Tuesday, 29 December 2009

To be or not to be :|

Alright, I am a girl. (And no. this isn’t where I am attempting to prove it). But I don’t really get many things, what girls do. I empathise wholeheartedly when the male species of the earth look absolutely confused because they can’t make the head or tale out of their chic’s behaviour (though I strongly suspect at times they just pretend.) what is with babies and girls? The moment a baby is targeted, some of the girls’ lips will automatically make the I-am-kissable pout. And lo-behold they shall speedily run towards the hapless target. The target shall be captured, brought into arms and showered with weird noisy hugs and the likes, and all the bacteria that entails. I can understand if the nappied chick is one’s relative and all that, but molesting random babies on the road is something that should be blasphemous where human code of conduct is concerned. What if the baby gives you swine flu?

Then there is the Big Soft Toy dilemma. And I just mean the pink teddy bears and the likes. Again these things make people emit weird sounds in the form of gibberish like baby talks, followed by tall claims in public of sleeping with the thing that is blighted because of excessive human pressure. Of all the XY holding people I know most have gifted or has contemplated gifting teddy bears to their louly lasses, obviously with an ulterior make-me-your-bear motive. And even after the cognizance of the fact that it’s very very difficult to keep them clean, they still survive in the hearts of many ladies. And the larger teddies, the better.

That reminds me of the cleanliness fetish. One spec of dust spotted, and most of my kind are at it. To me everything shall ultimately be dust, so let them be. Let us survive in peace amidst what the earth has created instead of trying to clean up the mess. But I tell you, no one shall ever listen to the great philosopher inherent in me till it’s too late. Anyway, this particular cleanliness fetish takes the form of a mania by the time a person has crossed 30 or has become a mother. I wonder, when I shall be 40, staying alone with a cat in a big mansion after robbing off a millionaire, whether I shall be as disorganised as I am now, or not. I do hope so. Lack of accumulated dust makes me feel somewhat lonely. :|

And the final thing. Clothes. We girls are keen on looking pretty. We take at least some effort for that. The smarter lot does not talk about it 24*7, but some of us unfortunately do. Unless we are busy bugging or suspecting the loves of our lives. It usually starts with complimenting the other person on how pretty she looks, even if she does not. Then it’s sheer business. You negotiate on the shops and whereabouts, know every detail you need and if you have the moolah, you buy a better, trendier version of that ASAP. And that’s how females have highly expandable wardrobes. And that’s how life goes.

I can’t claim that I am absolutely baffled by everything that I have written here, barring the first two points which absolutely baffles me to the highest degree.

P.S: For the people who are showing me the flaming red eye, I say that this is mere generalisation. I did not mean to be offensive. I think. :p

Friday, 25 December 2009

Calculate your loser quotient: Christmas Special. (Offer valid if you are bored)

We human beings are always out there to find out who’s the greater loser than self. Alright I have been generalising here but the fact remains that at least I do it. the basic five types that I know from personal experience are mentioned below. Go ahead, find your quotient if you fall into these groups, and most importantly, if you are bored :D

1. Go to the nearest pretty church, pray for the pretty girl in the corner whom you’ve been eyeing since morning, attempt to talk through an undecipherable mumbo-jumbo language that culminates into disgust of the girl: this is the loser type which has got the potential to become a non-loser. The princess diary makeover type, if you know what I mean.

2. Sleep late into the afternoon, evening comprises of a booze party. Desire to get sloshed gets so high that you can almost plunge into a booze pool if there was one, to end up being deliriously happy or whatever: absolutely lacks any iota of loser quotient.

3. Hanging around with pretty pretty lasses: same as above. I mean, life is all set. You don’t even need tequila shots here to be high, with PYTs around.

4. Hanging around with pals: same as above. At least even if you are fat or anorexic, they are not going to bother much. you can gorge on any amount of plum cakes you want to. This is sheer bliss.

5. Being online, attempting to blog unsuccessfully: you’ve reached the zenith of loser quotient. End of the story. :D

That’s all folks.
Merry Christmas to you all! And have a euphoric New Year :)

Monday, 30 November 2009

lessons learnt from an educational tour

College trips are these fast and furious things. All I can remember now is a hazy picture of lots of laughter and a lot more of disaster management. I also managed to measure my loser quotient: as the rest of the folks got zonked I watched NDTV.

I also remember the fact that a girl called me cuddly and tried to hug me much to my discomfort. God it’s only the girls, and only the weird ones who can understand that even I am hormonal. What has the Almighty made me into?

An important fact must be noted down: I bargained in Hindi which is merely adulterated Bengali. No wonder I could not reduce the prices much. One of my classmates bargained, claiming that we are students and we need to have our caution money and hence can’t afford to spend so much. I have also realised that mentally I am an aged aunt. I bought two laundry bags for home. Now that’s something only loud aunts and mothers are supposed to do.

Bangladeshi songs are way better than Bollywood. I have danced to it and have sung in my croaky voice without anyone even attempting to kill me. Bangladeshi rappers make Chiranjeevi look like Rock Hudson. (Check out the video here)

Men are good at carrying luggage. May the Almighty churn out their types as long as we female folks carry huge baggage. And that shall be till eternity.

