What happened when i learnt to blog

We Need A Foucault To Tell Us:

Sun, 26 Oct 2008 15:06:31 +0100

-T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Wasteland’ is far better than his grocery list

-There can be nobody called a ‘Physiological Author’ like there can be a poet, though both write

-That if you are an Author you cannot change sides, even if it maybe evolutionary

-That Authors die

Thank You Mr. Obvious.No really.

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When they banned smoking in PUBs

Sat, 18 Oct 2008 07:48:55 +0200

The smoking ban in PUB(lic place)S in India has inspired some very scary changes

Before : You were at a pub, you smell of smoke.

After: you were at a pub, you don’t smell of smoke.

Before : Kingfisher ashtray

After : Kingfisher Flower vase

Before : Bar counter and dining area

After : Smoking and non-smoking area (if you’re lucky)

Before : Posters on the walls

After : No-smoking Sign

Before : Oh, You’ve changed your brand to classic milds

After: oh, did you’re hair always smell this good?

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You know Kafka is popular on the wrong website when:

Sun, 05 Oct 2008 14:00:56 +0200

1. 50 of his best quotes are followed by an online ad that says “ 5 tips to get a flat stomach”
2. The first, seventeenth and fortieth quote are the variations of the same
3. There is an option for you to vote on a scale of 1 to 5 your appreciation of the quote
4. The result of that poll so far borders around fair.
5. After visiting the webpage, you can visualize Kafka turning in his grave

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KITCHEN SINK DRAMA

Fri, 03 Oct 2008 18:55:21 +0200

Perhaps a literary revolution in theatrically uplifted circles, but around my house Kitchen Sink drama is a dramatic, episodic human-to-mice non-verbal sign communication. With our flying mops, poking brooms and regular shrieks at high volumes at the slightest sight of them, we hoped to make it very clear to the family of mice that took shelter behind our kitchen sink to kindly leave. With their constant rummaging through the things behind our sink, and knocking our spice bottles off the counter each night, it was understood by us that they were here to stay. And among the schemes discussed to boot these noisy occupants, were poisoning and bring in their commonly believed natural arch enemy – the easiest of them all felines, a cat. But these remained schemes for well over a week, as we waited for the weekend, misguiding them to assume that peace was declared from our end. On the seventh day, the lack of food in the kitchen (as now we kept our supplies in the dining space) sent the mice hungry. One among us pointed that out to us while the sounds from the kitchen grew louder as these rodents had to search more than usual for scraps of food. That was when a brave one among them decided that if his family went hungry, so will the others in whose house he had adamantly decided to raise and secure his family. Though scary, these sounds made us curious enough to open our kitchen door and switch the lights on. In retaliation, they stopped their common occupation of sound making. We needed time to plan our next move. They waited in patience ready for anything that was to come. After careful consideration, we decided to open all windows and bang on the walls around the sink to drive this now happy now hungry family out. That’s when our kitchen sink drama’s plot gained momentum. You see, the windows to our independence and their exodus lies behind the kitchen sink. And given the situation, it had to be approached not in the straight- walk-past-the-sink-way, but the jump-on-the-kitchen-counter-and-stretch-self-across-over-sink-way. And the lesser scared of the two, I equipped to slide open the window with a mop (the rod side front) jumped on the slab on the counter, inched my way around the slippery sink, and just about touched the pane with the rod end of my mop. That’s when they launched their ultimate weapon – their visibility to humans. They provided me with a complete sight of their self, while I balanced on my toes. My reflexes instigated action and I mop and all had a mighty fall from the slippery kitchen slab to the greasy kitchen floor, knees down, eyes open to see the floor nearing gravity did its best. With that for a temporary climax, I am now tending sore knees and planning a revenge, swearing. The bloody colonizers sound celebratory. Perhaps, now I cant judge the inventor of pesticides. Perhaps, its just another day at the office for every mouse in a human’s house.

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Call it what you want

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 21:52:54 +0200

The transition from an observant muse decoder to a male bashing juke box of frowns happened when an important person in my life contemplated divorce. The ‘he doesn’t call required number of times’, ‘would rather be at the club than home’ pace of living turned this cow like clam friend into a crying mess and then a jaded aloof. While indulgence brought about peace to some level, almost any visual stimulation would get us both connecting it to the recluse nature of men. My remembrances also added attributes to this and soon we decided to collectively hate men.
That’s when Life in a Metro gave us some perspective- not necessarily the required one. Life in a Metro is not our current reality check, which is a far cry from the dream of owning an island resort, but a movie of recent time. A confused state of quick but sometimes dreadfully dragging, anxiously anticipating god-knows-what, manic-depressive bi-polar mood swings, encounters and interactions with borderline retards, a progressive potential for the same or higher degree of retardation, momentary peace in an almost stable mad rush, a disbelief at something pleasant, a constant buzz intertwined with the afore mentioned anxious anticipation, a presently lapse of reason and logic, an open armed acceptance of the weird and above all an unsuccessful race against speeding time is what I would call my Life in a Metro. The happy ending, which lasted for 30 seconds, comprised 0.8% of the movie. But what remained with us is the content rambled along the movie’s length. The ease with which adultery slides into ordinary middle-class life. The ease with which it is accepted, as we accept a clumsy butter fingered coffee spiller at a table. Furthermore, one striking feature that makes me repeat ‘ease’ is reason for adultery, or rather the lack of it. The movie feels no need to harp on a reason for adultery, which other movies sell as a justifying point. Failed career, an injury, a feeling of neglect, a passing passion finding its vent, a desire to experiment, to avenge, to break free, to assert or to submit maybe reasons explored to depths in movies to justify adultery. This movie didn’t make a pick from the list. Though a combination of some of the above maybe traced. But it did raise one question.
Which of the two is worse? Casual sex adultery or falling in love adultery. And right enough my companion and I had a difference in opinion. And divorce the solution? While the movie advocated no such claims, it did make me give my friend a deadline. A month’s time, like a resignation notice one gives. Though there is nothing but insecurity I threaten her with. So while the movie has the greater bliss of wrapping up decade long sagas in a couple of hours, my dear friend has to undertake a life changing decision in a month’s time. Should she endure this hardship or should she break free? Is it ok to be in this mad rush without a husband and a marriage or it is only easier? Will the city care or is it too busy making or watching movies about life in a city?
With this making me a little more confused and disoriented than I already was, I could only think of one thing to say that I heard as a sound technician of a play – Life can be more like a movie than most movies.

