah, DT, you sonofabitch, just you wait.

One

2006-01-12T18:50:00.000+05:30

Whilst I find my calling in the City of Joy over the next week or so, I'd greatly appreciate it if you would wish my bloggie a very happy first birthday on the 14th.
A cake would be nice, too. And a candle to blow out .

I wonder what wish my bloggie would make.
A little less neglect, perhaps.

Dazed and Confused

2006-01-10T08:23:00.000+05:30

I dig Richard Linklater. I really do. The man gives me perspective.

"I mean, God. Don't you ever feel like everything we do and everything we've been taught is just to service the future."

"Yeah, I know. It's like it's all preparation."

"Right, but what are we preparing ourselves for?"

"Death."

" If we're all going to die anyway shouldn't we be enjoying ourselves now? You know, I'd like to quit thinking of the present, like right now as some minor insignificant pre-amble to something else."

In other news, the fork in the road is approaching. My life and career, and the direction of the same.Time to toss the old coin, and ask the question again.

I mean man, whither goest thou?
Whither goest thou, melon collie, in thy shiny car in the night?

the whore of mensa

2006-01-07T16:33:00.000+05:30

I find the idea most fascinating. Merely thinking about it gets me dripping wet. (I meant the drool, silly). My hair begins to stand on end. And not only my hair, to tell you the truth.

Consider this for yourself. Call someone over at an odd hour of the night. Someone unknown to you, preferably mid-twenties, reasonably comely. A sweet smile would be a bonus. Proceed to fulfil your deepest, darkest, most deviant fantasies. Succumb to the exhilarating, overpowering ecstasy, leaving you utterly at the stranger's mercy, begging for more more more.

All at a price, you understand.
No touching, of course, though some are known to be accommodating in that respect. Absolutely no fondling allowed, however. The mind is the mind, the body is the body, and never the twain shall meet.

The whores will discuss, at great depth, any intellectual topic of your preference. You name it. The recurrent motifs in the work of D.H Lawrence. The films of David Lynch. Perhaps even an explanation (if such a thing does exist) of 'Lost Highway'. The pointillist art of Georges-Pierre Seurat. Husserl's phenemology of internal time consciousness. The fugues of Johann Sebastian Bach. Freud's stages of development. The influence of bebop on Beat literature. The list is endless.

Trust me. There's nothing sexier than talking high-brow with a well-informed woman. If you feel uncomfortable about this, just look upon it as a cerebral jerking-off. And of course, you don't need a condom either.

You know what they say. The most erotic organ is between the ears.
Yeah, baby. They got that one right.

P.S.
Read the entire Woody Allen short story here.

You say goodbye, and I say hello

2005-12-31T17:24:00.000+05:30

2005 was special.
Here's to an even better 2006.

The Curtain

2005-12-24T17:15:00.000+05:30

I was ten at the time. Give or take a year. It was the annual inter-class painting competition, that Holy Grail of all things artistic for pre-pubescent kids (atleast the guys, anyway) with little more than starry eyes and an inflated(parent-induced, no doubt) opinion of their own talents.

The teachers, in charge of the organisational aspects of this venture, sprang something of a surprise. 'Free topic - Anything you want', they said, setting off an excited buzz around the rather large drawing hall . 'Unheard of !', whimpered some. 'F***ing brilliant', claimed the rather more wordly wise. What scope this bold, daring step would provide for artistic innovation! What grand, hidden talent this momentous move would unearth !

The dominant subject of choice, for most, seemed to be a landscape of some sort. You know the works - a nice house, preferably with a chimney (a remnant of the Santa Claus delusion, perhaps) , garden, fence, mountains in the background, and the rising sun in the background.
Some others worked on their version of a rainy day, boats on a lake(visions of Monet's 'Impressions of Sunrise', perhaps ?), and other such mundane topics. No nudes though, sadly.

Meanwhile, I drew a curtain.