Jodhpur ‘super fast’ express is running to make people nostalgic about the Partition and all that it entailed. One bunk is to be shared by three people, reservation or no reservation. It validates the great Indian philosophy of sharing with a big smile, however fake that may be.

Apart from other typical ages-old rules that are meant to be broken, Jain temples have made it mandatory for people to smoke out there. See last line in poster for confirmation. I'm not sure whether non-smokers are chucked out or not. I survived.

Friday, 13 November 2009

As I go on updating my blog, my scope of writing diminishes, narrowing down to a small sliver of ideas till I have no more. If I could talk of love and passion, the world around me would embrace my ideas, for these are universal feelings of goodness. But whenever I attempt to write about love, it ends up being simply about the love for me. Every romantic line that I attempt to write seems like some poetic description of an impending fart.

The problem lies perhaps in the colossal love for self, which is so rigid that it won’t permit anyone else within its narrow domain. I don’t have that eye for details in the trees and birds and grass. Only literature that I read comes from the newspapers, I don’t like animals, and I prefer cats to dogs. There is not a single band I am fascinated by, just a few songs that have been with me since ages continue to fascinate me even now. My knowledge hasn’t increased, neither has my world around me by any greater degree. I haven't matured much since ages ago, though at times pretend to be the know-it-all. And as gradually my ideas diminish, and I have ended up making fun of every single thing I am aware of, my enthusiasm for writing shall perhaps cease to exist.

Hmm. On a serious note, not really :D

Friday, 6 November 2009

Yo man! It's d kewl dude

I have always believed that every big social change gradually creeps in, it’s the icing, the grand finale which is the social revolution. A certain form of malignancy (can also be deemed as entertainement) have been creeping in: the band of ‘cool dudes. It’s only a matter of days till a revolution takes place and they shall rule the world. They are sprouting up in every nook and corner of the city.

1. They wear sunglasses in the dark, occasionally removing it to check out a girl properly. Impractical folks. I have always said that the best way of eyeing a girl without seeming to be vulgar is to look from the corner of the eyes. But no one listens to me.

2. Buttons to the shirt are an extinct fashion statement. Anyone putting them on is clearly making a great fashion faux pas of the highest degree.

3. They have oh-so-godly girlfriends that even make an absolutely normal girl like me salivate. There are plenty of times when I have imagined myself to be this ultra macho girl fighting the hooligans for the sake of protecting the bold and the beautiful.

4. Fluorescent is THE colour. The flashier the better. It’s truly attractive. A flashy disco belt shall put my father’s generation and Mithun Chakroborty to shame. The Disco Dancer cult has returned with reloaded fervour.

5. ‘Yo dude’, pronounced ‘yo dood’ with loads of attitude: possibly followed by a mild pelvic thrust of the Cheeranjeevi type.

6. Their shrill desi citees are absolutely beautiful. I have always tried to master the art myself. Their brains have this automatic nerve centre that directs them to whistle the moment something even remotely looking like a girl passes by. I have this feeling that they do the same, subtly in their mind, when female animals pass by too.

7. They wear these weird and extremely low waist jeans. They have no sense of the gravitational pull and all that it entails, it seems.

8. Their havens are the public transport system. They can cling on any random girl like a stubborn louse, with a vague i-know-nothing look. If the girl scowls, they scowl back as if the girlie scowl has just robbed off their honour as well as that of their forefathers. Anyway perhaps things could have been better if they wore some deodorant.

With these killing looks and attitude, they’ll soon be reigning supreme all over. Bless them, my Lord.

Rocket Science

Rockets were designed on the model of the unholy connection of human brain and posterior. A slight holy flickr won’t do. The blessed rear must be a raging fireball creating halo around it for the mind to realise that it’s time to do what should be done, or rather what should have been done a long long time ago.

Ideally the great initiator of a mystic metaphoric fireball should be available at the right time. Like whenever a desperate teenager sees the picture of Penelope Cruz, desire does not need any procrastination. The required kick is felt almost instantly. But when it comes to examinations this isn’t the case. I have been waiting for this great kick of a lifetime since the last month and it’s nowhere to be felt or heard. The cause can’t possibly be the lack of a humungous rear as per the Apple Boy Newton, it can be easily deducted that small site of action requires small repercussion; hence a slight hint of a jolt should set me free, prancing away to pedagogic glory. Not that it works only for an examination. I have a class at college after an hour. It takes me a wee bit more than an hour for me to reach college. And I am blogging. At home.

Dear Lord, Throw me the fireballs.

P.S: For the folks who think that I am still a nerd, I curse you religiously on something that should not be mentioned here. :p

P.P.S: plagiarised-soul.blogspot.com: I stole your title. Not that it was yours.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009

loserville :D

It was nearly midnight. I was desperately seeking the reason behind a particular message that beeped onto my cell phone. She picked the phone and lo behold another voice pried into our conversation. I was overjoyed. I dialled another number. The recipient was perturbed that so many of us were bugging her and was anxious to know the Big Problem. We did it. May be for the first time in our lives we dealt with a telephone conference properly without making series of bloopers. :|

Four girls conversing at midnight. We had a very scientific discussion on the birds and bees and flowers and whatever. The words spoken were punctuated with giggles that would put any hyena to shame, and so it continued...