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We Live Like this, With Colors in a Circle.

Sat, 17 May 2008 01:46:50 +0200

Remember you loved the times spent in the smoky haze?
Do you smile about the day you flaunted the Acquisition?
Notice how you could never be satisfied with any amount of time,
But was actually content with the smallest of Acknowledgements?

Did it overwhelm you to write a story?
And read it out to others?
And now, you barely remember it, but know exactly how it goes?
Can you write it all over again, if the colors came back?

What about waiting endlessly?
Remember how eager you were on colorful days?
And was the whole season like one big day?
Or was it like it took forever for a minute to go by?

And remember you were a sensitive bud?
Or were you an angry ant?
That could bite anything that came its way?
Or were you like a lonely guitar waiting to be picked up, but happy to be left alone?

Were you a young girl then?
Or a young boy?
And were you always blamed for things you didn’t even do?
Did you even have a clue?

Were you worried, but didn’t exactly know what the worry was?

Was love the greatest beat ever?
Or was it popularity?
Or looking good?
Or was it being in love with a popular good looker?

Did you look good? But you cared anyway, didn’t you?

Did these colors come to you?
Was it time that you really waited for?
Did music matter to you?
Did the words in the song mean more to you then?

Do you remember feeling these colors?
All of them? Or some?
Will you keep it to yourself?
Like the secrets you had.
Or will you color my world?

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I TOLD YOU SO

Fri, 16 May 2008 22:16:45 +0200

A good laugh and a smile is what I can take at almost anytime of any day. And being around for a little less the dinosaurs themselves, ok, well at least the gramophone, I know perfectly well where exactly I can get my dose of laughter, to help me carry on till the next rage becomes extinct, say for instance, the internet. So much so that almost anything can be put down on a word doc. laughed at and then a detailed obsessive pondering of many self acclaimed genius minds can give it a serious approval for it to become the next subject matter to go under the microscope for an “understanding of the human mind”. And then as the vicious circle of life would have it, it would soon graduate to a dinner table rib tickler your fat uncle tells you with his face stuffed with grinding food. I curious observe how something or the other is always funny, if not the matter, the way it is said at least.
Coming back to the first time these behaviors occur, I would like to jump at saying that I’ve seen it all. The really funny, the forced funny, the unassuming funny, the partly funny, the wholly funny, the sluty, friendly, flirty, childish, the stupid and the wise funny, the terribly and the unbearable funny, the not-so-funny-funny, the hilarious funny and the infamous contextual funny. And easily while I invested midnight work hours on the deconstruction of each of these a number of behavior, first hand and reported, surfaced. For example I heard of a doctor who wondered at how the word doc, knew he was a doc. Or a small time legend awaited by a mad rush fan following, making facial expressions while explaining the desired flavor of a sweet delicacy, tuned to the tone of the word “mango”. Or a sleepy genius who tried to fool a tree of monkeys that he was one among them, by eating and offering leaves. Or the insane reference to life when drunk or stoned by self and others that invariably begin with “life is like a….. But one held my long term attention. The “you should have been there when it happened” funny. Clearly every brave heart that ever tried explaining a funny incident uses this bullet when he knows he has lost his audience.
And once again, the classy typical example of things human, that I am, I will venture into this sort of a reporting, with not just the above disclaimer in disguise, but almost a brief history of almost everything, well at least laughter, ok, at least of almost everything pertaining to laughter “that I’ve seen”.
So, there were two people settling in for the night, with another in the next room unable to do the same. And like it has always been an understanding with people who live together, the single knocked on the double’s door for a book, he claimed to have left there. But what happened was an over reaction on the part of the two who opened the door in a hassled mess. The single walks in and act like a stranger in his own house, which he was sweet enough to share with clumsy and utterly clumsy. An uncomfortable begin of laughter at this over reaction which included quick orders for the light, correction to the wrongly buttoned clothes, a quick stern request for water and a rush to set the bed right, soon graduated to a last laugh tone. Where all laughed at the sudden formality that the situation called, when only half an hour ago they were fighting for the last swig of beer.
After a tempered talk on India and people, the single one walked towards the door in an attempt to close it to keep the uninvited mosquitoes away. But the man in the couple assumed he was once again leaving without the book he initially came for. When a round of laughter made its Mexican wave bout, it wasn’t going to be the last time we knew. But I tried explaining that to another and ended up saying “you should’ve been there when it happened” and got stared at blankly.
Anyway, no rule that all stories are meant to be told. Similarly some funnies are meant to be lived. Actually, all funnies are meant to be lived, except the one that involves a genius sharing a tree branch with a baby monkey. Or when my father promptly declared how proud he was of our mango tree while my mother complained to him about my skimpy clothes. Or the time my brother thought it appropriate to lend himself as a canvas for my haircut rehearsals. Or the time my father, when was a newly wed sat on a fat woman mistaking her for a chair in a dark movie theatre. Or when a alterned genius explained a morbid story of a dog and two bright bulbs called each other and laughed on the phone for a reported half hour. And a million other times end of which i could proably use the next best disclaimer for all purposes - I told you so..

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WHO WEARS THE PANTS?

Sat, 01 Mar 2008 20:38:19 +0100

Being a recovering stress-related-diabetic-manifest, it didn’t take a grand deal for my mother to get annoyed. Her doctor promptly warned her about mood swings, irritability and hot flushes, this mid-life age and her acquired state of health was going to bring her. She took no time to accept this and declared to herself and us, that anything that annoyed her, would be dealt with in a mature, non-menopausal method. And she really did.

Because when my brothers and his cousins got caught by the really annoying trend of wearing the pants way below their waists, she proved herself yet again with the way she dealt with it. She told them repeatedly about body shape, the disgusting, not to mention indifferent image it brought about, the unaesthetic look about it and everything else to persuade them to wear their jeans around the area of the anatomy it is meant for. But as most teenagers have it, the boys ignored the comments like fine print and this was a sure recipe for my mothers rise in blood pressure and a fall in tolerance levels. Yet she didn’t create a dramatic scene.

She went and googled the idea of boys wearing their jeans at the end of their behinds and soon found out how and why it originated. Her minor research undertaking revealed that destitute of certain cold regions of the world had to live off clothes at the mercy of others and they seldom found pants that fit them right. They were forced to wear pants lower then their waists so as to keep their ankles from freezing. This image made its way to the runway and very soon misfits managed a perfect spot on the fashion scene. This news she brought home and felt accomplished about having dealt with the situation in a mature way, without having to stage her drama queen acts.

