Yeah, so I have a very dissatisfactory template, which I promise to change later on. But, I just had to see some kind of change. Watch this space. Check out the listening to section.

Yes, me too.

I was actually quite happy about filling this out. Purpose, finally.

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it:
A very deep and prominent one on the left middle finger. I was, ahem, sharpening a pencil, with a pocket knife and things went out of control. Oh well.

2. What is on the walls in your room?
Oh lots of stuff - Paint, lights, pictures, calendar, bulletin board with the usual shit.

3. What does your phone look like?
A little abused actually. I keep dropping it. A lot.

4. What music do you listen to?
Whatever drifts into my ears. They usually play Himesh outside my building all the time. Also on the radio. Given a choice though, I like listening to a lot of retro and mood dependent stuff.

5. What is your current desktop picture?
A very moody picture of Kurt Cobain. Very 90s I know.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
Sleep.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Sure. What’s there not to believe?

8. What time were you born?
2.53 a.m.

9. Are your parents still together?
Yeah, knock on wood. They’re good for each other.

10. What are you listening to?
‘Fake Pallindromes’, Ma doing Pujo, rumbling clouds.

12. The last person to make you cry?
Calcutta University – person(s) running, controlling, populating.

13. What is your favourite perfume/cologne?
I really like that Gillette Pacific Blue Aftershave smell, Fahrenheit, after rain smells, the way Ma, Baba and Dada smell- Clean, bathed and cool, kerosene, fresh paint, bel phool, cuticura powder, orange peels, freshly cut grass. Yeah, smells are important.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
Oh anything. As long as it’s natural, and not Zee horror show-ish.

15. Do you like pain killers?
I need. I don’t like. Or not-like. I just need.

16. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Not if he's stuck inside a storm drain or something, no. I'd help, encourage - do all of the baywatch stuff, I would. I truly would.

17. Fave pizza topping?
Pineapple.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Chocolate. More like, Cadbury Crackle. Do they still have Crackle? In that yellow-purple wrapper? I have a Crackle craving.

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
I don’t know whom I made mad…all seem to display certain amounts of insanity. I dunno if it was me, or if they were like that to begin with. Fuck knows.

20. Is anyone in love with you?
Oh, the entire world daahlings, the entire world. I'm irresistable.

I tag Sudu, Preeta (who's too lazy, I know), Srin (who may have already done this before) and anyone who wants to do this, actually,

kiss and tell

I was watching Breakfast at Tiffany's today (again, yes) and besides being one of those movies I'll never get tired of watching, it's also got one of the best Hollywood kisses at the end. You know, in the rain, with Cat in the middle. Also, I was wondering all these days who A looks like - and I figured, if you photoshop him a bit (ok a lot), he'll look like George Peppard (Paul - Fred baby - Varjak). But Daaah-ling, never mind. I'm the hysterical kind of happy a person becomes after a disastrous exam and an overdose of uber-romantic films. Also, there's a storm outside - and storms always make me happy.
Here's my list of favourite kisses - and yes, they're all corny and tasteless - like all good Rom Coms should be:

• Holly Golightly and Fredy Baby (with Cat) in Breakfast at Tiffany's
• Scarlett and Rhett Butler - Gone with the Wind (the mad one, at the foot of the stairs)
• Brick and Maggie - Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (that last scene y'know - "shut the door Maggie" - oh shit)
• Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy (the thong-snow kiss) - Bridget Jones' Diary
• Jerry Maguire and Dorothy Boyd - Jerry Maguire (That kiss in the porch - where he goes "oops' and accidentally tears the straps of her dress. You know... before Tom Cruise lost it, and had that entire mid-life crisis thing, he had always been a bit of a benchmark for 'hot'. Even before Brad Pitt and other pretty boys happened - there was Mr. Cruise - in all his Cocktail glory)
• Dr. William and Alice Harford (Tom and Nicole *sigh*) - Eyes Wide Shut (please - Baby did a bad bad thing and all the mirror-making-out didn't mindfuck you?)
• Ok I forget their names but - Mel Gibson and Goldie Hawn - Bird on a Wire ( it's not a particularly memorable film, but there was that one kiss, where he went "shut up" and wham. I'm pathetic, I know. But *sigh*)
• Richard Gere and Julia Roberts - Pretty Woman (well obviously duh)
• Hugh Grant (what's a Romcom without him? Although I liked him best in About a Boy) and Julia Roberts - Notting Hill (it was coming you know. Gleep. It's not even funny how many times, how many fucking times, I've seen this hugely predictable movie)

Ok I should stop! But feel free to add your favourites - I don't believe for a minute you don't watch the soppy stuff.