That’s the story of four losers, who at an age nearing twenty, in this tech savvy time, managed to conduct telephone conferences on the cell phone for the first time. (The remaining losers weren’t present at that moment) No matter what we’ve achieved in life we have not compromised with our loser quotient. We might crib but loser is what we shall remain and that too with élan.

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

It’s an hour past midnight; I’d definitely like to do certain things in my life that will make me euphoric, not merely happy. Me being me, my limited pragmatism may lead me to scoff these ideas away in the morning. But as of now, this is what I want.

1. Spend a night at Prinsep. A full moon, words spoken or two, the sound of the river, and a sleepy city.

2. Get onto the roof of the tallest building in city which gives a view of Victoria Memorial, Cathedral and the two bridges on the river. Charming.

3. Stand on a buoy on the river, those round things that are perched up there with an anchor. I've always found them to be fascinating.

4. Whooshing past the city on the bridge across the river, on one of those soft roof cars.

There goes my midnight desires. ;)
Goodnight fellow nocturnals. I didn't have anything better to do.

Friday, 9 October 2009

I want a Nobel Prize too.

Okay, let’s be pretty direct. I have slogged hard in this life. Mother says that I had to be given the oxygen the moment I was born so life has been tough for me from Day One. And I demand a Nobel Prize. I have done a lot for the society so I should be given one ASAP (as soon as possible)

1. Soon I’ll be roaring away to twenty (I am almost midway) and I have not puffed the cigarettes even once in my life. A normal addict puffs away to glory minimum 10 per day (according to my father’s statistics) and thus suppose I had started at the age of 15, I would be consuming roughly 365*4*10 cigarettes which amounts to 14600 cigarettes. That equals to 14 mg PM (2.5) emitted per cigarette. Which is 14600*14=204400 mg PM (2.5) so basically I have freed the environment of this big a shit. (Don’t say that buying ciggies would have helped the industry as for the Wise, environment is a bigger issue. Huh)

2. I have given emphasis on Orkutting and the likes, and studies equally (well, almost. Never mind) which is a very very difficult thing to do.

3. I am very thin and therefore people who want to be thin, after seeing me, have started admiring their bulges (well, again, almost)

4. I have resorted to blogging and thus have saved the use of paper. I also communicate with my lovers through emails and scraps instead of wasting paper by writing love letters. Saving trees this way. Also I don’t use pigeons as messengers. Yahoo does the job. See how good I am.

5. I don’t screech or scream and call my forefathers at the sight of lizards, cockroaches etc. I follow the policy of live and let live, lizards find my desk a safe haven. A peace prize for this definitely.

6. I attend all my honours classes in college and bunk most of the pass course classes, thus maintaining a very neat balance. Most people bunk both. Also I managed to be in the good books of the teachers at my school most of the time even though we bluffed to escape in between classes to catch a movie, first day second show. A prize for diplomatic negotiation for this one, shared by my diplomatic compatriots.

7. I also watch movies like Main Prem Ki Deewani Hoon and Bewafaa (Google it if you have not heard of these masterpieces) and I can even recall songs and dialogues from these movies a bit. This shows my level of tolerance. Should be awarded for this definitely.

8. I don’t go out of my house much nowadays and therefore that cuts short my travel costs. Thus I am also participating in the Great Austerity Drive with more success than the peeps who are trying to perch on the cattle… err… whatever.

9. I write blogs so that if you have a particular enemy in mind you can tell the bloke to read my blog. The poor soul shall be bored to death and you won’t have to get into the murky deeds of real killing after all, thus preventing crime.

10. Since Barrack Obama got the Nobel peace prize, with my heartiest congratulations to him, us rest folks can happily say “yes we can” too. (By the way, Obama is mind numbingly handsome. HAD to say this.)

P.S: this does not have any political connotation. (my school gang will understand this part :P)

P.P.S: I won't accept any criticism to this post. I want the Nobel. I want it I want it I want it.

Monday, 5 October 2009

Of family values.

It’s an untold rule that one must not study much in college. Class twelve boards was the last Big Thing as they said. If I venture to take out a book my parents glare at me in a manner as if I have just ruined the family reputation with my action. I glare back with a ‘you-guys-are-the-professors’ look and my mother starts chanting about how she enjoyed life in college that included 17 cinema hall shows of Aradhana movie and how they all never let studies interfere in their happening life. My father rants about how he would bunk classes, slipping out from the back door on knees, play table tennis and woo girls along with it, and similar sojourns to the riverside and Botanical Garden. It sounds so dreamy but it’s true. In this family, I am the one more keen on scholastic proficiency than the rest, and my parents and sister categorically chide me for my pedagogic exhibitions. So I have decided to uphold the name of my family, abandon studies for a long while and enjoy life… err… get a life.

Some excerpts from the family jungle:

Me: (hyper-stressed, before class 12 finals) I can’t study nor concentrate and I don’t know what to do. (Whining tone)
Father: Don’t study. Watch the television and relax till you get bored.
Mother: The problem was created by Vidyasagar. He shouldn’t have ensured women’s education. Too stressful for us.

Philosophy teacher to my father: your daughter has not attended my class for a long long time.
Father: (with a proud smile) After all she is my daughter. It’s in the genes.

Me: I got 57 out of 100 in Bengali. (Considering it was the Second Language, that was low.)
Father: (genuine smile) Lovely that my daughter could score so high. I would get around twenty at the most in school and thus I abandoned Bengali after a while.
Mother: Initially bothered as she was superb in Bengali, ends up singing to me: Just chill chill, just chill.

