Speaking as someone who's sat through talks on theosophy at the age of two, let me tell you that Prof. U.B.'s lectures are nonetheless managing to transport me to all-new levels of desperate boredom.
After the first five minutes of today's class, I commenced bidding farewell to the world just in case he transported me from the astral onward. Melodrama aside, it made me wonder... if I actually had five minutes left to live, who would I talk to, and what about?
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Five Must-Not-Watch Movies
Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi: Everyone recommends watching it atleast once - I'd say watch it half a time if you absolutely must. If you forward every time anyone opens their mouth, you should get through quite okay.
Ghajini: Explain why someone who watched the Tamil version should bother watching the Hindi version that's essentially a scene-for-scene copy? ... Aamir 's a good reason, actually. Hubba.
Vaaranam Aayiram: Surya seems to think we're fascinated by every minute of his sad life. In a double role at that! And just cos he learned from Aamir uncal and built body doesn't mean it'll carry a three hour long movie through!
Dil Kabbadi: Goes on and on like a sixth grade student who just discovered adult jokes.
Four Christmases: Sit through one Christmas, you've sat through them all. Plus, Hollywood should really get over this trend of casting ugly men for funnies. Some of us are not amused.
Ghajini: Explain why someone who watched the Tamil version should bother watching the Hindi version that's essentially a scene-for-scene copy? ... Aamir 's a good reason, actually. Hubba.
Vaaranam Aayiram: Surya seems to think we're fascinated by every minute of his sad life. In a double role at that! And just cos he learned from Aamir uncal and built body doesn't mean it'll carry a three hour long movie through!
Dil Kabbadi: Goes on and on like a sixth grade student who just discovered adult jokes.
Four Christmases: Sit through one Christmas, you've sat through them all. Plus, Hollywood should really get over this trend of casting ugly men for funnies. Some of us are not amused.
Love Story
I love the story of the first time my parents met. See, my mum's elder sister's marriage had taken a really, really long time to fix, so everyone figured mum's would take just as long. Then she met my dad.
In her words, he was like the schoolmaster businessman they showed in Hindi movies, with his vague Bengali accent and his John Lennon glasses. Not what a conventional Tamil Iyer looks like, though he did have degrees from REC and IIM. Mum, on the other hand, looked like a total Tam at first glance. Degree in housekeeping, hair even longer than my dad's (dad's hair was nearly all the way down his back!), perfectly tied sari.
What was supposed to follow was the typical ponnu-paakara scene, right? With the 'do you sing' coming from my dad, and the demure recital by mum. Instead, to everyone's surprise, he gave her a complex math problem. I've never been able to solve it, but the answer's zero, and I think my dad was as surprised as anyone when mum worked it out without blinking (really, I don't know where these genes went!). She had her veena out, and so she sang, obviously. Then, to her surprise, he took the veena over and played do-re-mi, explaining how it was rather like his guitar really (these genes I have, believe me).
I don't know if they realized then how perfect they were for each other. All she wanted was a groom who liked Hindi movies, and all he wanted as dowry was her veena... he explained later that he wanted to try playing 'Imagine' on it! The match was made. They've never looked back.
They're really different people, you know. My mum's sense of humour's much like mine (evil!), and she gossips about as much as I do. My dad on the other hand was born to be a leader, and he conducts himself as such. Any jokes he makes are gentle, and he tends to lord over any meeting. My mum's been an extrovert all her life but can pull off a mean impression of being demure, while my dad's secretly shy but you'd never know it to hear him address thousands of people.
Still, it's like a scene out of Sabrina the teenage witch - their souls just fit together perfectly. They've been together for more than thirty years now and you can see it's because they love it. They take turns getting mad at my brother and me, they've established who does what, and even today my dad can't stay in Bangalore longer than a week without rushing back to Chennai to spend the weekend with her. They go out for movies more often than a teenage couple in love, and god forbid a day should go by without a phone call or an email.
Who says there's no romance in arranged marriages? I'll never forget one particular birthday of hers, when we were in the TS, and my dad was travelling on business. Near midnight, we hear a knock, and there's my dad bearing a bouquet of flowers while mum blushed embarrassed and totally surprised. This is a good fourteen-fifteen years into marriage, mind you. My uncle and my grandfather smiled while my brother and I wondered if we were still asleep, and I know we all privately thought they were both frikkin' crazy.
I don't know if marriages like that happen too often. I'm just glad I got to see one.
