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.)