I rest my case.
Off to get a life.

Friday, 25 September 2009


Leaving a Bong fuming and smoking is easy. You just need to drag the oaf out of Calcutta during Pujo. I was going teary eyed at the very thought of it all the time till it’s actually just about four hours left for me to catch the flight, and I must say that finally I am rather excited. But my excitement has been rather marred by one big thing: aeroplane.

I know it will sound silly but I am stiff scared of them. According to my twisted logic, the repercussion of boarding one is being the victim of a crash. One of my friends meekly suggested that I should be proud as I am like Meg Ryan in French Kiss (the movie, pervs. From which a Kajol-Ajay Devgan starrer was badly pinched, in all the wrong places). In return I meekly cursed him. the only silver lining are the flight Stewarts and they are too good for me to even steal occasional glances, and though airhostesses are fine, the degree of my fear and my orientation makes them trivial.

I’ve packed a Jeeves series and also one of those William books (William the conqueror) that amazed me when I was eleven or twelve, hoping that they’ll keep me off my scary thoughts. (That reminds me, I had crush on Wooster at a point of time and even William, when I was his corresponding age. I know, it’s really very sad. But nevertheless, William is a Man.)

Anyway, so it’s going to be a week of abstinence from blogging and Orkutting which is pretty great. I’ll be having a life. So this consolation should keep me away from my rather weird fears.

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

Parenting blues.

Not mine. My parents’. My mother was perhaps born a feminist. On being asked what she was going to do if she was cursed with two boys and not two angelic girls like us, she first looked at the hapless person (me) who had the audacity to pip in the question in a way as if it was outrageous for the person to think that she could ever produce anything as crass as boys. Then she replied that they would be packed off to boarding schools once off their nappies. So for quite some time my parents were pretty content with life, my sister and me. Both we siblings were pretty cute. (I was actually pretty till class one or so. If I maintained all of my cuteness it would have been pretty glorious for me.) My parents were content to think that girls are organised, clean, keeps their rooms nice and pink. But then I grew up. I don’t know what I will be doing if I stay at a hostel. Already there isn’t any space for me to sleep on the bed as it is adorned with books of all odd shapes and sizes with CDs strewn all over. my bed also happens to be the haven of lizards occasionally for whom I have a special long ruler to harass. I’ve seen rooms of boys which are cleaner. And this part especially saddens my mother the most. My parents are baffled as to where I got these particular genes from considering the fact that my mother, father and sister all three are always perfectly neat and tidy. (Also: all three are healthy wealthy and wise whereas I look like an anorexic cat.) Mother once rued that there was no point in producing a daughter if she can’t keep things clean. So I suppose now she is more kind towards the thoughts of young things of the male kind.

p.s: below: that's my sister trying to hold me. Take note of the bald patch on my head. That still exists.

Sunday, 20 September 2009

disaster prevention and management

Love is in the air. With the Durga Pujo coming in, its desi Valentines Day in Bongdom. Ready-to-temporarily-mingle men lurk in every nooks and corners of the idol as equally enthusiastic femme fatales and PYTs manage to play the hide and seek to its full effect. It’s the season of blossoming love affair, surviving for a week, ending on the last day of the Great Bengali Festival itself, truly short and sweet. For all these to come into effect, a man must remain religiously single or else more than half the fun is gone. I mean, it’s necessary because you can’t possibly lech away to glory with full effect if your permanent lady love is adorned on your arm. This is one very Bong reason why a man should stay single.

There are other reasons as well I suppose. Like for example, phone calls. Some girls have this habit (like some boys) of calling the umpteenth number of times and when after a very hard day’s work, the poor man manages to pick up the phone, the silly goat on the other end is all geared up to sulk and brood and accuse and what not. Here is this macho man, all pumped up with unending love for his lady that breaks all barriers of technology and thus does not need a 24*7 bonding network, while the aforementioned silly goat thinks otherwise. On top of that one has to pay to waste time in this manner. Those glorious days of pigeons playing negotiators of lovers (kabutar ja ja ja…) are gone. For real men, its better to stay single than mingle with the goats whose measure of love and et cetera is calculated by the daily phone minutes. Technology has ruined all dil ka connection. The icing on the already stale cake is the constant demand from the whiny dolt as to how many minutes and seconds have the folk managed to miss her. So much of time management is totally and utterly disastrous.

We girls have very intelligent brains so we draw immediate inference from propositions from sheer scientific Aristotelian logic. So if Hunk-A has not called Chick-A, and Hunk-A is not receiving calls from Chick-A on a given particular day, then Hunk-A is not interested anymore in Chick-A. The probabilities of devious Chicks B to Z doing the Hunk stealer stuff increases manifold and Chick-A is left feeling depressed. But the depressed chick may fail to understand that Hunk is probably busy with FIFA or the likes, or watching Messi glide through the stadium or is simply busy snoring or watching weird movies. No common sense, such girls.

There are many more reasons why we sometimes pose as a pain in the posterior, like being unable to understand whatever that can be very simply understood, shedding away tears to glory to achieve ones end, unable to realise the reason why a certain shirt should be worn and not made into floor mops, et cetera. A guy when single, at least till the age of a quarter century, is left without all these burdens that are in essence so heavy on the youthful shoulders. And sans these burdens, not only the Pujo season in Calcutta, but almost all the seasons can be enjoyed with perfect delight.