My worthy cousins and blessed brother heard this with keen critical observation and then while my mother hoped for them to consider wearing pants at their waists and not their knees, one of them did it for her. His exclamation of how he thought the destitute had a great sense of fashion and his belief that they will one day rule the runway made my mother want to give up advising to teenagers. My cousins wants to look at more homeless for fashion tips.

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VAGABOND

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 06:13:42 +0100

You know you are a traveler when…

1. There is a tug at your heart every time the phone rings because you are so used to be being charged for incoming calls.

2. When looking for small change, you find a lot of coins, just not in the required currency.

3. You have seen Chinese spelt in every possible way. You have forgotten the spelling of Chinese and the appearance of the letters ‘c’ ‘h’ and ‘s’ is the only qualification required to spell Chinese.
4. For a distance of 4 kms you have paid all denominations between Rs.20/- and Rs.200/- for a rickshaw ride.

5. There is a toothbrush in your laptop bag.

6. You are on a bed and can’t fall asleep because it doesn’t feel like on a bus.

7. You sense of direction has suddenly improved several folds.

8. When on most nights, your lonely planet is your pillow.

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ARTY PARTY

Tue, 22 Jan 2008 07:37:20 +0100

A reasonably comfortable bus ride and later an economical, prepaid and organized rickshaw service, all still concepts in Bangalore, landed us at Kalamandira, Mysore for Bahuroopi – their annual theatre festival, celebrating drama on and off stage. A week long venture of the Government of Karnataka to bring the glory back to traditional theatre in the conventional set-up. As the image conjures, there are kurta clad men and women with beads and desi prints pacing about between films, different modes of theatre and culture reinforcements in cozy campus. Tucked away in a lazy part of Mysore, Bahuroopi was a peaceful whiff of fresh atmosphere and an extremely subdued violent form of rebel from mainstream.
For most parts the festival took us back to several time periods in history, including the reign of Mahendra Varma, the old Bangalore, Kanchi, Pitaka, the peak of yakshagana culture and several other South-Indian-Mysore doses of tradition and culture to name a few. The dramas staged had a string of influence no doubt, but what really made one escape to these times were the costumed actors going about their business with such ease and grace. Yes, we really did dine with the Yakshagana versions of epic war heroes, but spoke of cricket controversies.
Just when it got too south-indian, a dose of the rest of the world came beautifully blended together in the guise of a hindi-play on Galileo. And not to mention the impressive screening and dissection of Austrian grey scaled war movie ‘Shame’ at the film festival. That made up for all that one missed about the world outside of Mysore.
The magnitude of the experience was completed with the straw stalls that sold Khadi and Mysore Munches, Wood and clay art, beads and coir ornaments and of course books. And the thing to do is read the sub titles of the war movie followed by a reflective discussion, watch a period play, laugh at a street play rehearsal, eat akki roti and glug down sugar cane juice, which the guy by the way lets you extract and take back a much required refreshing escape and new contacts. I never before had such inspiration on a weekday.

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Tune IN

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 20:47:30 +0100

THIS METHOD OF WRITING IS MY CONTRIBUTION TO THE LITERARY WORLD.
I DECIDE TO CALL IT A 'TUNE IN'
THIS STYLE REQUIRES THE ARTIST TO WRITE TO THE TUNE OF AN ALREADY EXISTING SONG. WHEN PRESENTING THE PIECE, THE ARTIST HAS TO ALSO PRESCRIBE THE SONG TO WHICH IT IS WRITEN.
THE READER HAS TO READ THE WRITEN IN THE PRESCRIBED TUNE TO PRECISELY UNDERSTAND THE ARTIST AND THE THOUGHTS.
SO, LETS COME TOGETHER AND PROMOTE MUSIC, WRITING AND BOTH TOGETHER.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I PRESENT - MY FIRST 'TUNE IN'

Prescribed song: Limb by Limb - PHISH

Now is when the moment starts
Now is when it breaks to parts
Now is always almost done
Now is when I need a pun.

Lost in blissful dreams today
Lost my monthly meager pay
Lost and found the same damn line.
Lost too even claim it mine.

Felt a chill run down my spine
Felt a woman, oh so fine
Felt a distant stone cold glance
Felt the need to learn to dance.

Down the dumps the message flew
Down to the very last of you
Down and out the man had pace
Down and dead the falling race.

Add me to your dialing calls
Add support before it falls
Add or subtract, its upto you
Ad verstise to have a clue.

Gone to bed without a star
Gone ahead way too far
Gone her every little wish
Gone to tune in the PHISH

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MIND THE DREAM

Wed, 19 Dec 2007 19:40:44 +0100

While I have more or less come to a fair understanding of mostly ignoring the unusual dreams I generally have, this one managed to stand out and make me go and tell a few friends the sequence of events as it unfolded. Like every other dream discussed, this too underwent a dissection of sorts and was finally forgotten. Or it seemed like it. But what really happened was, that it turned out to be a sign for something rather unusual in reality.

As my imagination conjured it, I dreamt of a trusted friend and colleague at a party, a social gathering where each one was snorting coke. The drug, as we know it was the done thing and for reasons only my sub-conscience or Freud can explain, I wasn’t among those who did coke. I happened to run into my friend at the party and as we were having our little party talk, he took the opportunity to grab my hand and slit my wrist. Then he went ahead and dabbed some coke on it and ‘infected’ me, as I dreamt it. Later I happen to consult another friend who hasn’t touched any narcotic all her life, and she brushed it away saying it was talc.

But within the mind of the dreaming me, I was dead sure it was coke and now I belonged to the league of those who has coke in their bloodstream. I woke up and declared the dream to be among the weirdest I’ve had in a while and loyally reported it to my friends.
Two days went by, while the dream was still a topic of discussion, when the friend who infected me with coke, pinged me on instant chat and announced his marriage. Though I know this can be a pure co-incidence, I would like to highlight how I haven’t spoken to him in the longest time and there was absolutely no reason why he chose that day to tell me about his wedding which was months ago. It definitely did the magic for me. For the first time my dream actually gave me a sign. At least it got the person right this time.
But it didn’t promise to make any sense, and rightly it didn’t.