It's the fork and knife existence that just gets to me sometimes. Just lying there, on the table, prosaic and stark, completely at home with the bread crumbs and slowly spoiling milk.

Sometimes when you're sitting alone at a table, aimlessly spinning a pencil or a paper weight, imagine a soft, sad and slow music playing in the background. Imagine a camera zooming in on your eyes, slowing its shutter-speed and capturing blurry blinks in mellow light. Imagine it tracing your lips, capturing inadvertent nervous tics. You know, just. What have you got to lose...you sexy little movie star you.

At four, I always hear the trains. Loud and clear, it's whistle shrieking shrilly through the morning air. And then the chugchugchug. And then the screeching brakes. And then again the chugchugchug. It doesn't bother me. Sometimes, I stay awake for it.

Try not to look at me with drama-queen eyes. I'm a real douche. And I'm okay really, with this sedate, brainless calm. I'd hate to rain on your parade. Go on. Rave and rant a little longer. It's almost fun... like a weird prickly sensation... like a foot gone to sleep.

Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still

I think I've done fairly well. Now lets go and burn some bridges.

Who was it who said, "I'd rather live the American Novel than write it"? Veronica Lodge I think. Yeah me too, man. Calcutta! Thou shalt not be my Egdon Heath, so help me God.

No really, help!

Yeah, okay. So I fixed the blog problem. Life still sucks though. Exams on the fucken 23rd in the same old hell hole as last time. Anyway, I'll stop complaining, shit happens, such is life. Yada yada. One last whine - I have so much left to dooooo! Dammit!
Okay done.
Right. I have nothing to say really. Life is unbelievably dull. I'm just pushing limits. I know I have to study, but you know - one more this, one more that. I play spider solitaire with such ferocity, that I've started dreaming about it. And I feel the tension pounding at my temples in my sleep when I can't get it right. Fuck, I'm so losing it.
I wrote a poem - (sorry, cannot translate it)

Amar akta goru.
Tomar akta goru.
Aktar nam Poteto, onno jon Tometo.
Dujonei shoman -
Kintu akta holo khoiri, akta holo lal:
Etai toh jeebon bapu, etai toh jeebon.

I've fucked the template. I can't figure it out.

I really didn't want to bring it up - but it's just such a terrible shame about VT. My brother graduated from VT in 2004, and we were all there in 2003. It's got one of the most beautiful campuses I've seen - we strolled around for what seems like hours, amidst maples, pines, duckponds and beautiful architecture. It was a 45 minute drive from a bed and breakfast in Roanoke - and Blacksburg was so quiet, so tame - not like the America you picture in your head when you're seventeen. But VT was like a little town in itself. A very pretty town at that, with students lying about on the grass with their books, laptops and music, very much like those university brochures you find in the libraries. It all seems too surreal to be true. Wish you well Hokies.

oh shit it's 230 and i am looking for irish names on the internet and not studying and not bothered about using punctuation marks i love yeats and i love shaw and i am happy high with godonlyknowswhat ok bas

How's that for "cute" jazz? Heh. I read this really funny comment about Jamie Cullum - "Jamie Cullum is to jazz, what Van Gogh was to art - he has no ear". Cheeky, but what do I care. I like the music and I sure as hell like the bloke. Late night television sucks. There's nothing on but C-grade Bengali films and the same news over and over again. The other night though, sometime around 2 or 3, I don't remember, I chanced upon The Kumars' at No. 42. I always found Kumars' a little dopey, not exactly funny, kind of cringe inducing - but watchable, especially when you're a bored insomniac. So Jamie Cullum was the guest, and well, he had that Billy Joe Armstrong thing going for him so I decided to watch. He studied literature and played jazz and laughed like a 5 year old. Not bad - I thought - and watched some more. And then there was a rather insipid Cybill Shepherd tasting pakoras and what not - but I stuck around - there was a mention of a live performance. And well, it was a song called Photograph.