P.S: There has been no attempt at generalisation in this post. It has been posted with particular people on mind. :p

Thursday, 17 September 2009

Senti stuff. Posted strictly for myself ;-)

The problem with me is that whenever I am senti I can’t write anything. The thing is that I actually miss those days when I could spontaneously do whatever I wanted to, not that I can’t do that anymore, just that the blessed fellows who were my accomplices are hard to get hold of in these busy times, and a trip without them isn’t half as joyful. It would be like, hopping on to a tram and going till its last stoppage, and then coming back in the same way, virtually wasting hours of my life doing almost nothing, but then it made me really happy. And they say happiness extends lifetime, so I was not wasting time but adding more to it.

I have these weird desires to go to places. I like the sea more than the mountains. Those big things scare me bit and I end up being phobic that the wind is going to shove my down the hill slope. The sea is quite sensuous and I am always eager to take a snooze near it, as it works well with my lazy nature, with sporadic shots of hyper-active enthusiasm. I like being near rivers and seas and can even deal with lakes and all that. I really enjoy dangling my legs from the edges of Victoria Memorial’s semi-moat like thing and then taking a walk back through the interiors of the muddy-green Maidan where mules and horses laze around too, and where, as a child, I remember a rather unruly monkey, supposedly trained, almost eating up my balloon as I cursed the irate fellow amidst showers of tears. Prinsep and the river side is an old lover, from where our lives begun and we grew. There are times when I am bored and I think of the things that I enjoy the most. Around the Eden Gardens and across the field at night, Prinsep and the train, Dalhousie with an umbrella, four people and rain. It’s like poetry with a tune, and penning them down, almost profane.

Thursday, 10 September 2009

The relationship that confused me...

I have realised what I should have realised ages ago. Our relationship has been for long and it was fun I admit. But then as I got rooted into the quagmire, I realised the loopholes of what I thought was the ideal bond. I don’t want to break free. No matter what you think, I am not someone who would let go of what is perhaps the most precious thing in her life. But then, I’ve realised my mistakes, know what irreparable damages have been made and I can’t do anything about it. The fetters of the relationship hurt, but I can’t let go…

Yes. I can never let go of the internet from my life.

The fact is that my relationship with the internet has been almost parasitic. I have been clinging to Orkut and the likes for the last few years, gaping at the screen in a manner an adolescent often gapes at the member of the opposite sex. I’ve also enrolled myself into the Facebook thingy that I can’t even remotely decipher after technically having account for eight months. The internet has almost shaped my personality. My total confusion in many things in life has been caused by… err… Facebook. I tell you, when I took a personality test over there they said I am like Ross of Friends. And the batty folks later said that I am like Winston Churchill. And the animal I resemble is an orang-utan. So the simple logical conclusion is:

Ross = Winston Churchill = Me = Orang-utan

I was content up to the Churchill part till the site gave me a dose of reality with the hapless animal. Though I blame the internet for the sheer confusion that springs up whenever I try to analyse myself, not that I should get into analysing it anyway, I shall be indebted to it for many things. Anyway, the topic is rather touchy for me. I don't even know why I am blogging about it, may be just to kill time. However, enough time has been killed. Now I'll be resting in peace with the orangutan inherent in me.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

Rain and the associated mood

It has been pouring all day. It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up to such a dull morning where even the crows refuse to execute their morning orchestra. Our garden was never in a respectable shape, always looking like a mound of weeds, and at this moment, it has managed to take the shape of murky stagnant pond. Most in my class has been cursed with a perennially running nose and as I sniffed away to glory yesterday with a torn tissue, a professor continued to glare at me in a manner as if I am that bloody hog that started it all.

The cats loath the downpour as well. The sexy female in the block recently had proliferated the feline world with five more folks. Thanks to the rain they have made our balcony their make shift home and two of the overgrown off-springs are sprinting up and down a grubby ladder that is kept there, occasionally trying to pinch my lunch kept in the kitchen that exists in its periphery. So my task at home is to be the watchdog. What utter joy.

As for me, I am hoping against hope that some miserly folk like me will come online to wile away my time. I can’t even do the sexy-lady-with-a-coffee-mug-romantically-looking-from-the window because the effect from a grilled window would be like desolate-freaky-kid-stuck-with-a-mug-glaring-from-the-window. I don’t have any story book at this moment that will lift up my mood from the deluge apart from my history books and those are the last things I want to set my eyes on, rain or no rain.

It’s still pouring. And no amount of typing is going to lift up my spirit. I’ve got nothing fruitful to do. I guess I’ll just snore away for a while. Good afternoon and Goodnight.

P.S: A fellow intelligent blogger pointed out an essential point I had missed: about the mighty insects. Yes friend, there are reigning supreme all over. Some are sprawled on by bed too. Bloody buggers. For information on other things on the loose, check the comments :| But I am not responsible for all that is discussed there :|

Saturday, 5 September 2009


Calcutta’s sky has been behaving like my mood: highly whimsical, alternating rain with occasional peek-a-boo of the sun. Its one of those highly romantic evenings, where the happy romantics would like to sit with a cup of coffee, sipping near a cosy window, conversing with the drizzle. Some would like to read a good book snuggled in the bed, with some stolen chocolates. Some would like some senti music. Some would like to go out, and some would like to get into censored activities. As for me, eternally confused, I am trying to blog. This virtual world has virtually ruined me. It has caged me, making me incapable of communicating with nature, letting my soul be free... All right, no more melodrama.