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THE COOKING GHOST

Thu, 31 May 2007 19:17:12 +0200

A weeknight made me realize one thing. That I have a knack of reaching conclusions after careful watch, required analysis and a brief declaration amongst those available. I first called my brother out to the balcony outside my room and asked him to stand in the spot I pointed out. He reluctantly took position and looked on to see what else I had in mind for me. I asked him if he could smell anything being cooked. He readily agreed and right enough my mother walked into the balcony and I gladly made her the next specimen of my observation. I enquired with her the same and she told me she could smell a fried dish being completed. My brother again agreed and then acclaimed it to be quite tasty.

I then revealed to them, the two subjects of my experiment, that I have been smelling some thing or the other being prepared at any given time. I added that my balcony on account of being on the second floor had no kitchen directly or indirectly close to it and it was quite late in the night for cooking to be taking place.

I later suggested that it could be the doings of a ghost and that it was a harmless non-nirvanad soul that was finding solace in cooking on my balcony. I mentioned it like I was merely stating the weather report or updating them on glamorous celebrity headlines. Initially my mother made it seem like I was nuts, but later upon thought agreed that my balcony was no place for cooking essence to linger, as there were no kitchens anywhere near it.

I told them I will continue observing the kitchen and the aromas on my balcony and then we could think up a way to handle the ghost. Like first confirm the cooking ghost is there and then plan to deal with it. But honestly I have no qualms if there is in fact a ghost that loves to cook. I made my speech neat and crisp, almost like the cooking ghost’s fried dish.

The moment passed and we were still recovering from the supernatural cook on my balcony and the aromas. After a while I announced that I was hungry, to which my brother promptly asked me to check with the cooking ghost, “what’s cookin.”

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CHEERS

Tue, 03 Apr 2007 22:47:51 +0200

Sunshine, the evening sky-colored unicorn was turning 18 the next day. Before retiring to bed, she made plans with her friends on the phone and said a little prayer. She was experiencing short term birthday eve blues, but she got over it when calls started pouring in from friends, neighbors and cousins. She was turning 18 and was already a fine young, beautiful lady-unicorn in the making.

The next day, she woke up early and her parents gifted her with a golden ornament for her horn. It had a diamond on it which shone brightly on her forehead. She got dressed and was on her way to meet her friends.

Summer and Silvermoon were her friends from college. They gifted her tail-ribbons of every color, made of satin. Sunshine loved them. Bluesky and Spring joined them. They gave her tickets to a merry –go- round, with human figures to ride on. (When humans started riding on unicorns on merry-go-rounds, it gave the unicorns an idea.) They decided to go to a local pub. And as she entered the pub, sunshine ordered her first pitcher.

She drank it down and felt like an angel. And then they moved to another pub and she drank some vodka there. She was quite drunk when at her first shot of vodka, but she didn’t stop. 1, 2 and 3. And she continued. After the third drink, she couldn’t even taste the vodka, but she promptly she went on. Her friends urged her to stop, but she drank on, one shot after another.
At the first bite of a French fry, her stomach gave way. She felt mild tremors in her stomach and her head spun faster than a charged top. She couldn’t feel much of the other parts of her body, but they all seemed to go disconnected from her back-bone. The tremors turned to visible churns and she soon felt stomach quacks.

Soon she threw up. And it continued for half an hour. It worried her friends greatly and they were anxious to get her home. In her drunk, ill, pukish, completely at loss for words and energy state, she let her friends know that she couldn’t be taken home because her folks would be very upset with her. “Alcohol is for horses” her grandmother would say, when she saw tipsy unicorns at parties.

Her friends unanimously decided that they would take her to Windchime’s house. Windchime was Summer’s friends from dance classes. Windy lived alone and thus it would most convenient to go to her house. They reached Windy’s house, as soon as possible, while sunshine left a trail of her sickness along the way. Windy was glad to be of help, because when a unicorn helps another one, they get a shiner coat, she believed. She showed them to the bathroom and Summer and Silver, helped her clean up. They made her some hot chocolate milk and lay her on the bed made of cotton wool. Her tail had lost its shine. Her coat seemed rough, her eyes turned purple and her stomach continued to churn. Sunshine complained of a spinning head and stated that her horn felt heavy.

She swore never to drink again. She vowed that she would never enter another pub, let alone have a sip. She apologized to her friends for all the trouble she had put them through. It was one birthday she could never forget, yet doesn’t remember most of it, because she had passed out for significant amount of the day.

Around the evening, she was dropped back home by Spring. Spring reached her to the main door and galloped away. Sunshine opened the door slowly and to her surprise her entire family was gathered there. Her cousins, uncles, aunts and even some distant relatives who were actually horses were also there. She walked nervously past all of them. There was a table full of gifts and two tables full of food. There were balloons and ribbon and tinsel all over the house. It looked better than the fairy land outside. She walked to her parents who were standing in the center of her living room in front of a huge cake that was shaped like the moon with a rabbit on it. It was bright pink and looked beautiful, even to a drunk unicorn.

The gathering sang the birthday song and Sunshine blew the candles and made a wish. She wished that her parent and her family would never find out what she had been up to. She cut her cake and gave a bite to her folks and her brother. Her father kissed her on the forehead, next to her horn and declared – “now that you are 18, you may have your first drink” and held out a glass of wine.

Cheers.

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ORIGINAL DOUBT

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 20:23:29 +0200

Anticipating a long evening extending into a longer night, I decided to watch a movie that is not popular for not being famous, yet seemed like quite a treat. The postman always rings twice. I took a walk to the renting store and as usual as determined I seemed to be, I caught myself looking at all other movies.

“The postman always rings twice please”, I heard myself saying to the man at the counter without looking. He signaled his assistant to help me with my requirements. I followed the assistant who was about my age and was clearly a movie buff with pretty eyes. I could hear back-ground music,somehow. I felt like I was in a movie.

We walked past shelves and racks of cds and dvds and I felt like maybe what the actors feel while being shot. We reached the designated rack and the background score intensified. He gave me a look and turned towards the shelf to draw the dvd out. He handed the dvd to me, while I fished out a fresh, just out of the mint, currency note to give to him as a deposit against the dvd. We exchanged the objects in our hand and maybe it was the movie-store, but I felt it like it was in slow-motion. Me, handing out the note and he handing the dvd. We both take a closer look at our new temporary possessions and look up at each other- simultaneously, and our eyes seemed to have a question for the other.