It was simply called 'The Curtain'. Of course, at the time, I wasn't to know that a title of this sort was very much in the tradition of Camus ('The Plague', 'The Outsider'), and Kafka('The Trial', 'The Castle'), not even to mention Rodin('The Thinker'), the work's quality unquestionable and its metaphysical implications immense.

Of course, I was laughed at. Mocked, even. By all the teachers, no less.

I tell you what, though. It might've been just a reddish brown, plain, frilly curtain covering the entire sheet of drawing paper. It didn't seek to blow in the wind, or anything funny like that. It didn't try to portray any showy light effects. Dammit, it may not even have covered a window.
It was, however, without a shadow of a doubt, the classic minimalist work of its time. And it was all mine.

No wonder I turned out so messed up.

androgyny

2005-12-17T06:35:00.000+05:30

A lot of people tell me that I sound rather effeminate on this blog. To tell you the truth, I'm hardly surprised. I question my masculinity on a daily basis.

1)I don't dig fast cars. Or any of those black shiny motorbikes. Not even Harleys. And i cannot, for the life of me, fathom how (or should i ask why) so many guys know all that they do about fighter planes. I can't tell a MiG from a Sukhoi or an F-whatever if you placed me on the pilot's seat. Honest.

2)My arms forgot to grow up with the rest of my body. Most girls I know have bigger biceps than me. Do girls notice those kind of things, by the way ? Oh, and I abhor the gym too. And all those body-building six-pack types.

3)I cry. Shockingly regularly. Boys don't cry, do they ?

4)I had quite a thing for boybands, growing up. You know, knowing the names of all the members, their life histories, love lives, posters on walls and so on. You get the picture. Thankfully, I've moved on.

5)I'm not much of a talker, but the one thing I've realized about my manner of speaking is that I tend to say 'Soooo cute' very often. Awful, i tell you. It just comes out involuntarily, and I can't seem to be able to control it.

And this blog brings out that repressed woman in me. How cool is that ?

P.S.
Just an enquiry. Do you really brush your teeth twice a day? Tell the truth, now.

Lady luck has a crush on me

2005-12-14T16:34:00.000+05:30

Ok, so the grades are out. Suffices to say that today, I believe in good fortune.

The Honey-Bee has my greatest sympathies. Evidently, Lady Luck isn't a lesbian.

hush puppy

2005-12-12T08:29:00.000+05:30

So yesterday, I attended the memorial service, or the final rites of passage, if you like, of my recently deceased grandfather. The atmosphere, expectedly, was decidedly sombre, as hushed voices and tear-streaked countenances paid their last respects to the departed soul.

It's funny how death unites families. Mingling with familiar faces were those of long lost relatives - distant uncles and aunts thought to have been swept away by the hands of time to distant, irredeemable pockets of indifference returned, and presumably, disappeared once again to their own lives, so much separated from ours.

Not before a few gems, by way of conversation(for lack of a better word), from patronising, (but i must mention, not unkindly) aunts who exclaimed, in great surprise, ' How could your features change this much ?', and without the merest hint of a snicker, 'MIT next stop, eh ?' , eliciting little more than mumbles in response.

For one so much given to verbosity in private, I'm sadly tongue-tied in any public gathering. After the perfunctory 'hello's and 'fine , thank you's, I slip easily into my now perfected role of quiet-world-watcher, slinking around on the metaphorial tip-toe, unnoticed, and possibly forgotten. And before you know it, it's time to go.

Maybe that's exactly the way some people lead their entire lives. Gone before they know it's time, after spending innumerable years unnoticed, and forgotten.

What a shame.

home

2005-12-09T09:35:00.000+05:30

Is it just me, or does everyone who returns home after a long time get greeted with anguished cries of 'Oh! How could you become this thin ', followed by massive meal after massive meal ?

