I was taking a good look at myself today, and shit, I looked so old. I mean, I have actually AGED. In like, a year. My entire face belongs to someone who is forty, I swear. Heeeesuss. And body, to someone who's sixty.
I wasted the entire day today. Stupid Valedictory shit. Stupid stupid stupid. Shob stupid. I want to go somewhere. Like Bombay. I haven't been there in ages. I want to sit on that fence thingie in Worli Seaface and smoke a fat joint. Then have panipuris at the beach and bitch about how bad they are and how nothing beats phuchkas. Then I want to go to that huge bookstore thing which has everything and then hit fashion street and bargain. Then we'll go to Colaba Causeway and go to Leo's have beer and talk an talk and talk. I'll meet up with Bobba-Bomma, get a little pampered there. Then Dee of course. And I would really like to meet Chamki. If Sudu's there, I'll hang with her too. Then we can all drive down to Lonavala or Khandala or oi shob jayegas and have fun. Be a puro tourist and everything. Then we'll all be back for the Roger Waters concert and get high on good music.
I need to feel good. I don't feel good about anything or anyone these days. I'm a wet mop. Plop.

Hee hee

@copyright Jonathan

Wasted blues.

I want

please give.

I love our little terrace garden. I can spend hours there, sitting, reading, day dreaming, watching trains pass by.

The room adjoining it is my grandmother's. It's a very cozy room, with lots of books - old ones belonging to Ma and Baba, new ones - mainly the coffee table ones with lovely pictures and some crappy ones which no-one ever reads. The room has pictures of Ammai, us, old African wood-carved knick-knacks and a very old Koala bear kept next to Ammai's picture, because it reminds all of us of Labony and our memories there. It even has a little kitchenette, looking out into a tiled verandah with spindly plants and bougenvilla flowers yet to bloom. I was reading there today, remembering in spurts Ammai, her dainty hands, our conversations, her maccher chops, and Labony. The other day I was just sitting around with the phone in front of me, wondering whom to call, and I realised I wanted to call Labony or DB and talk to either Ammai or Dadabulo. Just hear to hear their voices. I've forgotten the Labony number. I've forgotten Saltlake. Sometimes it's the just for the best.

Oh I might as well SAY it. I'll miss you. I think, terribly.

I was just sitting there, across the table wondering about my short sleeves and poor eye-sight and grammatical errors...and I just felt miserable for a minute. I'm glad I still feel these things. Loss shouldn't be like July 19th. Loss should be like today.

And now a little something for the large-sized minority

There was something about an Obese People's Club in the papers today. Wooh. Jackpot. People to bitch with and feel empathy towards. A place where we can all drag our sorry obese asses and pep talk the fuck out of each other and go out shining radiantly, ready to take on the world. Bring it on baby, cause I have my triple chin up. Haiiii-aah! Dare to call us victims, just dare babeh.
Hmmph. Support groups remind me of Fight Club. I have my reservations. But, it's not half bad is it? You might just find a fellow fuckbuddy in there (Fuckbuddy...isn't that the most wunnderful word?). So you'll fuck your fuckbuddy and then talk at length, in your XXL underwear, about the things you were subject to in school, college, work and *sigh* society, your chin quivering a little over a cup of sugar free decaf and unsalted crackers. Then you could both pop into the tub, and rediscover Archimedes' principles about buoyancy and shit like that, and decide on which therapy you should undergo today - squash or swimming? Swimming, because you exercise more and feel it less, and also because you're proud of your body these days, thanks to all the sessions you've had at the fatclub, and lets not forget...all-that-sex. Whew. Just thinking about it makes you burn up calories.
Yeah, it may just be a blast for all you know.
So where do I sign? And how much? I'm tired of being the one with the "nice personality". ;)

I went to the Park Street Cemetary today. I've zipped by it so many times, and have always wanted to go inside. It's beautiful, really is. On a pleasant winter afternoon, you'll almost forget that you are in a graveyard, and believe that all that are laid to rest here, are really at rest - amidst all the trees and gentle, peaceful sun. The architecture is terribly pretty - and some of the epitaphs are so touching. I had sneaked in the camera but, photography is not allowed without prior permission and all that jazz, so I had to be very discreet about it. However I'm not really comfortable with the thought of someone confiscating my camera or something like that, so I just wandered about, not bothering much, soaking in the atmosphere as they say. So many young captains, teenaged children, young wives, sons and daughters lay buried there. They had really short lives back then. I loved the words on this particular tombstone of Martha, a twenty-three year old wife, missed and mourned terribly by her husband.
Sometimes, and P says this a lot, language becomes a barrier because it can never truly express the way you feel. You know, all the Eliot crap -
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
I think I understand. All these words seem a little stupid.

