Tuesday, 30 December 2008

Look who's here again

Life isn’t really a cakewalk. Everything goes fine until one day you suddenly face with one of those difficulties…


Exams. Yeah I have one again. They are like phantasmal nightmares that haunt you rather too often than one would want. And no matter how much time you’ve been given to prepare for it, the zeal for studying doesn’t really come two months before D- Day. The high rush of adrenalin, the enthusiasm to gulp down knowledge, the Ulysses like ultra- keenness is a myth. At least for me. I plan every day as to what I should do. And I then manage to do exactly what I shouldn’t. Life is such a drag. No matter what you do this Ultimate Source of Depression is always lurking there at the back of the mind. The whole thing is like a parasite. Exams are like leeches that suck out anything that is worth enjoying in this life. However, it’s true that sitting for an exam in the hall is rather enjoyable. One gets to see a plethora of people with diverse expressions. A friend of mine can often be seen wool-gathering in the first two hours. It’s the third hour that makes her grasp the fact that its do or die (do or fail, to be politically correct.) the principle of beg borrow and steal is implemented in every exam hall- beg and borrow pens, protractors and answers. The classroom is one big happy family... There's definitely more to this but my limited knowledge on the lingua franca isn't permitting me to pen (type) them down here.

So, as all have concluded by now, I am as usual frustrated with it. But then it’s only normal because getting frustrated at the slightest pretext is my trademark style. I really don’t mind examinations. Just wish that they didn’t test our mugging- up prowess.

Monday, 29 December 2008

Practising optimism ;)

Its funny how one can feel nostalgic at the weirdest hours of the day. It’s almost 1 am and I am harassing the keyboard with my sudden splurge of sentimental gaga. Life itself is strange.

There has been so many times when we feel that we cannot face life anymore. The world suddenly shrinks into a narrow windowless room full of disgruntlement, as if the seething sadness is almost claustrophobic. The laughter that we shared echoes amidst the white pillars of ruins that we left. They hark back of times that aren’t ever to come back.

Time is too precious to let go of, but as each second passes by we lose it. I’d like to believe that we can ensnare time in a tiny corner of our brain, so that every little sign act as keys that can bring back those days as reminiscences. The world seems to come to a standstill as we come to the end of something. But hope allows us and our mind’s world to carry on. Life is too beautiful to just sit back with our memories. It hurls at us challenges that are the stepping stones of our growing up. Time can never give us anything decayed so we get fresh reasons of joy from life as we grow older.

When we'll look back, all our petty discontents shall look like mundane trials of patience, and almost comical. We might not crack the jokes that we cracked when we were younger, but we shall look back at those jokes with fondness, laugh at the thought that we could come up with such poor jargon and actually considered them to be worthy of our laughter. We might meet each other once in a blue moon. But then even blue moon is sure to occur once in three years. We might not be as hyper excited at most things as we were, but we’ll learn the flair of subtle passion. We’ll be excited all the same; just that the exposĂ© of it shall be a tad bit different.

The whole thing isn’t exactly like a short story. The chapters are interlinked and thus when every chapter ends, the next carries forward with it something of the previous. So we aren’t really losing out on the whole thing as we come to the end of something. We have to give up on certain things, but then to gain something we must surrender a few. We can’t be forever the same, but can be forever young as we are now. Life is too beautiful to go on lamenting about the past- we have lived the past and can relive it anytime we want in our mind. The jubilant past is here with us in the present. We haven’t left anything behind. It’s there with us. It’s there with me. And I am not going to let go of it.


(err.. pardon me for my midnight blues. sleepiness must have made me do it. )

Saturday, 27 December 2008

Change of Season

My eternally over-wintered brain is seeing spring for some time now. Though it should have been ideally operational for the sake of my upcoming examinations, the Mumbai carnage plus the festive spirit did the honours instead of the thoughts of the Impending Doom of March. My mother is always at her freaky best- she was sure that I was going to get blown up if I visited Park Street on Christmas. (That’s going to happen on the day my result comes out anyway. And no it’s not about eat-and-get-bloated blown up thing. She has given up hoping for that, ages ago. She has now accepted the fact that she has given birth to a toothy skeleton.)