In her words, he was like the schoolmaster businessman they showed in Hindi movies, with his vague Bengali accent and his John Lennon glasses. Not what a conventional Tamil Iyer looks like, though he did have degrees from REC and IIM. Mum, on the other hand, looked like a total Tam at first glance. Degree in housekeeping, hair even longer than my dad's (dad's hair was nearly all the way down his back!), perfectly tied sari.
What was supposed to follow was the typical ponnu-paakara scene, right? With the 'do you sing' coming from my dad, and the demure recital by mum. Instead, to everyone's surprise, he gave her a complex math problem. I've never been able to solve it, but the answer's zero, and I think my dad was as surprised as anyone when mum worked it out without blinking (really, I don't know where these genes went!). She had her veena out, and so she sang, obviously. Then, to her surprise, he took the veena over and played do-re-mi, explaining how it was rather like his guitar really (these genes I have, believe me).
I don't know if they realized then how perfect they were for each other. All she wanted was a groom who liked Hindi movies, and all he wanted as dowry was her veena... he explained later that he wanted to try playing 'Imagine' on it! The match was made. They've never looked back.
They're really different people, you know. My mum's sense of humour's much like mine (evil!), and she gossips about as much as I do. My dad on the other hand was born to be a leader, and he conducts himself as such. Any jokes he makes are gentle, and he tends to lord over any meeting. My mum's been an extrovert all her life but can pull off a mean impression of being demure, while my dad's secretly shy but you'd never know it to hear him address thousands of people.
Still, it's like a scene out of Sabrina the teenage witch - their souls just fit together perfectly. They've been together for more than thirty years now and you can see it's because they love it. They take turns getting mad at my brother and me, they've established who does what, and even today my dad can't stay in Bangalore longer than a week without rushing back to Chennai to spend the weekend with her. They go out for movies more often than a teenage couple in love, and god forbid a day should go by without a phone call or an email.
Who says there's no romance in arranged marriages? I'll never forget one particular birthday of hers, when we were in the TS, and my dad was travelling on business. Near midnight, we hear a knock, and there's my dad bearing a bouquet of flowers while mum blushed embarrassed and totally surprised. This is a good fourteen-fifteen years into marriage, mind you. My uncle and my grandfather smiled while my brother and I wondered if we were still asleep, and I know we all privately thought they were both frikkin' crazy.
I don't know if marriages like that happen too often. I'm just glad I got to see one.
Taming Horses
To periappa who lives forever in legends like this
Back in the days when I used to tie people up if they displeased me, there lived a patient man who'd probably (like most human beings) never tied anyone up in his life. One fine day, when I'd broken a cricket bat, chucked the ball in the bushes and stormed away; I suddenly realized he'd magically appeared beside me.
We walked around the garden in silence, and, when he sensed my thoughts had shut themselves up, he spoke. I don't know what we spoke about. My take-away from that conversation is probably what he didn't say. If a man who's fighting for his life everyday isn't angry at life, what the hell right do I have to be?
Back in the days when I used to tie people up if they displeased me, there lived a patient man who'd probably (like most human beings) never tied anyone up in his life. One fine day, when I'd broken a cricket bat, chucked the ball in the bushes and stormed away; I suddenly realized he'd magically appeared beside me.
We walked around the garden in silence, and, when he sensed my thoughts had shut themselves up, he spoke. I don't know what we spoke about. My take-away from that conversation is probably what he didn't say. If a man who's fighting for his life everyday isn't angry at life, what the hell right do I have to be?
Friday, December 26, 2008
Hey Baby!
When a kid smiles at me, my heart totally melts. And yes, I do realize it's kids that grow up to be people I bitch about.
Still, take it from me - the only thing in the world that will ever inspire me to study for GMAT is the thought that maybe with all this I could afford one kid more. I probably shatter the very core of feminism, but from where I'm looking, it seems like I've my priorities set perfectly right.
... If you're wondering where a tattoo and piercings fit in the picture, it's so the kid has entertainment while I burp it. Seriously!
Still, take it from me - the only thing in the world that will ever inspire me to study for GMAT is the thought that maybe with all this I could afford one kid more. I probably shatter the very core of feminism, but from where I'm looking, it seems like I've my priorities set perfectly right.
... If you're wondering where a tattoo and piercings fit in the picture, it's so the kid has entertainment while I burp it. Seriously!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
"You paint????"