Winter people

"de do na, de do na..."

"So, lets talk about protection".

"What about it?"

Rapt attention. Also quite camera conscious.

So Sunday was the jazz day, and it was nice. I was a little worried about A and T liking it, because last time we went, they didn't, and I kind of semi-did, so it was all very blah. This time T went off with R (which I understand, dontworry), and A was stuck with me, but I think for most part, we enjoyed ourselves. I think, maybe because we are a bit older, and less eager to impress or understand. But I couldn't help thinking, I'm more comfortable listening to jazz in my own room, while playing Freecell or spider solitaire by myself. I even appreciate it more. I can't concentrate in a crowd. Infact, I don't like crowds at all. Or saying hello, or smiling or any of these things. I do them, but I don't like it when they get in my way of being real. Anyway, it was quality stuff, in my humble opinion of course, and I liked whatever I heard. I was also very into the French pianist dude, who disappeared when Hancock appeared. Oh well.
The crowd varied from the literate to the hotechais, and I guess I'd fall somewhere in between, but over all, they seemed to be into it all. Especially the older folk.
I want to listen to jazz like they did back in the 50s. In little saloons, with beer and heartbroken people. I like being romantic about it. So sue me.
This was too open air, and too, I dunno, hyped. It had too many rock chicks and sex tourist types.
Anyway, thank you P and G for the passes and the enthusiasm, especially P, standing behind me and pulling my hair when I was yakking. And also to the people sitting in front of me, smoking pot, unwittingly allowing me to inhale secondary smoke and making me semi-high.

P.S. I hate the fact that I'm so dispensable...even to you.

I was just thinking, there were some genuinly funny moments in school. Crazy funny. We were such a united class.
There's this little moment etched out in my memory, that I call the exam memory, and funnily, it's a nice one. In class V, sitting next to Swetashree in the last row, the sun on my back and Mrs. Matthew asking me if I wanted the blinds down. I said no, I like the sun, and I stretched and chewed my pencil-end happily. It's a very warm, restful little picture in my head. I wish I had that kind of exam moment again. When I was relaxed and happy, and heck, it was maths, and I was still happy. It's been a decade or more, fuck, since that day.
Then I loved the way we exchanged stuff - stamps, magazine cut-outs of Rahul Dravid and Sachin Tendulkar, phone numbers of celebrities, books, test answers, dirty jokes, all kinds of nasty trivia about sex. And the class photographs. Shit, there's never been one where Swetashree didn't start giggling (which was pretty much guffawing), then Diya would start, then Preet, then Das Dutta, Mondol, Anjali and then me in the front - and by the time we knew it, eeeeveryone would be shaking, and Ms. Sicca would be hopping mad, and our poor class teacher (also shaking with laughter) would be all like, now girls, now girls.
All the after-lunch classes were the funniest, 'cause we'd have these Pioneer sweets, which I swear had drugs in them, because we'd start laughing and not stop till it all became a bit too much.
And the rocking chairs. Jeez, everyday someone or the other would topple over in the middle of a class, because they rocked back too much in their chairs. When I was in Upper Infant, I once fell back on Ms. Gujadar's broken leg and she was so mad that she couldn't even speak, and I felt slightly goofy and slightly happy, because she had hit my hand with a wooden ruler once for not being able to write in a straight column. Hehe, she also took away all my erasers and threw out all of my six inch rulers out of the window. So glad, for them rocking chairs.
And library. I liked library. Sitting next to the window that faced the parking lot. Listening to the Friday namaaz and reading thousands of readers' digest magazines. Seth was a madcap. She boozed out of a silver flask and pulled people's pigtails if they read Enid Blytons. She was very senile and very dangerous.
P.T. was a bit of a bummer, especially with Sinha, who was one of those typical power-trip teachers. Y'know - I teach PE, so what, I'm smart also, nevermind that I can't speak English and look like I have a shrapnel up my arse. She made us exercise a lot and also embarrassed us when we had our chums. I mean jeez, in front of all those malis, what a pucca whore she was.

Anyway, I dunno what's all this nostalgia business about. I just felt like rambling I guess. Ta.

"It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in."


The plastic bag scene is one of my most favourite moments from cinema. I love this film. Saw it again for the zillionth time today. I wish I had a neighbour like Ricky Fitts. Sometimes.
Miller made it even better.