Footfall at the malls always increases during any festive season, mostly thanks to us shopaholic femmes. And since majority of the women in this planet have side-bags almost like Pandora’s Box, the security guards at each malls are supposedly at their hyper-best. The television media has also wakened up from the quiescent state. 26/11 has given them a decent Breaking News at last. So it’s continuing even now. A certain bong channel has also started keeping unattended bags in crowded areas to check the citizen’s and police’s alertness. Both the targeted victims failed miserably to identify and complain about the suspicious thing. Though such acts test the alertness level and pre-warn about potential dangers, I found such hoaxes rather funny.

26/11 has changed life for many quite a bit. It even changed the spelling of the Bong- Didi’s name. For some nothing much has changed- their food for life is the primary concern. The Great- Social- Divide is all the more glaring. I don’t remember being so concerned about the Malegaon case, Assam Blasts or the perpetual mayhem in Kashmir. Attack on the Parliament became an ‘attack against Democracy’ while other attacks were sidelined as sporadic cases not worth all the media hullabaloos. Attack on Taj made a certain renowned reporter write about his memories there that coincided with the birth of his son while the 56 dead at CST was not given much footage in comparison. Certain things never change.

As for me, I’ll now wait to watch Shrek.

Monday, 1 December 2008

Where's The Party...

Terrorism in India has almost become a K-serial saga. The intensity, the casualty and of course the melodrama the good old 'party' folks is ever increasing. With all the blast in one single year, I really wonder how the country shall sustain few more that are inevitable since I can’t perceive any change in the system that shall effectively combat the menace.

Things are taking an even worse turn with Ram Gopal Verma trying to deliver his Mumbai ki Aag. All the congress can do is to go on a resignation spree. With the number of people leaving the hapless Union Government, I wonder how much it will be left with in the end. The BJP is actually no better and has smartly avoided starting a blame game match. (We have been saved. All the blame and the counter blame would have been an insult to the cause) Their Sadhvi-bachao-andolan is all hushed up. (Also the Thakeray sena) The Congress has had to bear the brunt of high profile terrorism while the BJP has gifted us citizens with Babri Masjid demolitions and Godhra riots. The only alternative is the Prakash Karat sect but then bang- on! Winning votes to them and you see the UP queen as PM.

With no ostensible alternatives, we the citizens are being compelled to lose hope, and to carry on with our lives crouching down in our own land to save ourselves from the communal demagogues and anti- national forces. Unfortunately we all aren’t made of brave CafĂ© Leopold stuff. (Hats off to them, for defeating the cause of the aggressors.) A friend told me that by being afraid we are amplifying our own defeat. But then the question that obviously arises is that what we can do. If the reservation bill could conceive a Youth for Equality, then can’t a heinous act of terror give way to better governance? Its show time for the aam aadmi. And we just need to make full use of it.

Sunday, 14 September 2008

Boring Machine.

Boredom has consumed me. No wonder I am back to blogging. And with this post, I am going to bore all the readers to death- if they have managed to survive reading the other posts that is.

No doubt everyone wants to know what goes on in a girl's mind all the time. it's difficult to gauge I agree. In case of men its quite easy for the prime topic of thought processing for men is what the American Pie movies are all about. If for any guy it isn't so, then a visit to the doctor is surely on his cards. But us girls are made of far more complicated stuff I swear. Men are always eager to get an insight to a chic's mind. I have a more raging temper than any man around and so anyone trying to poke about trying to know whats going on in my lil brain will get a You-Know-What at You-Know-Where. (Sorry to the good ol' folks who had to bear the brunt of it.) Now that I am trying to think of what goes around in my mind most of the times, all I can remember is that I think of missing the cart power equipped bus every time its the end of the last period in school. I worry about what vegetable I will have to consume during lunch which my mother says is healthy but I argue that the thought of consuming itself is gonna drive me bonkers. I think about whose what I wished to kick-the-hell-out-of that day but could not, etc etc. I even worry about studies. When I miss my computer I think of typing in my sleep. I think of Pigs- in stys and in human bodies. These prove that I worry about all the mundane minutae of life which really isn't going to do me any good. I should learn from men. they know exactly what to think when they don't have anything to do. And look at me. I am bored: and all I can do to kill time is to start blogging.