... Duh, I'm tempted to say, given it was my major at college. Has noone noticed that I don't eat food that isn't perfectly color complementary? Instead, for some reason, I suddenly have a vivid flash of the first day of college... a dozen of us eager beavers hopping on our chairs going 'My hobbies are painting, drawing...' Sigh. Good times.
Give me a canvass and some paints, I say.
Give me a canvass and some paints, I say.
If I were home...
Resting indolently on abandoned stone elephants, swinging our feet against cold marble. Warning the little kids to hush. Half-hearted carol practice, lunch sitting content in our stomachs. Canteen gossip, parents discreetly sitting together at another table while we gab. We keep our voices low, worried we'd be caught, even today.
Sunset saunters to familiar beaches, exchanging notes on the occult and the crabs, on spirituality and movies. Visits to the house of the oldest, grumpiest, most frustrated spinster and breaking into a rousing chorus of 'Joy to the World.' Watching her face break into a smile remembering what we looked like as children. Posing for pictures dutifully, having our cheeks pulled at.
Walking to church for midnight mass, the only wine we drink all year. Waking up temporarily in the middle of the sermon to join the choir, starting at a pitch noone can hit, hitting it anyway. Stumbling into the dark, cold evening rubbing at mosquito bites. Trying to cognitively get into the right vehicle to head home. SMS'es: I'm done, I'm home, I love you too, good night.
Forty seven cups of tea every Christmas morning. Cognitive recognition that there are women I could've been in another life, houses I could've stayed at. The tea I refuse to drink on any other day reminds me of famines and generosity, of trips that changed my life though nothing changed.
Running back to the rest at the first opportunity - homecoming, mothership calling, back to the start. It's like background music - the adults who're used to chiding us like we're ten, while we giggle and the little children look at us in wonder. The sudden solemnity of rituals, the silence of the river, birds calling outside. A four-year old stifles a yawn and sticks his tongue out in rebellion. We stifle smiles, remembering when we were his age. Our fathers' voices sound like gentle rumbles in the distance, like God speaking. Continuity. Tradition. Family. Life.
We exchange goodbyes, knowing they're 'see you later's' and feeling better about them than if it were otherwise. Dance hops in the night and voices raised in song. The Italian man smiles at us. He looks even better by moonlight. Our day's made. Little Christmas traditions. I wish I could be there. I need to exchange notes on so much we left hanging. Closure. Laughter. Moving on. Getting your priorities right. Christmas. For the first time, I'm homesick in Hyderabad.
Sunset saunters to familiar beaches, exchanging notes on the occult and the crabs, on spirituality and movies. Visits to the house of the oldest, grumpiest, most frustrated spinster and breaking into a rousing chorus of 'Joy to the World.' Watching her face break into a smile remembering what we looked like as children. Posing for pictures dutifully, having our cheeks pulled at.
Walking to church for midnight mass, the only wine we drink all year. Waking up temporarily in the middle of the sermon to join the choir, starting at a pitch noone can hit, hitting it anyway. Stumbling into the dark, cold evening rubbing at mosquito bites. Trying to cognitively get into the right vehicle to head home. SMS'es: I'm done, I'm home, I love you too, good night.
Forty seven cups of tea every Christmas morning. Cognitive recognition that there are women I could've been in another life, houses I could've stayed at. The tea I refuse to drink on any other day reminds me of famines and generosity, of trips that changed my life though nothing changed.
Running back to the rest at the first opportunity - homecoming, mothership calling, back to the start. It's like background music - the adults who're used to chiding us like we're ten, while we giggle and the little children look at us in wonder. The sudden solemnity of rituals, the silence of the river, birds calling outside. A four-year old stifles a yawn and sticks his tongue out in rebellion. We stifle smiles, remembering when we were his age. Our fathers' voices sound like gentle rumbles in the distance, like God speaking. Continuity. Tradition. Family. Life.
We exchange goodbyes, knowing they're 'see you later's' and feeling better about them than if it were otherwise. Dance hops in the night and voices raised in song. The Italian man smiles at us. He looks even better by moonlight. Our day's made. Little Christmas traditions. I wish I could be there. I need to exchange notes on so much we left hanging. Closure. Laughter. Moving on. Getting your priorities right. Christmas. For the first time, I'm homesick in Hyderabad.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Pretty
'i'm open,
arms thrown wide, open.
heart on my sleeve, open.
bare all dare all, open.
for you who has direct acess, take care,
there's no cure for a shattered heart.'
arms thrown wide, open.
heart on my sleeve, open.
bare all dare all, open.