Going home tonight for the weekend. Promises to be much fun, especially for the tummy.

the daily prophet

2005-12-04T17:21:00.000+05:30

I've been in something of a Harry Potter mood recently. Just finished reading 'Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (yes, I know that I'm about half a year behind the rest of the world, so don't give me that look) ,and paid my own little daily tribute to movie piracy by watching '..Goblet of Fire' on the computer today.

A few cursory observations, then.

a)Maybe it's just me, or the fact that I already knew who the Prince was, who he kills, and how before the first page was turned, but the sixth book was definitely a disappointment. Not bad, but not quite in the same league as 'Goblet of Fire'. Rather conspicuously lacking even a semblance of a plot within the framework of the big story, it almost reminded of me 'The Matrix Reloaded ', simply trying to set the stage for the grand finale.

b)I suppose that it is a bit difficult to blame the original casting agents for not having the foresight to realize that Emma "Hermione " Watson would grow up to reach, as film critic Roger Ebert put it, the 'cusp of babehood'. It doesn't, however, make me feel very good to keep telling myself that ogling at fifteen-year old adolescents doesn't make for a particularly morally upright temperament.
FIFTEEN, for god's sake.

And don't even let me get started on Fleur Delacour.

c)The Ginny Weasley angle, in the 'The Half-Blood Prince', rather took me by surprise. I always assumed that Rowling would set up something of a love triangle between Harry, Hermione and Ron. Seemed the natural thing to do, no?

d)Oh, and they better give Ron a haircut, not to mention the twins. What is this, the Swinging Sixties ?

e)Full marks for all the bad guys, though. Ralph Fiennes looks deliciously menacing as You-Know-Who; and Mad-Eye-Moody, along with old regulars Snape and Wormtail, is in sparkling, scene-stealing form.
Definitely the best Potter movie, till the next, atleast.

from here to eternity

2005-12-02T17:14:00.000+05:30

I had just returned to my hostel room, after ingesting the resident cook's very unique version of a special celebratory post-exam lunch, when the cell rang.

It was my mother.

'Your grandfather passed away last night. I didn't want to tell you in the morning beacuse I thought it would spoil your mood for your exam.'

What can i say? The exams are finally over now, and after a fortnight of stressing out and sleeplessness , all i can do is sit back, allow the tears to fall and wonder whose turn it is going to be next.

Thanks for everything, grand-daddy. For making my childhood wonderful, for teaching me all the right things, for the summer vacations spent loitering around discussing any matter that took my fancy, for helping me grow up in a world where i never felt deprived of anything, a place that is now just a fragmented, disjointed memory of a bygone time.

And now you are gone. Gone to join grandma.
You didn't even give me a chance to say goodbye.

Rest in Peace. I love you.

please

2005-11-29T13:12:00.000+05:30

help me.
somebody.

apocalypse now

2005-11-26T18:04:00.000+05:30

Mon : Digital Signal Processing
Tue : Statistical Physics
Wed : Solid State Devices
Thur : Dynamical Systems
Fri : Operations Research

The horror, the horror.

And what's more, my tooth hurts.
Not just any old tooth. My wisdom tooth.

Maybe, a couple of days before the exams commence, i should consider that as a sign of some sort, a portentous omen foretelling my impending doom.

Only one Keano

2005-11-19T11:19:00.000+05:30

Goodbye, captain.
Farewell.

Thanks for everything.
We'll miss you.

Conjecture

2005-11-19T00:04:00.000+05:30

At the risk of antagonizing my largely female readership, let me offer you an old chestnut to chew on, as I continue to pass my days in an everlasting haze of exams and other such monstrosities.

gael

2005-11-05T21:18:00.000+05:30

Sigh.
Life would be so easy if I had a face like this.

Or, for that matter, if I was as good in front of a camera.
Of late, I've begun to develop quite a taste for Latin American cinema, and Mexican actor Gael Garcia Bernal, it seems on preliminary consideration, is definitely more than just a cutie pie.