P.s: I read what I wrote just now. Does not make any sense to me. if it does to you, then may the God of Men bless you.

Friday, 22 August 2008

It's a matter of Life and Death

Unfortunately I have realised that I get the momentum to write blogs only the day before an examination. English examinations aren’t exactly a sting in the rear if one is creative. An imaginative and resourceful chic need not study English for hours to get the Golden Marks on paper.

(No wonder I need to study)

The HS Examination Board souls were so hell bent on teaching us kids about life that they have selected poems especially written on death. Or else poems which will depress one to death anyway. No wonder examinations are killing stuff. (Are these some evil schemes of population control?) Class XII English syllabus has made me realise that the tenth grade was actually a part of some advanced learning system catering to us First Language Intelligentsias. (Not that we are any better than our peers) It was somehow realised in the eleventh grade that the higher studies should revolve around less challenging matter. Thus West Bengal Board has disproved the general idea of progression of the mind. However, what I appreciate is that it has given the language a high echelon. Though I crib about the marks factor, I appreciate the fact that it does not simply distribute marks like charity. It does not throw marks above 95 percent to anyone and everyone who can merely get a sentence correct. There is always a sense that in language one always has a scope for improvement and can never be seamless in it.

Wednesday, 16 July 2008

Epitome Lost

I thought I had lost my epitome. I’ve got it back. My eyes were overflowing with tears when I heard the news. I couldn’t believe that I was getting back what I had lost so suddenly...


Yes; I got back my broadband connection. After lots of complaints and several unsuccessful tiffs-off with the bsnl-walahs. A certain chirpy lady had taken up the phone to (supposedly) patiently listen to my complaint. A fine soul. full of energy even at 8 pm. I, in full awareness of my recently found adulthood, meekly warned that I would dump bsnl for good if it doesn’t bother to restore my connection. And the answer at the other end? was: “Who has stopped you from doing so? Do it instead of complaining”. I was dumbfounded. Here I was gearing up to vent my broadbandlessness frustration and she counter-attacked me instead. I tried to explain this hapless disoriented soul that she shouldn’t be saying such stuff for it will cost her her job, but I understand that it must be boring for her to listen to so many complaints etc etc… But oh dear. For the first time I tried to be stern and the repercussion was such that I couldn’t control my amusement. But the connection got restored the next day anyway. Chirpy Lady saved my life.

This has made me think of my long-term affair with the internet. I can’t survive without it. It engulfs me; makes me want to be a better profile. I sneak into the album of cool chicks to satiate the platonic lesbian side of myself. Gosh. What a frust I am. Anyway, who cares? I’ve got my epitome back.

Wednesday, 11 June 2008

Merry-go-round

Prinsep Ghat is The Ultimate Lovers’ Paradise in Kolkata, albeit the excreta stenches of animals and humans and what not. I had been to Prinsep many a times. I was also the victim of a keen observation made by the parents of a friend who said that I had taken up humanities in +2 so that I could visit Prinsep with (not so) handsome boys. I really liked this comment. It showed that some people have innovative minds to cook up ground-breaking reasons for one visiting a particular place.