A pause. An inhale and then we take a closer look at the objects again. He looked at the crisp, fresh, almost artificial looking, new currency note and I turned the old, well-used, yellowing dvd case in my hands and we looked at each other again. This time we spoke. And together. And we had the same question.

“Is this original?”

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DREAM TRIPPER

Thu, 01 Mar 2007 11:22:27 +0100

The mindless television has had consequences on me and few things I did for a while now. And they ranged from me lifting one-liners and tweaking them to make them contextual to taking down recipes and ignoring them later. And one such mindless show had me dream a weird unusually structured dream a few nights ago.

The television show systematically rolled a set of calculated outcomes when a particular creature of habit, Billy implemented his routine to catch his bus. The show went on to show how what one change in the regular pattern of events would make his goal, which was catching his bus to work, unachievable. Billy looked the same in each of the trials that he executed to catch his bus and miraculously many days after I had the honor of catching this show on television, I dreamt about it and Billy still looked the same.

While on one hand I took this impossibly senseless television show to guide me through my midnight sub-conscious entertainment, a very interesting trait mentioned to me by a particular someone intertwined into the dream. The trait being, relying on dreams to find solutions to problems. So conspiracy of the universe and the human cells responsible for the same, brought together the two aspects - Billy’s bus catching ability and somebody relying on their dreams to find Billy suitable solutions. And in this case it was me.

So I dreamt that if I didn’t dream Billy from 'will Billy catch the bus?' will not catch his bus. I was, in the dream, made responsible for dreaming consciously so Billy would catch his bus. And I pleased myself and Billy of my dream to glory as I dreamt that I dreamt and he caught his bus each time. It was mind tripping, but at least dreams themselves have hope now. And Billy may not be an awarding winning television star, but if he had to make to some place on time, he can rely on my dream and not miss his bus.

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FIRST IMPRESSIONS

Wed, 07 Feb 2007 12:00:24 +0100

After the man kind was blessed with the internet, among the several consequences were me interacting with random strangers wearing different masks. And the one I chose this time was that of a housewife. Tried and tested several times and always worked, as unworkable as the idea was.
So, after this brilliant idea struck me for, I made the actor inside me ready for yet another online performance. I claimed to be married to a 31 year old man and lived as a typical housewife would. I even assigned myself the duty of cleaning the house and cooking different dishes for lunch to please my man. To top it all, I gave him a name, and a second name and made our imaginary marriage an inter-caste one, however, I supposedly didn’t convert or change my name. I also gave a brief description of his family’s openness to such marriages and our everyday living. Thank the lord, for this blog, I even passed off some of the stories here as a let-out to the life the marriage to the imaginary man brought me.
The stranger on the other end of my story, amidst his busy professional commitments was reduced from out right denying it to slowly giving in. All along he probably knew it was all an actor’s scheme, but clearly at places he did believe me. He put forth necessary questions and reasonable mockery. He asked for proof and subsequently the photographs of my imaginary, inter-caste, underage marriage. I conveniently assured him he would get the same and sent him pictures that suggested nothing but signboards and shopping in a particular paradise. I got away convincing myself that I had had the last laugh.

What I achieved I don’t really know. But the actor in me sure can take over. It may make me a controlled borderline schizophrenic, but it sure breaks ice and puts on the table the notions of people. It makes me live an alter ego and a possibility. I can’t say if I recommend it to anyone, nor can I give advice on how to execute it to those contemplating. All I can say is, it makes for lasting first impressions. Or at least I hope so.

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A BRIDGE, I BECAME LIKE A COMPUTER

Sun, 31 Dec 2006 07:44:03 +0100

As a victim to Sunday evening blues, I had an irresistible urge to write and feel good about myself. As it turned out, I was as blank as the word document on the screen. But the cells in me responsible for writing, just will not stay quite, they have to fight. So, what do I write about? Let’s see, how about something on the lines of….. or maybe…. Or just you know… how about…. ?

How about not be able to think of a topic is a topic by itself. Wow! Yes it sure is. If you look at it closely, there is so much that goes into not being able to get started and writing.
So, before the realization struck me, I texted a trusted few to give me something to write about. An opinion poll is one of the most interesting intangible creations humans can concoct. Very soon I had replies from those posed with the question and the topics they wanted me to write and for them to read ranged from very self absorbing ideas to worrying about the future of the sex lives of young adults. While still others showed creativity or the lack of it by suggesting a research and report on the number plates on cars and bike through out the world. Sex in varying intensities won maximum votes excluding issues like drunken wonders and the consequences. And forms of non sexual pleasure for the middle aged women who would want to go shopping while avoiding all the unpleasant parts of the package that came along with it.

This mere informal survey soon transcended me to the status of a solution provider. Presently, as convenience would get the better of people, I became the local, friendly help-desk and seemed to have answers to most questions. If I don’t, I was automatically supposedly responsible for making necessary connections between people with the questions to people who have answers. A bridge I became, like a computer, claiming to make life easy.

While on one hand I feel under intense pressure, I still smile because I know what people want and that makes me one step closer to understanding my contemporaries.

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A LINE OF WRITERS

Mon, 23 Oct 2006 19:10:35 +0200

Drawing inspiration from the nothingness of their lives, the band of writers were defined to bring meaning out of the lives of the others and that helped them greatly. The five, I being the last, were contributors with strong words and notions and they differed significantly. Within them there were great chemistries and unresolved queries that they mostly choose not to let surface. They shared a few common worries and certain positive tragedies, yet were independently real.

The turn of events in one another’s lives was their primary concern and focus, though they came across to be rather selfish. But all of them were writers.

One, after just about two decades to her existence, had stories to tell that will last a life time. Her words on word doc screamed how lonely and comfortable she was in a uniquely subtle way. She could hear birds tell her stories and dreamt of Jesus Christ. She would actively engage in discussions and still take back to her words what she wished. Mostly a bridge between sanity and super sanity, others I thought felt her words to be insane. She wrote beautifully and commented on other’s writing diplomatically. But otherwise held strong value judgments.

Her stories ranged from material indulgence to herself without any. From her writing to her senses. She didn’t make much efforts.

He looked like he did. But we knew better. A born talent, yet not born to be easily inspired. Loud and in-your-face. Strong and bold, yet always wanted a feedback. Mostly morbid, but roots were soft all most like that of a little girl’s tears. Harsh, yet sensitive. A classic example of how one trait can lead to an opposite output. He too was a writer and a good one at that.