I'm hooked. Check out Twenty Something as well on the Listening to section.

Too many changes, too little time. I'm sick of farewells.

I have two caterpillars across my forehead. Two thick little eyebrows. Like a gawky adolescent. It's fascinating me a bit, so I'm keeping it for a while.

See? Like so thick. I look like a different person.

I was listening to The Doors after ages today. Indian Summer and Hyacinth House. It reminds me of Kalimpong. It was so much fun. Cards, treks, rafting, picnics, that addictive milk sweet thing.

Sheesh. I have totally transcended to Aunty stage. I even feel it. Although sometimes, if you ask me how old I am, I might just accidentally say 17. When I'm at home in my shorts and torn tees, reading Archie comics and twiddling my toes, I don't feel a day above that. And now with the eyebrows, heh, more so. But, man. I am OF age now. I can vote, drink anywhere in the world, work, marry, legally produce babies, drive, pay bills. That only.

*grumble*

Freedom was a bus ride. An auto-ride. Messy hair. My camera, a cigarette and a new road.

Love was a metro ride, Toni Morrison and impulsive food.

Ok. This sounds pretentious.

But nonetheless, two important lessons learnt while in College.

Also rolling joints.

pic courtesy: Prachi

It's difficult not to gush. But I think I've done my share at the gig. Grateful Dead, I expected. Neil Young (woohoo!) and Dylan had to be. B.B. King was a pleasant surprise as was Dave Matthews Band. But Tin Pan Alley kind of fucked you beyond repair. Oh shit. Oh double shit.

But I think the originals were what made this gig super-special. Guitar, poetry and a voice from Heaven. And you wonder why I'm a "helpless" sycophant?

For more - see Rama's blog and Vatsala's blog and Patrick's.

I seriously need an anonymous blog.
And among other things, a terrible shame about Johnny Hart. We've known each other since like forever man.
"Man", just looks so lame when you write it, no? It's such a useful little word. Very versatile. Not as much as "fuck", but versatile enough. In a polite kind of way. Like in front of parents. I usually say a lot of things in front of my parents. But not "fuck". Even "bitch" is difficult. "Ass" is okay, but "asshole" isn't. I don't think I heard my father say "fuck" so openly and conversationally up until a few years ago. Ma, I can't even imagine. When she's really mad at someone, she'll say "capital Bee". Which could mean "bitch" or "bastard". Oh, I'm not too comfortable saying "bastard" either in front of them. "Shit" goes. It was kind of weird when I was 10, but I think they got over it. I think it was the weirdest when I said "prostitute" for the first time- not even "whore" or "slut" - just "prostitute". You know, while passing the Alipore Bridge. It just seemed funny, because they knew and I knew, but we all pretended like we didn't know. And I have a penchant for saying awkward things during awkward moments. So I said, "Yeah, what's the big deal? They're prostitutes". And it was a triumphant moment because I was twelve and my grandmother was sitting next to me and Ma gasped. Jeez, I could be so lame. Twelve year olds can be such pains. They should be totally banished and not allowed to return till they're seventeen or something. If they're like me, they should wait till they're about thirty.

You know that terrible phase, when everything you say is an innuendo? You just can't help it, and it just happens. Even a simple sentence seems loaded. And you laugh at just about everything. It just so happens that I like hard bananas. They're the only kind I can have. Can you imagine saying that to someone? Whattodo now. Or like when you call someone up and ask "Are you coming?" or when you say something like "She was getting off". I mean that simple. But you're just too far gone. It's not even funny. But I dare you not to laugh, when you actually say it or hear it. Innocently of course. I was watching the Tonight Show that day, and there was this guy who claimed he could make every single word sound like it had something to do with sex. And he opened a random page from the dictionary, and heh, it was actually quite funny.