Prinsep is a great place of escape. But I am beginning to suspect that the place is recently witnessing a proliferation of people I know well and I wish to steer clear of. My publicity of the place did not benefit me I guess. We classmates went there for the first time during monsoon, sort-of bunking school. We were unfortunately caught by the river traffic police whose daughter was our senior. And was then that we realised that we were geniuses at cooking up stories together. We claimed that we were on an assignment from school regarding a project on Kolkata’s heritage sites. We had to sit through his lectures on all the ghats. Not that we minded for it came with free hot tea. (Ah.. a few rupees were saved :|) I am not too keen on forgetting that day. It was so good that I did not even frown much when I had to share my umbrella with the nincompoops who never bothered to carry one. (The do carry one now, occasionally… phew) Prinsep brought new dimensions to my life- however weird it may sound. It gave me my first tryst with Romance, and the joys of it. It was the beginning of many expeditions taken by us- be it Dalhousie during Durga Puja where we all got pathetically drenched and posed under the Raj Bhavan’s arches to keep ourselves dry (Sayantani was looking really sexy…She was looking like one of those carvings on the Konarak Temple… wish we both were not so straight then…); or the barmy Howrah-Bridge crossing and ferrying expeditions for no particular reason at all. I often think of the time when we were watching The Namesake and the glimpses of the Howrah Bridge were really tempting. And then all of a sudden as we got out of the hall, we spotted a double- decker bus and thus boarded on to it. It was headed towards Howrah, much to our delight. Some might call it madness. Some might even say that these weren’t even remotely adventurous. But in a very small way, they made me what I am. And they made us into what we are now. I at times wish that every year, even if we have really tight schedules, we should all meet and go to these places. Practically, that is hardly possible. But then, there’s no harm in hoping!


P.S: I had been to Prinsep today with my mother, and it has sentimentally charged me up :P

Tuesday, 3 June 2008

Pimplized...

Life is like pimples. (Or is it? Perhaps the fact is that in the past few months, my mind was only on my pimples on the cheeks and it has made me blinkered enough to compare everything with them.)

These pimples manage to spring up and then they manage to disappear, leaving behind a plethora of marks. (how pathetic :D) Several things in life are like that perhaps. One does so many things in his childhood which he will perhaps never be able to remember. But it still leaves a mark on his personality or the way his moral fibre has shaped up. (There. I did it. I compared life with pimples! I am Godly. :|) Anyway, if we, in our lives, don’t have these experiences which are going to leave a mark on our persona, we won’t grow up. It’s the mundane details in our everyday life which actually makes us human from … well… dumb instinctive babies which know only how to wail, eat, wet their diaper and then again go on with this simple cycle :|

So if we consider a pimple as en experience, as a much needed humdrum detail in our lives, that it won’t be much of a problem.

Now I hope that I have convinced myself that I need not crib about them.

Tuesday, 6 May 2008

The F-word.

Frustration. (The term is synonymous with my name. Frustration has manifested itself physically in the form of pimples. They are huge, stuck like craters on my cheek, and intend to settle permanently.)

Why are we happy mortals frustrated more often than not? everyone is frustrated in some way or the other. Frustration is a perennial source of Frustration. It's saga in childhood begins with a state of denials. You are denied the basic joys of life- phuchkas, roadside delicacies etc. thus frustration is usually hurled onto you as a repercussion of food-stuff-denial. However as we grow this frustration wanes out since we get wise and gorge on such stuff away from our parents’ strict vigilance.

Frustration in teenage comes from the movie stars more often than not. For example, I fell in love with Hugh Grant. And then I came to know that he had hurled beans at a photographer. Now that was unique no doubt, but I would not exactly love to fall in love with someone who resorts to hurling beans for time pass. Late teenage is a complex issue altogether. Frustration comes in the form of realisation of physical deformities and psychological distortions. (Even if you are lectured on the Taare Zameen Par stuff that every child is special, such complexes are bound to remain. It’s human. :p) frustration appears in the complex opposite- sex struggle. (Mind games, you pervert. I am not discussing anything physical :-| ). One is bound to fall for the oh-so-handsome inaccessible bloke who is always ostensibly beyond ones network coverage. :-(. Then when you ultimately get hold of the target-guy, frustration prevails with the thoughts of dealing with parents, friends, time management, studies, (apart from dealing with the hapless victim of one’s fascination itself) etc etc…

Life is thus full of frustration. My mother complains of frustration in her job, my father foresees frustration as an impending doom which shall ruin his post-retirement life; my grandmother is frustrated as she is idle… And look at me. I am all of 18 (ok, not yet… few days still left) and I complain of frustration too. What shall I do during my granny’s age?