Anyway, the crux of the matter is that it's an absolutely hyper-senti weather and I am disregarding its utility by attempting to blog.

I am such a nuisance. :P

Enough. Time-passed.

Sunday, 30 August 2009

Life and its poetry

Whenever I want to write something poetic, invariably I end up goofing up the whole romantic inspiration that I had intended to pen down, and the thing turns out to be shabbily prosaic. It then appears to be that I am plagiarising my Oscar-winning-like thoughts to churn out Bollywood potboilers of the Chunkey Pandey type. It’s like whenever one is at his romantic best, wants to dole out some Shakespearean romance to his lady love, expressing how senti the pretty lass can make him and all that, and he ends up saying something as crass as “I love you babe”. I mean, it’s told by every soul to some other special soul who eventually ditches the fellow after a few days, when in the process of saying the same old sentence to some other new fellow. (I guess you’ve got the hang of it.)

I saw this highly intellectual movie yesterday, and it triggered my latent intellectual side and I decided to pen down something poetic. The weather was perfect. Light breeze, sound of leaves. Starry night reminding me of the song, and I began writing. After scribbling and scratching out almost a whole page, I drew a pig. I even hunted down the cupboard to unearth my ages old colour pencils and coloured it pink with red rimmed heart shaped sunglass. So that was the prosaic homicide of my lyrical thoughts.

I stared at the pig for long. It has become some motif of sorts in my life. Nothing can possibly happen to my life if my fascination lies in drawing pigs. But then I don’t mind. I really enjoy drawing pigs.

(this is an old drawing but the one I did yesterday was almost the same as this, if not better :|)

P.S: I wrote about pigs and I forgot to mention swine flu. Totally blasphemous.

Friday, 28 August 2009

Q and A

Q: What does a person do if she finds that she is rather ugly?
A: restore her self confidence by saying that she is ugly with brains.
Q: What does an ugly person do if she finds that she is ugly without brains? (but can fake intelligence occasionally)
A: Be like me :|

One of my I-am-depressed phases going on. Shall soon recover. :D

Sunday, 23 August 2009


The Gods are so pleased with me that they are hurling entertainments into my life almost daily. My sister chanced upon some saved online chats more of the private types between me and the man whom I claim to be my brother because of our skinny quotient. With excitement and adrenalin all oozing out she finally decided to ask me on the matter, realising that her sister is perhaps not that much of a loser. I was stumped for obvious reasons, imagining my sister to conjure up in her head that I am into all the birds and flowers of Hindi movie stuff. She’s also in the reciprocal state of being stumped as her kid sister is mingling to glory.

But sadly it is not all that happening. No Bad Man is ‘manoeuvring me’ to achieve his cruel ends, I won’t be kidnapped and tied to chains like the damsel in distress of Bollywood. We are more like two useless best of chums eyeing each other because we have no better options around us :D And I must say that I'm having fun in life, as usual. But I must say the fairer sex was rather enthused, probably because this would be the first time that someone won’t discard him as a mere geek.

Anyway, Gods, I love you all, but no more excitement please.

Saturday, 22 August 2009

For they are jolly good fellows

In remembrance of the deed that was not done. (this post deals with only a few fellows concerned)

They went, they saw and they conquered. Their temptations. Here in this college where men literally chew on grass like cows, these glorious folks paid for it and watched as others snorted their money to grassy glory. This is the reason why I like these folks. We have the potentials to be absolute-geeky losers and love most of the moments of it when we are not cribbing. Life is beautiful :D

Saturday, 8 August 2009

Eyeing the Forbidden Fruit

Human nature is highly predictable I suppose. If there is anything that we are told not to prod our nose into, our mighty olfactory immediately gets into it and shoves hard. (Thought to ponder upon: our finance minister’s snout is always red… does that imply he is always digging in and out the clutter? Sorry). I don’t know much about other souls as to where they want to dig and why and into whom, metaphorically speaking. But as for people like me who’s at the mighty edge of teenage hood and still haven’t been able to shed her hyper-active adolescent curiosity, the enthusiasm to poke the nose covers a wide area.

A soul’s Orkut status reads that one should get a life instead of reading his scrapbook. I being the responsible chick online took the cue and read a few pages of his forbidden book and informed him that there is nothing interesting in it barring a girl who is desperately asking him as to why the blighted phone was not being received at midnight. I felt sorry for the folk considering the fact that us rice-and-fish Bengalis prefer to be in a state of deep slumber with a bloated gassy stomach particularly at that specific hour of the day. We all have an inherent Adam and Eve eyeing for the glossy forbidden fruit, the desire to do what is forbidden.

Whenever there is an exam we feel sleepy, the probability of yawning multiplies, the desire to pick nose, get interested in others’ lives, play Uno, watch Tollywood potboilers, talk mindless crap, increases manifold. Contemplation of successful matrimonial ads to escape the wrath of examinations is also on the minds. Or whenever some chick is trying to hide her handsome hunk of a boyfriend from the coveting eyes of her desperate girlfriends, us petty friends get all the more nosier, trying to find out the exact physical and mental composition of the victim of a hunk, as well as the exact physical and mental composition of the virtuous bond between the aforementioned hunk and the friend.