The third, called himself an active sleeper. Theories inspired him greatly and physics, he believed was the greatest gift to man-kind. I assumed he was a potential schizophrenic when he indulged in a novel on a mythological/historical commander. I am not sure. What I am certain that whatever it takes to inspire him, it stays on till forever. A man who choose not to practice his words, yet they came so easily to him.

The fourth mattered to me at varying levels. Loved to code and still does. Looses and gains interest in the same minute and still brings out great reads. What seems easy may not necessarily be. What is easy is sometimes just the opposite. Loves his readers to wonder what his words mean, yet lacks the patience to hold the meaning within him. Words can be his art and he can tell stories. I seemed to inspire him at two instances and I know bout it.

Then there is me. While mostly I feature in most of what I write, I can see a perfect stranger when I read my own words.

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BOSSY HAIKU

Sat, 21 Oct 2006 21:33:15 +0200

If am not lying.
And if you are not lying
Then who is lying?

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THE MONTH OF THE DEAD

Thu, 21 Sep 2006 06:38:23 +0200

I had my family put away initiatives of great futuristic plans for a few days on account of having this month dedicated to the visits of the souls of the dear departed as per the Hindu calendar. My mother casually told me I should anticipate messages from my late grandmother, usually manifested as a dream. I let her know that I as much as I loved my grandmother, the whole cosmology behind interacting with the dead was not what I was made of, even though I played a soothsayer in Cleopatra. I am an average girl, in direct contact with alive people who are visible.

Last night, I was forced to bed early by the continuous power cuts, and I had a dream. I dreamt of this huge palace in a country that looked like London. I dreamt my entire family inside the palace, working and contributing to the household. It seemed like a wedding had just taken place and the remains of the celebrations seemed like a nag to everybody who stayed back to clear it. My uncle was proud of the trees that were so neatly planted overnight after my aunt told him that with many guests, it very crucial to have done-up woods for a garden. I palace campus was full of large independent houses, and the roads were of fine tar and shining. My family members dressed elaborately and had assistants to help them keep their clothes in place. I myself was in a long beautiful gown and had the worry that I constantly have.

In one of the large houses, I saw my grandmother, down with the worry of death, while she waited for it. She was the beautiful angel she always was. It seemed like an emergency declared, and the family waited for her to be relieved from the burden. She was depleting every minute. I ran through the woods that weren’t there the previous day only to hear my mother say to me about my grandmother's death. She was being dressed for her funeral and was in the most magnificent room of the palace. I somehow didn’t see her dead.

I woke up with my pillow and my phone under my pillow wet with my tears. I had been crying and my eyes were bloodshot. I rang my mother and revealed the revelation. She said, it was only because I loved my grandmother deeply and she loved me most.

I am glad for the household I belong to, has facilities for return of the dead, even if it is symbolically. I will now eagerly wait for next year this time to see my grandmother in my dream and hope for it to be a happy one, like when she was alive. Like the tea and snacks she would make for me and we would eat together. Or her telling me a story of her childhood while caressing my hair. Or her teaching me how to cook and eating everything I made for her. Some of the most beautiful moment of my life were because of her and I am eternally grateful.

I love you grandmother. and am waiting for your revisit.

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QURAN QUEST

Sun, 17 Sep 2006 18:55:00 +0200

It took the protagonist of the book I was reading to mention her act of encountering the Quran on a trip to somewhere which made me take up to developing an interest in the Quran and linking it to my new found interest in Woman of Biblical times. Further, my astrologer dad's claim that a particular imaginary point in my horoscope is weak and closeness of Islamic religion would help me weaken the weakness. This reinforced the need for picking up a copy of the Quran.

I assumed, like the bible, I would get it easily at any book store. I rode to one after another shop only to have men stare at me because of my seen legs in my shorts. After changing into pants, I called on a Muslim neighbor and begged the little boy to take me to his friends house and tell me borrow the holy book.

After having a brief interview with his mother, I got the permission to take her son to his friend’s house and also learnt that the Quran has 30 chapters. At his friends house I was easily welcomed and when I was asked for my name, I mentioned my Hindu name and the little boy looking at me doubtfully waited for me to explain. He asked me if I just converted and if I had forgotten to change my name.

I cleverly used my profession to tell the family that I was working on a project of the women of biblical times and books on that were not easily available in India. She willing gave me tea and stories and her knowledge of the Islamic past. I made a movie inside my head as she spoke and left with the promise of returning her books at the earliest. I reached home with a new found quest and new friends.

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COOL EMBARRASSING MOMENTS

Thu, 14 Sep 2006 20:02:58 +0200

I was gifted with the experience that occupies the space of embarrassing life situations. And I realized that they can be cool. At least, after what happened, I was no doubt going through sensations of stupidity, but I was, within me and loudly, laughing at myself.

Working as a film maker, I get to shoot in all sorts locations, which only increases the scope of vicinities for all sorts of situations. But this juxtaposing feeling that made me realize another trait, mostly about myself, happened to happen at an MNC that has multiple claims to fame, that boosts of employing over astronomical numbers of highly educated, camera shy technical experts and a one that has several campuses and buildings with astronomical numbers of floors. The shoot was just smooth and fine and easy, but the gods who take interest in my life,, or my inner more adventurous initiator, or some power that can possess, or a deliberate attempt on my part decided to pep it up a bit. I am still not sure what, yet if I were to conclude, I would most definitely say a fine blend of all.

At the far end of the grandly furnished hall, was an emergency exit. In the boldest font that can be fitted on a door plate, was a clear message in more than one language, saying that is the door is meant for emergency exits ONLY and that a loud alarm will sound if opened. I read it, and opened the door. Within seconds, the entire building was deafened by a loud siren and nobody could hear a word of what anybody said. The manager, who has had many years of experience, must have assumed that I mentally lack the fibers to keep me sane. The siren still Rang on. At this point I saw looks on faces of people that can be best described as: did-you-have-to-do-that?-look, what-were-you-thinking?-look and how-to-make-this-darn-thing-stop?-look.

After my brief session of face reading, I then prayed and hoped that a stampede wouldn’t be caused by the millions of people from the millions of floors who all looked like the could do with a panic rush for a break. The managers and the security involved rushed to the required corners and turned it off.