It’s a tricky question.

Very hard to imagine.

Sunday, 13 April 2008

The Roadies Effect

I am a very creative person.

Really.

I can rip off any sorts of ideas and mould them to fit my own mind’s frame. Yesterday’s Roadies’ money collecting task harped on my imagination-string. The blokes were dressed as ladyboys or something. Even the guys thus had to dress like girls and perform a semi- strip dance with seductress like moves. I tried to imagine every single guy I know in that condition. And believe me they scored better than me. I’d have looked like Condoleezza Rice performing in a club. Where as the guys I thought of could actually pass off as stripping eunuchs , who are... ahem... sultrier than Rice. Sorry Bush. (Do they all have such funny surnames?)


I suggest that every person should try imagining this guy-gal thing. It's such a cool time pass :p

Saturday, 12 April 2008

It's all in the genes

My parents are no good at arguing. Being hardcore bongs, they argue in benglish- my father in the prim and proper lingua franca garnished with Bengali gaalis (unless he is at a loss as to what to say.) and my mother in Bengali accented grammatically proper English, ornamented with rapid flow of Bengali pragmatism. I dramatised one and jotted them down here (with my bewildered parents’ approval) proving what nikammas even my parents are… when it comes to arguing.


Mother: “Ranna ghore eto tiktiki je kotha theke ashe!”


Father: “Toh onno kothae thakbe?”


Mother: “Tumi kichhu korte paro na egulo ke niye? Ektu tariye dite toh paro dekhte pele! Chattopadhyay hoyechho ki korte? Jain der moto ahimsa’r natok koro jotoshob.”


Father: “Ami ki korbo! Tumi erom bokader moto kotha bolona. Professor image ta noshto hoye jae”


Mother: “Chhele bolei ranna ghorer kono jotno nebe na! etei bojha jae kotota male dominated society amader… jotoshob chauvinism tomar.”


Father: “Ddhur. Aar boka boka kotha bolte hobe na. tomae aar amar eirom shomoye bhalo laage na…” *heaves a disgruntled sigh and gives up*


Mother: *looks at me and laughs* chharo oto chaap nite hobe na tomae. Peace maaro (winks, as she has learnt this from me)


Father: *laughs*. End of the argument.


This proves why I am such a nikamma at arguing. (But I am better than my parents.)

Thursday, 10 April 2008

Senti ;-)

I am in a mood for sentimental brouhaha. It all started with the converging realisation of the beginning of something and the end of another. The end of something paves the way for the starting of something else…isn’t it? Yeah I merely have a few months in school. In order to avoid the farewell day tear-flood, I am preparing myself for it twelve months before. It all has suddenly reminded me of my (even more) younger days when I used to complete my homework during the lunch break coz I did not have friends to play with. And I seemed not to care. I was merely an overgrown toddler then, all of seven or eight summers. It amazes me now that I have people around me whom I can call friends. We grow up... And things change. Things have definitely become better for me through the years. Then what am I apprehensive of? Of leaving the protected arena of schooldom? Of being thrown amongst strangers? Of trying to make a mark in a completely different place all over again? I doubt if there is anything to be afraid of. I know that I am capable of dealing with all that’s hurled at us in various stages of life. We all usually have the potentials to do so; some way or the other. Hence my apprehensions are all baseless. Although they will remain, considering the fact that I am no Super-gal, it’s no use allowing them to overshadow ones common sense. (Am I trying to perform some self- actualisation stuff?)

Yeah, I know that the thought of changes has triggered the latent sentimental potentialities in me… However, its fun senti-maraoing at times.