21 minus 11

Heehee. This is worthy enough to be a Postsecret secret - those who know me, will understand why. Boybands. Ugh, right? Well, maybe not when you were 11, and I'm sure all of you, yes, even you death-metal-whatever-freaks-of-nature lovers must have, at SOME point in your life, been crazy about blonde eyed blue haired men - or something like that. Especially if you were born in the mid-80s and went to a girl's school. I mean, you musssst have. At least I hope you did, because, it was NORMAL to do so. I graduated from Chitrahaar and Superhit Muquabla (which were my favourite shows on TV in the pre-cable days) to "English music", which (discounting the stuff Ma-Baba used to hear - and which I've grown up hearing - the good ol' stuff - Beatles, Elvis oishob - not that - also not Michael Jackson, whom everyone knew) were (and this is an incredibly long sentence, hope you're still with me), the stuff they showed on Channel V (ooh, taboo, sooo taboo). There were 3 shows I watched diligently on Channel V (we didn't get Mtv until 95-96 for some reason) and they were Vibes, hosted by Luke Kenny, Retro (Sophiya Haq) and By Demand (Trey and Muriel - a pink puppet thing). Thus began my "education" in English music, whereforth onwards, I'd officially be a "snob". I would have also begun my career as a rebel, discarding the good-safe stuff my parents listened to, and would embrace reee-heeeally bad music, with reeee-heeally bad lyrics - and know them word for word. So enter Scatman John, Whigfield, Real McCoy and all the shit we liked to call "music" back in the day (also much popularized by farewell parties in school). The attack of the boybands hadn't started yet - and sometimes, if I was lucky, I'd like the good stuff too - like Nirvana, Blind Melon, Pearl Jam, Aerosmith, Alanis Morisette, Oasis, Green Day et cetera. THEN, one fine day, I hear this really cool (I was 9-10, and it was cool then, don't judge) song with pretty boys dancing in the rain. Instant love. The band, was Take That, the song - Back for Good. I won't go on about the Take That mania that I unleashed on unsuspecting school friends and family (who were all like, take who?) - but bottomline - it was pure hysteria. I had never worshipped a group like that. They split, (heartbreak!) just as those wussy bands like Boyzone and whatnot were emerging and thus ended my boyband worship saga. But but but. Ten years later, and many many musical experiments later, I see my Brit boys once again, reunited, minus Rob of course, and yay! I cannot believe I am blogging about this, and who in their right mind gives a flying fuck but I just haddddd to write about them. It's like revisting my childhood. It's like having a "crush" on somebody for the first time all over again. It's like being pre-teen and obnoxious and OKAY with it all over again. Yeah, the stuff is still a little cheesy, but wtf, it's TT. EEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Marrrrryyy meee Garrrryyyyy. Haha.

I miss the obsession. Whatsthere now?
I saw this music video thingie. By the magic numbers. Something like see you, see me something. I can get that way. I mean, I wish.

I've caught a cold again.
Seriously contemplating blog suicide after this.
Haha. Thanks V.
I'm starting to hate the City a bit. Just a bit.

Trepidation

You should have seen us in front of Gulzaar at Oxford today. Foolish little girls. Oh, but the man is so hot. Write poetry for me too, won't you?

I am STRUGGLING with my SOP and my written assignment. I'm so used to writing crappy stream of consciousness stuff that I can't be formal anymore. I don't even know why people have to be so goddamn formal anyway. It's just a weapon used during cold wars as far as I'm concerned. Oh well.
Finished reading Death of a Salesman last evening. Sparked a sense of de ja vu in me. Well of course I had seen it all before. It's all very sad. Every damn thing I read these days is sad. Or even see. Saw Full Metal Jacket the other day. But thank god for it. I can't get over the Vietnamese prostitute - me so hawwwwny, me luf you vaaary long, me suckysucky, me so hawwwny.
HAHAhahaha.
Oh and how funny is Arrested Development? I don't watch it too often, but shit, everytime I do, it's so much fun. Well whaddya know... I bet the British made it for them.
I feel like going to Benares. I've heard so much about it. And now with the camera even more so. After exams. I haffff to.
I need a badminton partner. I love winter. Love, love, love.

Ooh. Strip down. Travelling light from now on. All excess baggage can go to hell. Very contrite I know. But whattodo. I like being this way.

Ennui. So that's what it is. Also Weltschmerz. Apparently, also the only German I have learnt since Da. So was Eliot emo?
Well, aint this an educational blog.
I was made to sit in first row today. I will, take time to get over this. It's absolute trauma - you don't where to look, what to write, when to smile, when to "comment". Gak.
Did you know, when you're vague and random, no-one really gives a fuck about you? You're just petted sometimes, or given a rubber bone if you're good.

okay, list thing could have been a tad controversial, so fuck that. I have a verray devious plan in my head. It's not really devious, 'cause it doesn't really hurt anyone, but it sure is crazy. I feel like doing Mandark's laugh. Aha-ahahahah-aha. Y'know?

2007 yeh baybeh

Lalalalala! The horrid year is Gone! Yay!