Then was the best part, they walked me a counsel of men in uniform, and I felt like a new fish at the Shaw shank and made me write an apology letter and looked at me like I am irreparably insane when I asked for a copy of the same. At that point, I was certain I have just been through something that will stay with me for a long while and a valid document will only add more value to it. I willing scribbled my apologies and laughed, while my boss and crew gossiped about my guts and the act. They also invested enough work time on the reaction of the company. Though I was authority there, I was reduced to pretending that nothing actually went wrong and an entire building was not panic struck because of me and that I didn’t open any door that can be a reason for mass auditory problems and distress and that I didn’t go against big bold words of caution. A documented apologies lies somewhere inside the vicinity of a world leader in I.T., I want to posses a copy of it and I am only sure which door not to open this time to entire the building.

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MY BIBLICAL DREAM

Mon, 04 Sep 2006 09:47:24 +0200

After spending the shortest number of days on a book of the biblical times, to which I shed one tear in the beginning pages and a few tears somewhere towards the end, I slept with a heavy heart thinking of the times that past between then and now and the changes that manifested itself every year since then and I dreamt. I dreamt, I was in the edge of the world, where the sea touched the horizons and the land was outlined with a range of mountains. The mountains were of golden brown, yellow and orange and were the faces and bodies of Gods. Beautiful faces with complete features, curly hair, sharp nose and pleasant smiles and the larger than life mountain gods bore just before sleeping happy smile. I stood with a book on a balcony of an inn and on my left were these magnificent mountains that invited me to come and explore. While I walked unto them, the faces smiled and made me feel like I walked on sponge. I sat on a god’s eyelash and looked at the sea that danced and seemed content. The other gods smiled as the waters splashed against their faces and suddenly I wanted to be a god that once blessed and then retired as a mountain. On my right was the inn and the long corridors that had tables set for tea. On the wall hung a large painting that was of the last supper importance and magically a picture of the same painting and the inn was printed on the cover of the book I held in my hand. My father appeared from behind me and I pointed out the book to him. He immediately seemed to understand the overwhelming joy in me when the realized the actuality of the prints in the book. He nodded me to run towards the inn and make sure for myself. The inn was furnished with wooden benches and tables and had scented candles and cucumber on table clothes. The room smelt of tea and cake and the smell of cheese. I sat at the table admiring the painting of which I knew and heard so much about. I wondered of the artist.

A few peasants came along and spoke of a messenger. I somehow had the authority to summon the poor hungry chap in and place him and feed him. He spoke of Mary and Joseph and the Christ that all of use know and waited for. I gifted him with more cake and gave him herbs from a sling bag around my waist. The inn lady explained to him the herbs were rich spices and the possession of them itself would make him fortunate. She referred to as a carrier of the trait that only generous goddess have. I looked at the painting some more and drank tea.

A few carpenters with soiled clothes walked into the inn and worried if they would be thrown out on account of their poor status. But they however sat themselves and drank tea while I smelt a combination of fresh and moist wood in their presence. A rich man came and shared the table with me and told me that these carpenters were those blessed artists who framed the glorious painting. I drank more tea and smelt the candles this time.

The inn lady told me my water for my evening bath was ready and said it was cool water from the sea with scents brought to me from Mary and Joseph. I walked in with her and turned to look at the painting one last time.

I woke and wondered what I was doing in the biblical times. I wondered why Joseph and Mary cared so much about my evening bath. And I wondered how I was given the authority in that inn and on the edge of the earth, that seemed so important and divine. Like paradise.

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TALK ABOUT YOU AND ME AND THE GAMES PEOPLE PLAY

Mon, 14 Aug 2006 12:45:56 +0200

Mind games seemed to be my interest for a few months now. I always had it, but it took this incident to bring focus to the games people play. I came to realize a few things. If you are dedicating your mind to a person, its only then that they can play mind games with you. Actually its then that anything they do become mind games. And no matter how hard you try, and what stunts you pull, you can never be important in a person’s life, if they don’t want.

At this point, it will only take a miracle or amnesia or some divine intervention for him to have the remotest feelings for me. Doesn’t matter what I employ as weapons to get his attention. Over shower him with attention, avoid him completely, bitch about him, destroy all evidence of interaction with him, and then regret and work at recreating them or even trying not to give him any mind space. None work, whatsoever.

The sad part is, I have let him play his mind games. Actually I have let what ever he does to transform into mind games that matter to me so much. There is also a good side to it. This sure tells me that my mind is working. Fine or not, not for me to care.

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Not the same anymore

Tue, 08 Aug 2006 20:00:32 +0200

Many few things make their way into my mind to stay there for long. And for a long while I wrote and erased and over analyzed Grumptur whose life was coming to be no big deal for me lately. Maybe a more potential man, took that away from me, but I promised myself not to write about this new found obsession for the sole reason of insulting him. But grumptur, somehow magically has to jump back into my life and vision every now and then and make me realize a few things about myself, like he also needed regular doses of him. [How is wish that were true, although i now have no feelings for him whatsoever.]

After having one of my company, I was meeting over coffee, tell me, that Grumptur was a few seats away in the same café, I didn’t feel any need. I, usually having the man I dreamt about and had undying love for, sit at an accessable radius, would have done whatever it would take to get his attention and put across some sort of a message for him to think and react. In my lesser active days, I would have taken a very approachable step and presented myself like a calm and composed person with self assertion that can intimidate even the actual humans of such nature.

But this day, though it was quite an active day for me, I didn’t feel any such need. No jittery feelings, no legs feel like jelly, no weird stomach attention seeking tactics none, weirdly grumptur mattered as much to me as a passerby or a feminist movement to Paris Hilton.
And that leaves me in an awkward state. I have no grumptur to think about and obsess. I haven’t in the recent past. I have no feelings for him now. I don’t wake up in the middle of the night and think about who I can talk to, to get over my miserable state of hopelessness, I don’t make up stories about him or his life that I found highly amusing. I think I am just jaded to him now.
Still, I can’t say for a fact I don’t draw inspiration from him because I am still writing this piece, just with a different simmilarity.

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WHEN INSULTS ARE IMPORTANT

Sat, 29 Jul 2006 19:25:23 +0200

I have discovered, after careful analysis, mostly of myself, a few things centering insults.
THE BEST WAY TO INSULT A PERSON IS TO STOP WRITING ABOUT HER/HIM.