Wednesday, 9 April 2008

cooking blues...

Girls are supposedly good cooks. (Men are better cooks, if they can, that is) I have this funny subject in my Plus-2. Nutrition- Where the practical exams allow me to cook to my hearts content and reveal my ultra-feminine motherly version. It’s the dream of every femme-hearts to cook for the man they love. I’d definitely love to cook for Tom Hanks. He has been, and shall be, forever, my only love… but then, trying to imagine myself is a tough job. The situation would be sort of the same as Charlie Chaplin serving Pamela Anderson. Chaplin would definitely feel shy. And then there are other problems as well. As I have now realised. Cooking takes patience which I definitely don’t have. And I tend to taste things while preparing and so I am bound to finish half the platter before it’s even over, burning my tongue in the process. Then there are the cats. You can never predict these sly souls. They are bound to come near everything that remotely seems like food, and they will even jump on the cooking vessel itself if they can help it. I don’t want a cat stew do I? Cooking reminds me of my mother who was preparing the shells of phuchkas. She tried to smell them right on the kadhai and burnt her chin. Burning oneself while cooking runs in our family. Other cookery escapades include lizard chasing, thinking that the smell of burnt food is coming from the neighbour’s kitchen while the phenomena was taking place in ours, etc etc. cooking is an art mastered by the womenfolk. And I have realised what a nikamma I am in cooking. (Don’t doubt it. I am a girl, though.)

Saturday, 8 March 2008

The good, The Bad (and the ugly)


I just added the 'ugly' or else the title would not have looked complete :D

I have a dual character. And I am perfectly conscious and proud of it. A part of me was born to generate trouble. And since then I have become the perennial source of maladies for my parents and for all the other people associated with me. The day I was born, my mother had to gulp bouts of oxygen for I had drained her of it. She is still in the same condition psychologically from the day I opened my mouth to talk, and blew her off with all my questions. I was frustrated (again) with studies and without due respect, I censured every person I could recall who were or are in the field of education and responsible for carrying out the damning exams. (My parents are professors.) I finished my extensively animated and creative political-leader type speech successfully saying that I am about to turn eighteen and my parents should simply marry me off. My mother heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that I was finished at last, cursed Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar for pioneering women’s education, and went off to study the population geography of China in Wikipedia. The nikamma daughter in me wakes up at 12 noon, keeps her room dirty, and at times even herself, spends the rest of the day loitering here and there, mostly outside the house, goes around with people, stays online most of the time or else is hooked to the phone and uses plethora of horny jokes.

The good side of me is also always cracking pathetic jokes and trying to study at the eleventh hour for a decent result, and at times even much before an examination is even announced, is a front- bencher in class and tries to answer most of the questions the teachers ask. She is a narcissist but tries to hide that fact by acting humble and modest. She too cracks horny jokes and goes around with friends all the time. She loves to give smileys and is basically quite stupid but she can fake intelligence pretty well.
I am a nikamma. :(

(p.s: the fact that the TOI columnist calls himself a nikamma has elevated the meaning of the word itself. hence the word has been used in appreciation of myself, by myself. )

Exams? duh

I am going to write about examinations. I know it is sickening. But I need to vent out my anger on the system of testing here. Or else i shall be venting out on the Paper from Tuesday onwards- and that wouldn't exactly make my future any brighter.

We little mortals like to live life to the lees... (Did i just quote Tennyson's Ulysses? I bet he wouldn't have bothered about seeking knowledge beyond horizon had he been provided with a set of entrance exam paper before venturing out to do so. Huh.) Examinations only tie us down to sit and study (read: gulp down words without having to understand them). I really wonder why we have so many formally recognised marks or grade-based examinations on the field of education. Why, for example, aren't we supposed to give an examination (both theoretical and practical) before getting married to begin ones conjugal life formally? Examinations are supposed to rate us so that we can plan our future well, according to our means and talent, right? Then why don't we have a formally recognised examination in the world's most fascinating projects- population exploder? I have a strong feeling that this would have prevented our Great Population Boom.