Or whenever someone’s mother tells her to shred the bones from the fish that has got a rather complicated skeletal structure, she starts to write a post for her blog instead of combating the fish.


I must rush.

Or else Ma will slaughter me with the fish bone and then there will be no fish chop for lunch.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

New thing on the block

In this world where most souls are always updated with the latest cool item in the electronic world, I was meandering rather shabbily with a cell phone that only had the basics and a radio. I loved it as my technological know-how doesn’t let me go beyond listening to the radio after fumbling for the channels. Then the think suddenly zonked off. And my heart broke. To top up I even lost all the numbers stored. But then thanks to my archaic sense of storing things I had all my phone numbers written behind my erstwhile history copy which I had happily donated to the newspaperwala. All very sad. I grumbled with my father who decided to get me one, since he thinks if a stay without a cell phone it will be difficult for him to contact me when I finally elope with the neighbourhood laundry-boy

So there I go to the shop, show my old cell to the rather good looking guy over there, and say that I want one exactly like my old one. The retarded being smirks, a foolish bloke immersed in the sticky world of materialism who can’t fathom
my eternal love for my old cell phone. Then he shows me one which looks almost like my old one, a modern version of it- black, no slides or flips or twists and turns, and it has also got a camera (Awww. My first camera cell phone. It has also got the Bluetooth thingy that I can’t use because of my technical deficiencies in my brain. And it has sudoku! :P) I was gushing with pride as the folk successfully made me into a materialistic moron like him. (Kidding. I was one since ages).

The first few pics I clicked were of our neighbourhood tomcat who happens to be highly camera friendly. I clicked away to glory as he posed with side, frontal and rear views. I like this feline fellow. He is usually always perched up on our kitchen dustbin and doesn’t go away when I warn with my very dangerous and deadly ‘shoo’. He has got lots of attitude-of-da-cool-dude and makes me seem insignificant and definitely inferior to him for being a human. He has got strings of girlfriends whom he woos underneath our car, which is very disturbing. For the car. He also defies the law set by nature that a cat should be afraid of the canine beings. He again gives them The Look that makes every dog feel… whatever the doggy feels. Guess you can get a hang of it. If not, doesn’t matter.

Anyway, the thing is, I am pretty elated because of the new thing I’ve got and also because the wonders of technology amaze me. (Note: a skinny friend who doesn't read this blog couldn't use a cell phone till class 12. I adore this fellow :p) And it isn't much more of a burden on my father's pocket than my previous one, so that satiated my girlie sense of getting a good bargain without actually plunging into those bargaining brawls. (I mean, I can't bargain for a cell phone unless it's Chinese. Infact I cannot bargain at all. don't qualify as a girl in this criterion. And I was again about to deviate from the topic.) The best thing is the sudoku part which I can solve to glory (so far) whenever I get bored. I know you I-know-it-all fellows might be smirking but I am like that, rather backward in this field. But nevertheless I miss my old one. :( (Same reason why my father doesn't want to sell our 1983 model Fiat jalopy that we don't use anymore. We all love it. And it's a really sexy car.)

Nostalgia. Sigh.

anyway here are some pics of the fellow:

P.S: I use brackets and the word 'anyway' too often. I had written an answer in class five examination with first, second and third brackets to explain in a sentence, if it qualifies as one, some obscure thing related to science. And I checked out in a 'which Friends character are you' quiz that I am really like Ross. :|

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

Curious case of the dog on blogtime. :|

Fame is followed by spiteful intrigues. And if the famous victim of all conspiracies happens to be someone like me who totally lacks seriousness in certain issues, then the twist and turns are often hilarious, though at times they tend to harp on highly sore and sensitive strings. Some anonymous being had been stalking this ill-reputed blog, and a typo-brawl ensued with another being of the milder kind. A few spectators including me left the members of the blog-fight club to do their own thing. I mean, audience aren’t supposed to meddle in wars between valiant men. (I did meddle, trying to delete a few of their arguments but since I have a life other than being online, I left without completing the task. Very unfortunate.) This happened to hurt the sentiment of another fellow being of an even milder form. Thus I was categorised as a person who fakes being someone else in the blog, etc etc. now that charged me up big time. A few comments later some another being, not of a milder form, commented on the blog of the being whose sentiment I did hurt, that he’ll sue him for criticising. I found this mildly hilarious; (though I don’t know who the legally expedient bloke is, but I have got my hunches, considering the fact that I lamented about the whole funny mishap to a few in one of the social networking sites other than my blog-comments :p) thanks to my complete lack of seriousness which I wish to imbibe in course of writing this post. So I have been blocked by the kind soul, who thinks that I have declared legal war against him. So is the story.

But amidst all this, barring the fact that I respect people who know when to draw lines if something goes against their principles, I still find things funny. Therefore, finally I have come across something in me that I needn’t be complacent about, barring my weight and physical attributes. It’s my complete apathy towards seriousness in life. So from now onwards, I shall be amputating my funny-bone (which was limited to a few classical jokes stolen from wiser friends and family) and from now onwards my blog shall be thoroughly serious, with grim professorial language that I am sure is somewhere latent in me.