The spectacularly successful and deliciously convoluted 'Amores Perros', the super-erotically charged( and I must admit, VERY turning on) 'Y tu Mama Tambien' , and the lovely, continent-sweeping smoothness of 'The Motorcycle Diaries' seem like irrefutable evidences to me that there exists great cinema, and more than abundantly gifted actors, south of Hollywood.

So am i turning gay, or is this man really as hot as i think he is ?

Of fireflies, booby traps and honey-bees

2005-10-26T04:10:00.000+05:30

If you are a world leader who simply can't wait to drop your weapons of mass destruction (god, that phrase makes me cringe) on your not-so-friendly neighbour, I have but one recommendation. Get yourself a DVD of Isao Takahata's anime classic 'Hotaru no haka' ( Grave of the Fireflies) , and cry into your pillow, regretting the folly of your ways.

If the movie doesn't bring tears to your eyes, consider yourself a lost cause.
And if you have a younger sister, give her a hug now.

**********
Booby Trap

I was chatting with an old classmate from high school on instant messenger a week or so ago. Frustrated at the long delay in her replies, I proceeded to ask her if she was very busy nowadays. Or so I thought.

Turns out that I made a typo.
I now take it for a fact that women don't particularly like being asked if they " are very busty nowadays ".

A slip of the finger, I tried to assure her.
But ah well, you can imagine the ramifications.
In my favour, T and Y are beside each other on a standard keyboard, aren't they ?

**********
You will appreciate that I am prone to my occasional bouts of depression , all of which are reflected here in a manner that is cathartic, no doubt, but embarassing in retrospect.

I now believe that it is time to change tack. Having been patient subjects to all my tiresome ranting, you are all now welcome to take vicarious pleasure in all the sappiness that is to follow.

You are now introduced to a new player on this stage, a character in my life that will be referred to as The Honey-Bee. You know, a moniker, like the ones comic-superheroes have. Of course, the Honey-Bee has a real identity and all, but that will remain concealed to all but me. Like Spiderman, for instance. Wouldn't be much fun if everyone knew Peter Parker was Spiderman, would it ?

Of course, like all super-heroes, the Honey-Bee is endowed with some special superpowers, and peculiar short-comings that make her ( yes, Her) unique :

1) The Honey-Bee bears the unfortunate fate of having nearly no lines on her palm, which adds to the mysterious aura that accompanies her every move. It also, incidentally, makes her a favourite client with palm-readers ( read : me) , anxious to get to work on this riveting specimen.

2) The Honey-Bee digs Emily Dickinson. Need I say more?

3) The length of The Honey-Bee's second toe is quite comparable to her big toe, which according to the discussion here, means that she will dominate over any man she chooses to be with. You have been warned.

4) You've got to hand it to Bob Dylan. You could use some of his lyrics just about anywhere.
She aches just like a woman, but she breaks just like a little girl.

5) The Honey-Bee has a furious temper. Get on the wrong side of her, and you could incur the wrath of her most potent weapon, the Silent-for-a-Day-Sting, a fate which, let me assure you, is worse than death.

6) The Honey-Bee doesn't comment on blogs. Despite my persistent goading, lamenting, pleading, and threatening, she refuses to budge.

More on this later...

a show of hands

2005-10-12T22:35:00.000+05:30

If there's one thing that i really don't get, it's people who eat pizza with knives and fork.

For god's sake!

A pizza is meant to be touched by searching fingers, felt up, its nether regions caressed, and after the taste-bud stimulating preliminaries, gently bitten into - thin, long noodle straps of mozzarella and dripping sauce only heightening the already unbearable pleasure of weakly submitting to the evil embrace of junk food.

Crystal ball

2005-10-04T22:46:00.000+05:30

On nights like these, I sometimes get the nasty feeling that I will turn out like that.

Gregor Samsa ?