And by virtue of being o-p-e-n, anything can get through to me like piercing words carelessly dropped from lips perhaps unintended to do such harm but indeed harm has been done... like a snowball rolling down an alpine slope, your words tumbled harsher than ever threatening to crush me with the weight of their hurt, and I'm afraid I'll be too broken for you to pick up the pieces.
for you who has direct acess, take care,
there's no cure for a shattered heart.'
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Quarters... Yet Again.
I was trying to explain this to Jatin last night, but I'm not sure he got it. Maybe this can explain it better:
Can you drive a stick shift?
- Kinnnnky... Can you?
- Dry shit?????
- who is the licensing authority i say
- ei i can shift a stick..does that like count? ei so i can drive a car ok..like isnt that better?
See what I mean? Four totally different and equally unique responses to a simple yes or no question. I get the feeling the uniqueness is enough to make us more alike than other people whom I may have more in common with. C'mon, common is boring, there's joy in knowing there are others who are insane in exciting new ways.
Can you drive a stick shift?
- Kinnnnky... Can you?
- Dry shit?????
- who is the licensing authority i say
- ei i can shift a stick..does that like count? ei so i can drive a car ok..like isnt that better?
See what I mean? Four totally different and equally unique responses to a simple yes or no question. I get the feeling the uniqueness is enough to make us more alike than other people whom I may have more in common with. C'mon, common is boring, there's joy in knowing there are others who are insane in exciting new ways.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Commitment-Phobia
He: really wanna go for a chai... im bored to death and no company too
Me: lol take x off and go
He: reputation kharab nahin karna hai
Me: lol... teri woh ko kya hui vaise?
He: which one
Me: nahi in general, koi tho hogi
He: say na which one.. nahin hai re, thi to kya tha :)
Me: im sayin chai ke liye saath leke jaane ko
He: wohi tho, uske liye bhi nahin hai
Me: recession chaalu hai, not to worry.
He: u can come or no, itna interogation kaiko bhai
Me: lol i drink only water
He: me too
Me: very pointless it is to walk four floors for that
He: come for water then
Me: aye eh... chal x ko bhi bula, chalte hai
He: ur scared kya
Me: nahi re vaise nahi
He: never mind re you work
Me: lol take x off and go
He: reputation kharab nahin karna hai
Me: lol... teri woh ko kya hui vaise?
He: which one
Me: nahi in general, koi tho hogi
He: say na which one.. nahin hai re, thi to kya tha :)
Me: im sayin chai ke liye saath leke jaane ko
He: wohi tho, uske liye bhi nahin hai
Me: recession chaalu hai, not to worry.
He: u can come or no, itna interogation kaiko bhai
Me: lol i drink only water
He: me too
Me: very pointless it is to walk four floors for that
He: come for water then
Me: aye eh... chal x ko bhi bula, chalte hai
He: ur scared kya
Me: nahi re vaise nahi
He: never mind re you work
Thursday, December 4, 2008
I'm Ok, You're Ok, Together We're Fucking Fantastic!
I don't know what 'Googley' means to people outside of Google... free food, goodies, pool tables? Sure, but like I iterate and reiterate at every presentation I make, Google is NOT about the freebies, it's about an inherent honesty that you either have or you don't. I'm not suggesting everyone at Google has it, I would happily ask some (read, most) people to go home 'cos they were hiring mistakes. But then there are some who, by fluke or by good fortune, SO get it that there's no mistaking it.
Arre, I love you children... you know who you are :) Yesterday was bloody kick-ass; better than ISOC, better than Vizag, better than all the laughter and the gossip and the endless good times. When I think Google, I'm going to think of us, and feel it was worth it regardless of any bitching I may do on a day-to-day basis.
And of course it's a great side benefit to get to do what every Dilbert comic dreams of doing - yelling at one's manager, delivering ultimatums right back at him, and essentially saying all those things you think with a cautionary '@&#@#@' if you're in a cartoon.
... It IS as much fun as it looks like, btw.
Arre, I love you children... you know who you are :) Yesterday was bloody kick-ass; better than ISOC, better than Vizag, better than all the laughter and the gossip and the endless good times. When I think Google, I'm going to think of us, and feel it was worth it regardless of any bitching I may do on a day-to-day basis.
And of course it's a great side benefit to get to do what every Dilbert comic dreams of doing - yelling at one's manager, delivering ultimatums right back at him, and essentially saying all those things you think with a cautionary '@&#@#@' if you're in a cartoon.