The West Bengal Board of Higher Secondary Education has got its own signature style where implementation of examination is concerned. For the 'benefit' of their super- intelligent students, even the class eleven final exams are supposed to be given at an external examination centre. Luckily, they provide us with ample entertainment. For example, our centre is very close to an inanely cheap prostitution den, and hence youthful and not so youthful sex starved men are often seen to be aligning themselves near the walls of the centre and its periphery in order to grab their human- viagra. :| Thanks, WBBHSE.

Another interesting sight to watch during examinations are the parents and the examinees themselves. the poor parents mob the centres with tiffin boxes and water bottles, trying to get a glimpse of their superstar sons and daughters who are going to go through the Great Examinations. Boys and girls get into the halls with red symbols of some gods and goddesses on their foreheads, and come out with teary eyes- as if their life has ruined. A few peaceful souls have happy faces- not because of a good paper, but because of the end of the examinations.

Hail to thee, oh ye Exam Spirit.

Monday, 25 February 2008

Valentine's Special

Yet another valentine’s day gone. I missed the romance which was definitely in the air because I was scared of going out on that day since I staunchly believe that my parents will freak out thinking that I have a boyfriend (or a girlfriend) Hence I ignored both the sexes (noun) on this special day. On V-day, the stores are adorned with red balloons. Shops hand over balloons to every couple they can lay their eyes upon. I think they are provided for the lovers to write their names umpteen number of times. Or else they shall desperately resort to scribbling on tree barks and monuments, advertising their immortal love towards each other. The parks are swarmed with odd couples of various shapes, sizes and ages. Young kids are suddenly thrown away from the swings, replaced by desi hot chicks who giggle while their better/worse-halves try to woo by pushing them (the swings). The highly romantic boys and girls all of a sudden become Siamese twins stuck near the heads. The fact that they aren’t Siamese twins after all is proved by the constant hairstyling advertisements performed for free by the male counterparts. Yeah, love is in the air. And then the lovely air is polluted by our moral polices. The exhibition of affection becomes suddenly blasphemous, against the desi culture and against ‘Bharatiyata’. Somebody needs to hang them in front of the walls of the Konarak Temple in Orissa- let them question on the Indianness of displaying affection then. (However I bet they will just ogle at the carvings.) Poor moral polices. I suppose they are really deprived.

Monday, 28 January 2008

Ten things i must do before I turn 18

The List:

1. Won't crack non- veg jokes for 24 hours at a stretch. (rather, non-veg pj's- I opted for losing virginity deep under the sea to produce mermaids. That's one of my ultra-pj and proves the fact that I have been deprived of the non-females for a long time : )

2. Watch porn on television. (I must admit I am scared of this. Two people does the same thing continuously for two hours. it gets boring. And one can produce better sounds while farting. )

3. Stay away from home, on the road, one whole night. (no. ALONE. or with Girls. And I am not a lesbian.)

4. Get a boyfriend for a week (What? no BF in 18 whole years of my life? True. : - not that I mind. I'd rather be a lesbian. )

5. Kiss a frog. (JLT. I am not under the illusion that it will turn into Prince Charming. I ain't THAT frustrated )

6. Give a hard kick on the You-Know-Where of all the pseudo- intellectuals i know. (There constant claim that no one cares for them drives me batty. Were they born with this disorder or is it PMS? )

7. Bunk school, and learn to give better excuses for bunking


8. Drive an auto. Some say that I am prone to falling in love with the autowalas. So I am going to keep one in the backseat. (in case I screw up my auto-driving stint. Not for any other reason, you perverts. )

9. Whistle at boys, give them chits with my cell number, say "Hi, I want to make friendship with you", or "hi sexy" etc etc. (Poor boys.)

10. Marry a rich brat. Does Ratan Tata have a boy?

P.S: Don't take me too seriously. :D