2005-10-03T17:19:00.000+05:30

Somebody asked me the other day, in the midst of the sort of asinine conversation that I tend to indulge in daily, if I thought I had changed even a little bit after entering college.
Given my propensity for brushing truly thought-provoking matters under the mental carpet, I instantly replied that I hadn't , with a shake of the head and a flutter of the eyelashes.
(Incidentally, I have been informed that my eyelashes are very long. How people make such observations is beyond me, but I digress).

Though not quite all weird and wonderful, my two years here have been very eventful. Considering the wide spectrum of experiences I have had, from seeing drunken men teetering(quite literally) on the brinks of terraces for the very first time, to finding mashed cockroaches in my lunch, I wouldn't believe it entirely inappropriate if i generously borrowed from classic literature to describe the Dickensian montage of happenings that i have had the (mis?)fortune of being touched by.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way"

It is impossibe, I contend, to remain the same in such circumstances, surrounded by such individuals. Before you know it, you are a different man.

1)It seems like an eternity ago that I stepped into the campus for the first time , armed with a plastic smile, a suitcase of neatly pressed clothes, and an idealistic fervour. I only retain one of those now. One-and-a-half, perhaps.

2) I don't remember ever being really unhappy growing up. Even if I sometimes morosely observed as a young teenager that all great creative artistes seemed to have suffered deeply in some profound manner, my childhood was essentially beautiful.
Wish i could say the same of the last two years.

3)This might sound strange, but if anything, i am much more ethical than i was before joining college. I have come to dislike the careless way people here flout basic norms, from copying in exams to getting around the fairly light attendance requirements by forging signatures.

4)In school, for whatever reason, I considered myself to be some sort of genius, the promising bud just waiting to grow into the blooming flower that would be embraced by the world.
Not anymore.

5)I am now a bonafide movie-freak. From anime to neo-realism to fantasy, I've begun my journey to seeing it all. Movies were never a past-time of mine as a kid, and if there is one thing I am really thankful to my college for, it is for inculcating a love for the moving image.

One day, maybe, after a night of uneasy dreaming, I will find myself transformed into a gigantic insect.

P.S
I feel prodigiously talkative today.
It must be the eclipse.

blue

2005-09-24T22:17:00.000+05:30

Its been two weeks since I last updated, my longest hiatus since the inception of this blog. I have no excuses, or explanations, for such neglect , bar the fact that I seem to be drowning this semester in a tsunami (pardon the expression, will you) of academic commitments. If all the pressure of handling seven hardcore courses that come in varying degrees of inanity doesn't kill me, the mind-numbing ennui will, soon enough.

I just need to find a way to stand back, pause, take a deep breath, and not feel guilty about it.

Tag

2005-09-10T01:47:00.001+05:30

I Was tagged by Saba, who , let it be known, was my very first reader; and hence the holder of a very special place in my mental blog-roll.

5 years ago : I was in the tenth grade in school, preparing with fervent ardor for the first major examination of my life. Incidentally, and I simply cannot resist saying this, I scored in the top ten out of about half a million students who took the exam. Not bad, what ?

1 year ago : Depressed and lonely, I would spend most of my time staring at my then brand new computer wondering if there ever was a way out. Thank goodness for blogging.

5 songs I know all the words to:
Nirvana - Smells like Teen Spirit
R.E.M - At my most beautiful
Beatles - Let it be
Joan Baez - Diamonds & Rust
Simon & Garfunkel - Homeward Bound

5 snacks i enjoy:
This is a tough one; I am not too sure that i have any particular preference in this regard, but i do like chocolates, especially the ones with nuts and everything.
Oh, and potato chips, i suppose.

5 things i would do with a million dollars
Begin an orphanage, and a foundation for charity.
Find a good plot of land, and build the house of my dreams. On a beach, preferably
Buy all the books i've always wanted, and could never afford.
Start an art gallery.
Get started on my travels around the world.

5 places i would run away to
New York
Paris
Rome
Machchu Pichchu
Japan

5 things i would never wear
I don't particularly believe that i am sartorially challenged, and whilst I have had my fair share of wardrobe malfunctions (for lack of a better term) , I don't really have bad dressing sense.
I guess I wouldn't wear anything shocking - no pink or yellow or anything of that sort.