Of course, this raises a few doubts, questions and throws light upon some of the disadvantages, a few mentioned below.
1. To stop writing about person you want to insult, you have to have started writing in the first place.
2. Who really cares about you having stopped writing.
3. And writing about not writing about a person is still writing about her/him.

So, You have to carefully plan your life in such a manner that you write about those you assume you will want to insult in the coming years. Then you sit your friends through your stories, write sequels and make a big deal out of them,( e.g. grumpy miles on my blog). please note- for your friends to take the stories seriously, include them. Tests have proved that most people are interested in themselves. Tests have also proved that most tests prove nothing.
The last disadvantage actually applies only to me. Since, in my knowledge I am the only one writing about not writing about a person.

So there goes. Its essential and easy to insult. Except it leaves me nowhere. I have still written.

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SPIDERS THAT ARE BETTER THAN RELATIONSHIPS

Mon, 17 Jul 2006 19:02:53 +0200

Off lately a whole bunch of things made their way into my life and in some cases my system itself. Right from men, meaningful brief affairs to creepy crawlies, all walked into my life, my nights and my sense organs like it was a red carpet glamour engagement. The social aspect, many would quite appreciate the entrance of men and mind games, my mind’s perception like most areas of my life is different. It decided to give attention to the most scarily, creepy and weird episodes it has the pleasure of experiencing. On a night that I took extra long to fall asleep, this doesn’t usually happen to me on account of having all areas of my life to rather satisfactory levels, a spider decided to walk its way into my right ear. And soon enough I was creating a hue and cry due my over obsession with over reactions and due to the natural pain it caused me. After two hours of me tolerating pain and my family tolerating me, the spider kicked the bucket inside my ear. Probably one death that made a positive difference to my life. Still, the next day, no web came out of wrist and nor could I climb walls.

Still the spider made one thing clear to me, a small creep, an insignificant insect amidst the greater glory of my life was powerful enough for me to carry tales about it to people rather than the interpersonal relationship I share with the human kind and brilliantly jump into conclusions because of which. With a little lesser than half a dead spider inside my ear, I can still vividly recall the pain I was tormented with and easily much greater than the pains of a fall out of a bond. I think now I strongly recommend a spider inside the ear to get over any passion of the sensual or emotional kind.

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LOOK OVER THERE

Sun, 09 Jul 2006 13:41:25 +0200

A YOUNG LADY walks inside a coffee-shop and finds herself a table. The WAITER walks up to her with a note pad.

WAITER
How may I help you ma’am?

YOUNG LADY
Am waiting for a few friends.
Meanwhile, I’d like a coffee.

WAITER
Cream or Black?

YOUNG LADY
Black and some cookies please.

WAITER
Chocolate, coconut or plain?

YOUNG LADY
Chocolate. And some water please.

WAITER
Regular or mineral?

YOUNG LADY
Doesn’t this café have a menu card,
So I may avoid this interrogation?

WAITER
Sure ma’am, its right on the table.

YOUNG LADY
(looking embarrassed)
OH! I overlooked it. My bad. That will be it,
Black coffee, chocolate cookies and some mineral water

WAITER
Coming right up ma’am.

The YOUNG LADY continues to read her book and the WAITER brings her the order and smiles.

The YOUNG LADY walks to a bench in the park and seats herself. She draws a book out of her bag and starts reading.
The WAITER happens to walk past her and notices her.

WAITER
Hello ma’am, may I please sit here?

YOUNG LADY
(without looking up)
Sure

There is silence for a few minutes, while the YOUNG LADY is completely engrossed in her book.
WAITER
You look familiar to me.

YOUNG LADY
(still not looking at him)
OH! That’s great. Now if you’ll excuse me,
I’d like to finish this book.

There is another round of silence, till she gets up ready to leave. She puts her stuff back into her bag, when she sees him.

YOUNG LADY
OH! Am so sorry, I didn’t know it was you.

WAITER
Well, that’s ok.

YOUNG LADY
I thought you were one of those who was just
trying to hit on me.

WAITER
I understand. Are you looking for something?

YOUNG LADY
Yes, I can’t seem to find my spectacles.
It was right here.

WAITER
Is it black?

YOUNG LADY
Yes.

WAITER
Does it have a string?

YOUNG LADY
Yes, do you see it?

WAITER
Yes.

YOUNG LADY
Where?

WAITER
Around your neck.

YOUNG LADY
(looking embarrassed again)
OH! Right. I over looked again.
Thank you.

WAITER
Your welcome.

YOUNG LADY
Well, I got to go now.
See you around.

WAITER
Bye.

She packs her bag and leaves and the WAITER smiles. He then walks into the park.

III

The YOUNG LADY walks into the café and finds herself a table. It’s rather late and the WAITER is clearing up for the day. The waiter walks up to her.

WAITER
Ma’am we have time only for a quick order

YOUNG LADY
(not paying attention to what he said)
A lot of my friends are coming over,
I’d like 3 hot coffees, 2 cold ones,
3 chocolate sundaes, a box of chocolate cookies
two pastries and a bottle of water please.

WAITER
Ma’am, am sorry, we are almost closing for the
day, I can’t possibly fix all that now.

YOUNG LADY
OH! That’s too bad.
Its my birthday today and
I promised my friends a treat.

WAITER
Well, then I guess it’s my turn now.

YOUNG LADY
Your turn? For what?

WAITER
To overlook. The time.
Your order coming right up ma’am.

YOUNG LADY
Awwww.. thank you. You made my day.
I’d like you to join us.

The waiter smiles and leaves. One by one her friends come over. Soon, the waiter brings her order and places it on the table.

WAITER
Happy birthday, ma’am.

FIN.

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WAYS TO AMAZE, CONFUSE AND ANNOY YOUR PARENTS

Wed, 31 May 2006 18:10:27 +0200

I have developed this need to study my parents, analyse them and tell the same to my friends for them to try. The following are a list of things one can do to amuse self on account of well, parents.

1. If you have computer illiterate folks, tell them the concept of blogs and see how surprised they’ll get.
2. Tell them you maintain a blog and they’ll think you’ve published a book.
3. Try explaining to them all the genres of music in the world.
4. Tell them you want to be a single parent.
5. Tell them the mobile phone has no dial tone. (my dad actually for a long time didn’t believe that.)

My experiments are still on and everyday I uncover more about them.

TRY THIS AT HOME. And please tell me how it goes.
Between, love you mom and dad, firstly for having me and then keeping me.

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