Anyway. I'm just bored. I have to study really. It's just too hard I tell you.

....Aaaand he's back :)

This is how the T2 article begins -

Bertram Da Silva - far better known as Bertie in St. Xavier's College and beyond - has put Blake on the backburner. He will be teaching poetry of a different kind: Dylan's poetry, and his own. The favourite professor of English is stepping off his dias at the head of the class and is making his much-awaited return to the musical stage, a journey that had started during his own days as a student, 27 years ago, at the same educational institution.

And this is how it ends:

Have you ever been lonely, Motorcar, I don't want to write this song and Moonlight lady are some of the originals that will be heard for the first time by students of this cryptic, sometimes caustic, yet always inspiring teaching.

They wouldn't miss it for the word.

It's a Thursday night comeback at the Princeton Club. And a good way to begin the morning I tell ya.

For more, read T2 (article's by Mohua Das and the picture I found via a random google search, and had a bit of a goldmine moment - for more see Ghoxe's Flickr album - who will probably kill me - because none of this is with his permission. But then there was no copyright, and I feel politically correct but morally insecure - so. )

Oh and this maybe interesting as well, for trivia buffs like me.
And this and this.

Gawd, I feel abnormal today.

R.I.P. Miss Kapoor

Aaargh. I'm mad. There was this kinda transvestitish hot looking guy on Kasautii (yes yes, we've been through this before - I vautch), and they've changed him! I'm like, mortified, crushed and so not watching it anymore. Ekta Kapoor has tried my patience a gazillion times, and I had always triumphed, dedicating my largely useless life to watching two, not one, but two, of her useless soaps - despite the plastic surgeries and the inane storylines and the migraine inducing editing (the infamous "double-take" really helped me understand the extention of time concept in FS, haha). And that is not all - I had to face all kinds of ridicule at home (especially from a sports&news type brother and father), had to make up all kinds of random excuses for intellectual friends who called me up precisely at 8.30 or 10.30 and I battled severe serial addiction when I was out of town and/or away from a television set. I'll make no excuses. I loved the dumb stuff. Except when you had some slutty, grating item number from some shitty K-movie that you made with your Balaji money - then I just changed the channel. But it was cool. I could deal wth all that. I could excuse all the stupid, unnecessary side actors (again flickety-flick) - as long as the main characters were all there - carrying the "story" forward. I could have my dinner in peace. BUT. This is Harakiri. You changed (not killed off, nono, that would give me more faith) the prodigal son of Prerna and Anurag? How DARE you? Stupid bitch. *sigh* - I finally succumb then - the last of the K-serial watchers. I give up. I give up. *doublesigh*

My very special visitor

I know it looks like I'm trying to strangle her, but I assure you, we're on very good terms. This is my little Kochu, who came from far far away only to meet her Naughty Mashi. And I didn't have a camera :( (which explains very low res. cell pic)
A day very well spent. House smells all doggy and happy.

Man. Where did all the time go?

Fuck. I'm bored with booze. I'm bored with people into booze, drugs, sex and really bad poetry inspired by the city and Eliot. Seriously. I just look at you and zzzzzzzzzzz. I mean it's great and all that, that you know so fucking much about things of absolutely no fucking importance, but I wish you knew more. I just get so bored with people singularly interested in being non-conformist (conforming to non-comformity I call it) and being different, that it's difficult to talk to them about anything else beyond their sphere of understanding. It would be fun if you could really be as random as you pretended to be. And a little less condescending. A little more tolerant. A little more clear headed. A little more considerate. There's nothing more irritating or boring than wasted people. It's not cool. It's not amusing. It's stirs up no feeling of pity or sympathy. They're all so dull and grey and uninteresting and exasperating. I've had enough of them, really. Wannabe actors, activists and bohemian gypsy tarts with their fucking iPods and jholas and dirty hair - blrgh. Go get a brain that's yours. Retards.

I seriously love pigs