5 favourite TV shows
The Wonder Years
The Simpsons
The Apprentice
The Practice
dare i say Desperate Housewives?

5 greatest joys
Waking up in the morning to the perfect song
Finishing a great book, knowing that i have just seen genius at work.
Writing something, and realizing that it is actually quite good.
A homemade meal
Snuggling into a dreamy sleep after a particularly good online conversation

5 greatest toys
I've never had any, really. Do fake Lego sets count?

a day in the life

2005-09-01T07:24:00.000+05:30

The sky looks beautiful today. A very deep shade of light blue, cloudless but for a lone dark wisp meekly threatening to sprinkle a few drops of rain. The breeze quietly rustles through the leaves, blowing gently behind your back as you accelerate downhill on your way to an 8 am class on your bicycle. You roll along merrily , humming CCR's Proud Mary.
Days like these make you happy, and you thank god that the powers-that-be had the good sense to ban all powered vehicles on campus.

You take a window seat in Digital Signals Processing, periodically dropping in on the professor's drone on the regions of convergence in Z-transforms. You begin to reflect on his eccentricities, and conclude that he looks like Fido-Dido and Dilbert rolled into a cat on a hot tin roof. The hour passes, a trifle slowly, ending with his lamentations on the absence of any budding mathematicians in class, our limitations horribly exposed by the inability to prove a corollory of the Fundamental Theorem of Algebra.

As you walk down to Spectroscopy, you think of Will Hunting, and how you secretly think you are a bit like him. You wonder if you are capable of throwing everything away, as 'you had to see about a girl'. This quandrary still unresolved, you enter class. The professor is teaching for the first time in his life, and he looks at you with big searching eyes and bunny-teeth for a little support, maybe even some encouragement.You try to acquiesce.His daughter is sick in hospital, and he has spent the night with her. You hope she gets better soon, and you consider what it feels like to be a father. A father with a sick child.

Solid State Devices is next, and you marvel at how elegant the lady professor looks today. It confirms your theory that any woman can be made to look pretty, if not spectacular, if dressed well. Her saccharine sweet voice lulls you into a dreamy reverie, interspersed with metaphoric electric-aid-kool-acid-visions into energy band diagrams and the theory of p-n junctions.

Dynamical Systems is next, and as is becoming an irritatingly regular habit, the instructor fails to turn up. You chat with one of the few people you consider your friend, and mutually decide that Meredith Brooks' 'Bitch' is a fine song to perform at a 'Western Music' (daftly named, i know) contest, especially if you are from the girl's hostel. On a lark, you begin singing Sixpence None the Richer's 'There She Goes',and soon it's time for lunch.

You have your best lunch in weeks, and troop up to your room on the top floor of your hostel. You turn on the computer,and begin listening to Lisa Loeb's beautiful 'Stay'. You get annoyed with Blogspot, which does not allow you to make any comments on your own blog.

You decide to update. It's been more than a week now.

Soon, in thirty minutes, you will attend Statistical Physics, followed by a free hour you plan to spend staring at her. A class of Industrial Engineering, and plenty of really bad puns from the good-natured professor later, you'll be back, another day in your life washed away by the trivialities of existence.

Splurge

2005-08-23T06:39:00.000+05:30

On Sunday, as fate would have it, I found myself in the possesion of gift vouchers worth, atleast by my frugal standards, an obscene amount of money at a prominent bookstore in the city, one that makes up for its overbearing pretentiousness with a decidedly above average collection of classic literature. Any bookshop that houses multiple copies of "Raise high the roof beam, carpenters " and "The Bell Jar" wins my immediate seal of approval, let it be known.

So off I went, two other similarly fortunate souls in tow, to the heart of the city, finding myself in the decidedly unique situation of having money to splurge. I have always found looking at price tags of books a little humiliating, and though it is a habit far too deeply entrenched in my psyche for me to lose it overnight, it always stings less when the pockets are bulging.