... It IS as much fun as it looks like, btw.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Bestest... <3
I've got sunshine
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.
Well, I guess you'll say
What can make me feel this way?
The answer's self evident to anyone who knows Tuney :) Here's to 22 years of doggie-loving, music-humming, mad-plotting, crazy-concocting. Happy birthday, you!!!
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.
Well, I guess you'll say
What can make me feel this way?
The answer's self evident to anyone who knows Tuney :) Here's to 22 years of doggie-loving, music-humming, mad-plotting, crazy-concocting. Happy birthday, you!!!
Monday, November 3, 2008
Life Cycle Of Negativity
- Crying bouts: Last all of 30 seconds, then I get bored and start wondering what I look like crying
- Seething anger: Lasts maybe 2 minutes, then I give over to crying for 30 seconds, and we're done
- Cursing: Choice expletives at high volume last about 5 minutes before giving over to crying for 30 seconds
- Vengeful ignoring & persistent sarcasm: As anyone who's experienced it can tell you, it can last for upto three years
- Forgiving someone: Never. The Godfather may waver, but not I. If you've ever had me make a snide remark to you, rest assured I'll never forget it. And it most definitely was NOT a joke.
For... Me?
... I suppose that going forward trains will also remind me of a vibrating phone that calmly jolted me from the astral to the surreal without so much as a statutory disclaimer that I was entering the 'real' world which was ten times more bizarre than anything my subconscious could contrive of. Hovering on the blurry line between the two, I was closer to instinct than reason as I mumbled a hello. Then again, I suppose he's entitled to that split second of vulnerability in me after all we've... he's... been through.
Moving on isn't really about quiet resignation and that load of shit. It's about when you say fuck it, I don't care, and still mean that ten minutes later. I've often worried that I'm entirely heartless, particularly when I think of him. But a more adequate summation would be that I'm an expert at moving on. It's probably that superficiality that people confuse for some unfathomable depth in me.
Ephemeral destiny... that's a nice tag on the cruel fickle personality that's me.
Moving on isn't really about quiet resignation and that load of shit. It's about when you say fuck it, I don't care, and still mean that ten minutes later. I've often worried that I'm entirely heartless, particularly when I think of him. But a more adequate summation would be that I'm an expert at moving on. It's probably that superficiality that people confuse for some unfathomable depth in me.
Ephemeral destiny... that's a nice tag on the cruel fickle personality that's me.
For Hari
I've been asked to blog about trains, because apparently they're a "good topic, only." Here's a random list of the first five things I think of when I think of trains:
- Falling out of them (yes, I've actually managed it)
- Endless nightmares about missing them (its Freudian, I've dreamed this since I was five)
- Traveling to Pune alone aged 4 (I'm not exactly a home lover!)
- Chennai-Mumbai-Chennai-Bangalore... continuous loop of unbearably hot journeys spent squabbling with my brother over the window seat only to fall asleep once I'd conquered it.
- The famous coming-of-age that happened on the upper birth of an anonymous train while we were on a field trip in the eighth... I was NOT involved!
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
To the Lou Of My Life
**If you know not Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, hang yourself. If you know it, hang yourself after reading this version. This is for you, my bitchance. Muah! Much lou.**
Um diddle bitchance diddle um diddle ay
Um diddle buggerance diddle um diddle ay
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Even though the look of it Is something quite atrocious
If you make it laugh enough
She'll always sound precocious
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Because I thought she was snob
When we were both in school,
God decided to intervene,
And said you idiot-fool.
Both of you are equal snobs
That speak ridiculous. Eg:::::
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
So when the cat has got your tongue
There's no need for dismay
Just summon up this little lamb And then you've got a lot to say
But better use it carefully Or it may change your life
She's Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Um diddle bitchance diddle um diddle ay
Um diddle buggerance diddle um diddle ay
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Even though the look of it Is something quite atrocious
If you make it laugh enough
She'll always sound precocious
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Because I thought she was snob
When we were both in school,
God decided to intervene,
And said you idiot-fool.
Both of you are equal snobs
That speak ridiculous. Eg:::::
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
So when the cat has got your tongue
There's no need for dismay
Just summon up this little lamb And then you've got a lot to say
But better use it carefully Or it may change your life
She's Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Smruthi-cali-fragilistic-expialidocious!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Sooo...