This is what, after three hours of frenetic price-totalling and much soul-searching, i finally bought -

The Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson
The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (in a dead cheap edition that made me wonder if they forgot to print another digit on the price tag)
Selected Works of Kahlil Gibran (as Kristian will testify, I have been after this for a while)
The Plays of Anton Chekov(including 'The Cherry Orchard", the play everyone has been plaguing me to read)
The Poetry of Pablo Neruda (massive 1000 page tome, this one, including the original Spanish verse)

I was also sorely tempted to buy a translation of Vatsyayana's Kamasutra, but decided against it in the end, the reasons for which i am not entirely certain myself. Perhaps it was a sub-conscious thing. You never know when that book might come in useful, though.

As I opened the Dickinson collection, the lines on the very first page struck me, Emily's genius already established with the potency of these startling verses :

This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me
The simple news that Nature told
With tender majesty

Her message is committed
To hands i cannot see
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

Very appropriate for this, or indeed any blog, don't you think?

heart-to-heart

2005-08-22T06:20:00.000+05:30

I have often been informed, by various sources, that we got along famously when I was younger. Like houses on fire, setting the neighbourhood alight with our dazzling displays of public affection for each other.

There are even pictures to prove it, of me nestling on your stomach , looking evry bit the movie-star I was never destined to be, my face ethereal in the knowledge that I would not rather be anywhere else in the world.
Incidentally, I believe these are probably the only pictures of mine in existence, apart from the group photos that seem to be such essential ingredients of high-school graduation days. Yes, that one. The one mom coerced you to attend.

You will appreciate that it is incredibly difficult for me to establish what went wrong, or do any finger-pointing in your direction. Perhaps it is all my fault, of never living up to your expectations, for being the quiet introverted son that you never wanted.

Maybe it all started to unravel that day in the fifth grade when I reported that I had stood fourth in a class of forty, and was greeted by that look of derision which haunts me to this day. Or when I overhead you telling mom how 'certain people' are born selfish, such as me, and how 'nothing can be done about it'.Or when you left home to work in another city, those long years when mom and me had only each other to seek some solace in, your periodic appearances at home becoming increasingly sporadic as I waded uncertainly through my early teens.

I always had this image in my mind of having a perfect family, the textbook kind, with dinner-table conversations and jolly picnics. All you contributed was that ferocious anger and unpardonable violence, taking out all your frustrations on us with words that stung and hit where they really hurt. Even after twenty-one years of marriage to mom, you still make her cry. You should be ashamed.

I don't want to be bitter anymore. I want to move on, and not have my disappointments with you hang like an albatross around my neck.

All I will say is that I hope my little sister doesn't turn out the way I have, self-loathing and often depressed, though it breaks my heart to say that it looks inevitable. Be nice to her, if atleast only till she's half the fine woman she still could become.

And so, happy birthday,your fifty-first, if i am not mistaken. Blow them candes( hypothetical, of course), and make those wishes, and I sincerely hope they come true.

Here's to a better future.

double edged (s)words

2005-08-20T20:45:00.000+05:30

Sometimes
I wonder
if
the words
some people
use
would cut
as
deep
if
I spoke
them.

And
at the end
of it
all
I would
whisper sorry
and
walk away,
the way
they love doing,
unforgiving.

Crap.
I cant even write anymore.

creep

2005-08-17T22:46:00.000+05:30

Today is the lowest I've felt in the last ten months.
Useless, incompetent, unwanted, and alone.

Tablet time.

Catharsis

2005-08-12T06:48:00.000+05:30

"Did you know that eating alone could cause kidney damage ? "

-Sean Penn, in 21 Grams

It all seems so long ago now, a veritable eternity, when I swore to myself in a typically foolhardy fit of bravado that I would never go out of campus alone again.

Oh no, I had told myself on that particularly depressing night in the town last semester, next time I shall find someone to accompany me on my (usually) forthnightly jaunts outside the
college gates, atleast for the sake of my kidneys, if nothing else.

However, being the fickle-minded weak-willed person that I am, yesterday I set off, alone , for the ocean (It's really a bay, but I prefer calling it an ocean. So much more grand, no? ) , deciding to make a quick stop at the college library, in a vain attempt to salvage some course-books , the ones not already usurped in furious early-semester raids by my studious peers.

Incidentally, I was wearing a Kurt Cobain T-Shirt, which, as you will appreciate, is as good a shirt as any when you are feeling a bit suicidal, and the librarian , with the keen eye and sharp intellect that landed him the job, asks me:

"Hey, who is this Kurt Cobain ?", in an accent generously smeared by the local tongue.

"Err, he is a singer, and a song-writer ", I reply, a little self-consciously.

"Oh, like Michael Jackson ! ", he jumps up, all excited by this piece of knowledge he has just acquired.

"Err, yes sir. Absolutely. "

The book I had asked him to register was Suzuki's "Living by Zen ".
Nirvana, at that very moment, has never seemed further away.

Thus, I made my way to the college gates, and proceeded on to my destination, the air all the time getting cooler, and soon I could smell the ocean-spray, and see the world dancing before me in those innumnerable grains of sand. No wild flowers though, heaven (or hell, for that matter) would have to wait. No new arrival today.

And there it was, in Jackson Pollock like blobs of white and moon-lit black, leading its own lonely life of quiet desperation, flowing in a mad rush to nowhere, trying to reach my sprawled self in relentless pursuit, but failing, like all the people before it who have cared to try the same. So I went closer, slowly, cautiously, and felt its soft, cool touch on my palm, stroking me , consoling me.

And you know what, it felt pretty good.
My soon to be eroded footprints on the sand below, a solitary star nestling in the quiet serenity of the crescent moon above, and infinity beyond.

A quiet dinner in a crowded restaurant , and a long walk later, I was back in my room, purged of all the negativity of the past few days. No more sadness, I would think, for a week atleast.

Only one other problem still persists.
Game for a kidney transplant, anyone?

Fact of the Day

2005-08-07T20:16:00.000+05:30

I don't mean to gloat or anything, but did you know that my maternal grandfather's first cousin, and his uncle, are both recipients of the Nobel Prize in Physics?

It's little wonder then, that the rest of the family suffers from a congenital inferiority complex regarding the capabilities of their grey matter, or the lack thereof.

Semester Resolutions

2005-08-05T20:00:00.000+05:30

Back in college yesterday.
The mandatory attempt at resolution making follows.

1) Make a move on IMDb's List of Top 250 movies of all time. Currently languishing at a paltry 51, but with recent conquests such as Vittorio de Sica's 1948 classic 'Ladri di biciclette' (The Bicycle Thief) , I hope to touch 100 by the end of the semester.

2)Over the last two years, strangely enough, my grades have varied in inverse proportion to the amount of time I have spent on my academics. Thus, I will henceforth study in accordance to Parkinson's Principle, which states that work always expands to fill the time alloted to it.

3)Get down seriously to writing the collection of short stories whirling around my head in the last few months. And make it bloody good, if not great.

4)Make a conscious effort to appreciate my campus life, and the people I like, a bit more; and not be insincere about it. Tree(and people)-hugging, I am told, is good for the soul.

5)Be generous to all needy persons i meet, irrespective of my notoriously oscillating mood. I am very lucky to have the things I have, and it's perhaps only a quirk of fate that I'm not in their place. No more cold-hearted selfishness.

6)Try, as hard as it sounds personally, to enjoy myself around people without having to make an extraordinary effort.
I've spent far too much of life losing faith in humanity. It can't be all that bad, can it?

All
these months
pass,
and
i forgot,
How beautiful
she is.
And now
all she remembers
perhaps
is
How ugly
i can be.