Isn't it incredible when you look at the pictures of people whom you thought were really gorgeous while you were growing up with them, and you realize, "Oooh, actually, not so much.'?
Major punctuation mismatch happening with that last sentence there, but I'm sure we all agree that I can't just leave a question hanging without a question mark, because that would be ungrammatical and the ghost of my dear English teacher from the first grade, assuming she's not still alive, will twist and turn in its grave, and that would change the geographical setting of the land, and the whole butterfly effect would necessitate yet another climatic disaster the likes of which mankind is never prepared for, although, surprisingly, mankind seems prepared enough for other never-before-heard-of eventualities such as this supremely pointless blog post (that started off, if you're curious, as a means to put off actual work)never ending, by having emergency evacuation mechanisms in place such as character limit, which reminds me I'd better shut up as this sentence could go on for ages and ages but noone's really reading, which is okay, because, really, neither am I.
I think we've reached the end of this post now. Pity. Moral of the story: I'm hot. Bwaha. Oh, and I write 159 word long sentences that MS word doesn't prettily highlight for grammar errors. I'm hot AND grammatical. And oh so modest.
Major punctuation mismatch happening with that last sentence there, but I'm sure we all agree that I can't just leave a question hanging without a question mark, because that would be ungrammatical and the ghost of my dear English teacher from the first grade, assuming she's not still alive, will twist and turn in its grave, and that would change the geographical setting of the land, and the whole butterfly effect would necessitate yet another climatic disaster the likes of which mankind is never prepared for, although, surprisingly, mankind seems prepared enough for other never-before-heard-of eventualities such as this supremely pointless blog post (that started off, if you're curious, as a means to put off actual work)never ending, by having emergency evacuation mechanisms in place such as character limit, which reminds me I'd better shut up as this sentence could go on for ages and ages but noone's really reading, which is okay, because, really, neither am I.
I think we've reached the end of this post now. Pity. Moral of the story: I'm hot. Bwaha. Oh, and I write 159 word long sentences that MS word doesn't prettily highlight for grammar errors. I'm hot AND grammatical. And oh so modest.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Joyance
If I wanted to bottle happiness and tag it, I’d put in...
- The clasp of a baby’s hand
- The trust in a stray dog’s eyes
- A Saturday night that never ends in a Sunday
- The rain when you’re safe inside
- Libraries full of unread books
- The chuckles of fat old men
- Bike rides by moonlight
- Highways that never end
- The sighs of people going to sleep
- Stars shining against a dark black sky
- The beep-beep of an important message
- Lying on your back twenty feet high
- Walking till your legs give out
- Running faster than the wind
- Someone’s name in your inbox
- An unexpected miss-you ping
- Music, high heels, and the wind
- Secrets written in a diary
- A happy meal you’ve made yourself
- Homecomings, happy endings.
- To feel beautiful ‘cos someone thinks you are
- Trees you can lie in and sleep
- Grass that’s uncut and dewdropped
- Ponds outside monasteries
- Virgin beaches at sunrise
- Terraces lined with ivy
- Watching the first flowers come out
- Dreaming implausible dreams
- Someone’s arms to run into
- Trying to catch moonbeams.
- Mamma’s lap to sleep in
- Teddybears and icecream!
- Dancing in the rain
- Mom’s incredible cooking
- And – my personal favourite – nothingness.
Monday, June 9, 2008
To Be Contd... Maybe
If you were writing out the story of your life, where would you start?
“I’ve an MBA from ISB,” I said proudly, sneaking a peek at the man-I-may-marry, trying to gauge if this knowledge impressed him. He blinked, no doubt wondering what all those acronyms stood for. Ah well. Smart men are really not my type. This one seemed sufficiently decorative.
“Do you know how to cook?” retorted his mother.
I tried very hard not to roll my eyes. Evidently, this woman had her priorities straight. Rotund, to be precise.
“Of course, Aunty,” I managed straight-faced, as my mother valiantly restrained herself from choking out loud.
“What all can you make?” the potential-father-in-law chipped in, eager to make his presence felt.
Was this family obsessed or what! And what kind of a sentence is ‘What all can you make.’ I can make a total scene when asked questions like that, is what I can make!
I smiled angelically and looked toward my mother for help. She looked back totally heartlessly, refusing to bail me out. She’s a firm believer in honesty and all that. Me? Not so much.
“What do you like to eat, Uncle?” I asked beatifically, trying to make it seem like I was genuinely interested in what went into the greedy old geezers’ stomachs on a daily basis. My dad beamed in appreciation. It’s the sort of answer he would come up with, having an MBA himself.
“I can make sandwiches, Aunty.” I said, dimpling a smile. This produced exactly the horrified reaction it was calculated to get. The woman did a double take, as the man shook his head mournfully.
“I can also make Maggi noodles,” I persisted, watching their stomachs jump towards their hearts in protest.
The not-going-to-be-my-in-laws-if-they-were-the-last-people-on-earth duo looked suitably scandalized. Even the boy shifted in his seat uncomfortably, and his hand wandered hesitantly toward his well-fed paunch to pat it sympathetically. Aw. No way in hell am I marrying this ninny.
“And that’s about it,” I summed up. I could see my mother struggling to stifle a grin. Sometimes, honesty’s amusing.
My dad heaved a sigh and put on a brave smile, understanding that this tender wouldn’t be finalized. We saw them to the door half an hour later, after I had amused myself no end by asking the boy if he wouldn’t like to sing a song, or do a little dance step, and the like. Turns out he can cook! He’s going to make someone a good wife some day.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Groan
If you take 2/3rd of 4/7th of x number of balls out of a bag containing red, yellow, and blue balls, what's the probability I don't care what the rest of the question is? Humph! The GMAT(h) is an unfairly prejudiced test that disrespects the abilities and intelligence of the mathematically challenged sections of mankind.
Why would a manager want to know how many times the blue ball would emerge if he were to randomly put in and take out balls from a bag full of mixed colored balls? I mean I realize most managers are jobless for the majority of their day, but really! Is THIS their idea of fun??
And why oh why must my mutant parents know the answers to these questions without writing them out? This GMAT ordeal is making me question my very genesis. Nonetheless, persist I shall. For 'tis a superficial world I live in where knowledge on ball-behaviour is apparently considered more important than anything else.
SHAME ON YOU, WORLD! SHAME, I SAY! SHAME!
Why would a manager want to know how many times the blue ball would emerge if he were to randomly put in and take out balls from a bag full of mixed colored balls? I mean I realize most managers are jobless for the majority of their day, but really! Is THIS their idea of fun??
And why oh why must my mutant parents know the answers to these questions without writing them out? This GMAT ordeal is making me question my very genesis. Nonetheless, persist I shall. For 'tis a superficial world I live in where knowledge on ball-behaviour is apparently considered more important than anything else.
SHAME ON YOU, WORLD! SHAME, I SAY! SHAME!
Sunday, April 6, 2008
The (Beet)root Of All Evil
"Beetroot's main benefits are that it contains no fat, very few calories and is a great source of fibre. Beetroot has for many years been used as a treatment for cancer in Europe."
Nope, nyet, nyuh-huh. That inspires absolutely no reaction in my stomach that makes me feel friendlier towards the macabre color or the wrinkled texture of that hairy foe of mankind known affectionately as the beetroot. I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would want to serve it up on a regular basis for dinner, that too with chappati, and expect rational people to willingly suspend disbelief and think the two were meant to be eaten together, let alone separately.
And people wonder why I've lost weight. Ha! As I told my roommates tragically, I shall die but I will not consider touching beetroot with a ten foot pole. The alternative, by the way, was cabbage chutney. Shudder. My poor, poor stomach.
PS: We ate out.
Nope, nyet, nyuh-huh. That inspires absolutely no reaction in my stomach that makes me feel friendlier towards the macabre color or the wrinkled texture of that hairy foe of mankind known affectionately as the beetroot. I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would want to serve it up on a regular basis for dinner, that too with chappati, and expect rational people to willingly suspend disbelief and think the two were meant to be eaten together, let alone separately.
And people wonder why I've lost weight. Ha! As I told my roommates tragically, I shall die but I will not consider touching beetroot with a ten foot pole. The alternative, by the way, was cabbage chutney. Shudder. My poor, poor stomach.
PS: We ate out.
The Vadai
Let me introduce you to a concept that the kitchens of Andhra have yet to familiarize themselves with - the vadai. By the vadai, I do not mean the vada which is summarily stuffed between half a bun and shovelled down in lieu of vada paav. Much as Wikipedia thinks the vadai is 'also vada, wada, vade,' the food item I'm referring to is the wholesome Tamizh vadai, that crispy culinary delight that's meant to inspire cholesterol in the very heart of the beholder.
The vadai, unlike what Google's kitchen may lead you to believe, is not equivalent to a bajji or a bonda, though they frequently serve either of the two in various mutant variations, blissfully passing the imposters off as vadais - and, worse, brazenly touting them out as part of a Tamizh Nadu food festival! Oh, the shame.
Also, tell me, for I am still new in these parts... is there some law enforcing that all maavu across this city be pulichu ponna maavu if people are to use it in their kitchens? Or is it just kanjathannam that inspires the use of maavu that, if my palate guesses correctly, is three and a half days old and best left unfed to even the stray dogs?
The vadai, unlike what Google's kitchen may lead you to believe, is not equivalent to a bajji or a bonda, though they frequently serve either of the two in various mutant variations, blissfully passing the imposters off as vadais - and, worse, brazenly touting them out as part of a Tamizh Nadu food festival! Oh, the shame.
Also, tell me, for I am still new in these parts... is there some law enforcing that all maavu across this city be pulichu ponna maavu if people are to use it in their kitchens? Or is it just kanjathannam that inspires the use of maavu that, if my palate guesses correctly, is three and a half days old and best left unfed to even the stray dogs?
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Wish Upon A Star Tonite
Reflectivity aside, I'm actually in an excellent mood. Blame it on Hyderabad weather and the fact that we have a gorgeous terrace - each night, I invariably end outside 'cos it's much too hot to bother sleeping.
Last night, I realized that I prefer looking up to looking down... I'm trying to find the moon, or at the very least a star to wish on. And to all the people that asked what I'd wish for on a star... hmmm. I'd like for a certain sense of well-being, in every way possible. Closure, contentment, dreamless nights. Peace on earth, or at least in my head :)
A: So what do you wanna be when you grow up?
H: Happy.
Last night, I realized that I prefer looking up to looking down... I'm trying to find the moon, or at the very least a star to wish on. And to all the people that asked what I'd wish for on a star... hmmm. I'd like for a certain sense of well-being, in every way possible. Closure, contentment, dreamless nights. Peace on earth, or at least in my head :)
A: So what do you wanna be when you grow up?
H: Happy.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Existentialism
Lately, it seems like every blog I read is chock-full of questions with no answers except the ones that are hanging in the air. If you're reading this, you know I'm talkin' bout you! :) You were probably hoping for an answer from someone else, and I hope he says what you want to hear. In the meanwhile, this is for you.
Much as every question you put down is valid, it hurts to know you're thinking such...limiting thoughts. I know you and you've always been all about living and loving and giving with all that you have. Sure that's not always the smartest way to live life, but it IS your way and it's always worked for you. Everything in the open, no regrets, go for it if you want it... so why the questions?
And that, really, is the only question I have. If he makes you happy, go get him. While you'd like to believe you like flirting with random guys better, there's definitely something different about this one. I presume that when we ping each other we'll have better things to talk about, such as a certain cute trainer (ahem!), but here's to you guys anyway.
Much as every question you put down is valid, it hurts to know you're thinking such...limiting thoughts. I know you and you've always been all about living and loving and giving with all that you have. Sure that's not always the smartest way to live life, but it IS your way and it's always worked for you. Everything in the open, no regrets, go for it if you want it... so why the questions?
And that, really, is the only question I have. If he makes you happy, go get him. While you'd like to believe you like flirting with random guys better, there's definitely something different about this one. I presume that when we ping each other we'll have better things to talk about, such as a certain cute trainer (ahem!), but here's to you guys anyway.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
No.
He looked at her and thought of a startled deer staring straight into the blinding headlights of an approaching car-- waiting, heroically, for the impact.
"For God's sake," he muttered impatiently. She moved, finally. If only to budge a fraction away from him. He looked at her in frustration, dying to take her into his arms and comfort her. And knowing the very prospect would terrify her. He looked into her eyes; deep yet empty, lonely, unfathomable. As always, he ended up feeling shut out; dismissed.
"Tell me what he did," he tried again, wanting desperately to be let into the mystery those eyes held.
Her answer was the same as always.
"For God's sake," he muttered impatiently. She moved, finally. If only to budge a fraction away from him. He looked at her in frustration, dying to take her into his arms and comfort her. And knowing the very prospect would terrify her. He looked into her eyes; deep yet empty, lonely, unfathomable. As always, he ended up feeling shut out; dismissed.
"Tell me what he did," he tried again, wanting desperately to be let into the mystery those eyes held.
Her answer was the same as always.
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