May the Gods help me.

P.S: Need not jeer. I really couldn't think of a better title. :D And calling myself a dog does not amount to any gaali. They are good beings.

Sunday, 19 July 2009

Can't think of a title... What the heck. :P

The college I just got myself into is our family’s hereditary college or something like that. An obscure great grandpa was a physicist there, and then gradually the rest started ditching science, with my grandfather and parents dealing with geography and me finally completing the process of dumping by taking up history. My parents and sister were all teary eyed and all that as I got myself admitted. A friend has even mustered up the audacity to say that the college is responsible for the existence of my sister and me, since my parents were classmates there when my father started to eye the gorgeous chic that in course of time produced the two of us. But history shall not repeat itself. Those days had handsome hunks like my father.

But this institution is highly weird. On the first day we came across this teacher who had gravity defying chest hair sprouting up from his disco shirt like savannah on a fertile land. And then he started teaching us about the Neanderthal Man.

A few days later we saw him in a gorgeous car with an equally gorgeous wife. Evolution of man. He taught us about that too.

Then a second lady teacher came up to say instantly that it was our duty to utilise her. I could hear the sudden tremor coming from the direction of the boys’ benches.

The college canteen has been the hub of all ideas for generations, or so all the seniors claim in the college. Me, the poor new kid, went there and found everything normal at the first sight. Then a few girls started singing and a boy started to play the guitar to a completely different tune. Then dogs flew. They leapt onto the tables, jumped over them like they were rings of fire, played 'crouching tiger hidden dragon', darted towards the students whom they fancied, stopping midway to find a good spot to release themselves. They were the superheroes minus the chaddis, doing their own thing in their super-land. They perhaps lick the plates clean on which we get our food. Saves water that way. Very environmental. There is a legend that a surplus of chicken product in the canteen is usually attributed to one of the dogs giving birth to her litters. I could see that the fable has got the possibility of some authenticity.

There are also these legendary cobwebs in the sky high classroom ceilings that the ancient spiders webbed as my forefathers attended classes. Talk about continuity of time. They cannot be cleaned because no normal ladder can go up to that height. They are also there as part of the heritage building.

I must admit that I am enjoying this place. :p

P.S: on a completely different topic: Rakhi Sawant is on every blogger’s mind. Well, almost. I was hopping from one blog to another in my list and at least five, including me, had her name or at least something related to her mentioned in their blogs. Ah, the Lady India that shall unite us all. :P

Wednesday, 15 July 2009

Noorie...noorie... :|

When there is a set of rules one unfortunately often forgets the hapless minorities. I mean, the XXS size is way larger than me, stupid world. They forget that beings like me exist too. College fresher’s welcome is supposed to be ideally this angelic happy-go-lucky get together where the juniors and the seniors alternately smile at each other till they get bored and then continue the process with each and everyone, in between blaring music through cracked jukeboxes and desi chilly chicken and fried rice. It’s supposed to make us new kids on the block feel like oh-my-god-this-is-home kind of a feeling, with tear bedimmed eyes and all that. To break the ice one is supposed to be made to feel comfortable, then why oh god why are girls supposed to wear saris and not something else they wish to, and the boys are supposed to wrap themselves up in dhotis, grandpa style? With these stupid boys who wear polka dot boxers underneath some hyper-translucent dhotis roaming all over like batty cows, life can’t get worse for a moaning sissy like me.

I vehemently agree that girls look drop dead gorgeous in all those yards of cloth, elevated to the position of being woo-worthy by people of all genders. There have been times when even I have followed PYT in the form of girls like a lovestruck Romeo. But then the option of wearing something else must be there, for extreme minority souls like me who weigh precisely 36.5 kilograms including weight of shoes, clothes and braces. How do they expect me to find drapes of my size? I suggested to my mother that I tear one of hers to something smaller, but her glaring eyes prevented me from executing the idea. Anyway it’s not me who’s going to bear the brunt of this decision of the elderly peeps out there. If all of a sudden they get the spook of seeing a ghoulish invisible body wrapped in a pale sari, it’s not my fault. They should have known.

Sunday, 12 July 2009

mystifying queries of life and all that.

If nothing else, life definitely has an extra dosage of question and answer till you hit 30 after which the hyper-curious hormonal blobs seem to finally comprehend the red signal. Not that I am chastising others. I am as curious as these fellows, just smart enough to keep my mouth shut on some occasions. Though the difficulty level of the questionnaire pattern gets higher as one proceeds up in the age-ladder till its time for the person to don the hat of the quiz master himself, us young mortals standing with shaky hairy legs on the precipice of teenagehood aren’t spared either. It’s not the aunts and uncles but also one’s compatriots, compromised in the same position. I don't mean to say that I dislike such things, considering the fact that I bombard them at times too :p The questions range from embarrassing to questions that are utterly mystifying where hunting for the reason is concerned:

1. Do you have a boyfriend? (I dislike the terminology.)
Depends on whom you classify as a boyfriend. No I have eight male consorts whom I replace every month keeping the quota for married people constant as young souls like my get a boost in the matter of the hearts where older men are concerned.

2. What are you planning to do after college?
I intend to get married after giving ad in the matrimonial or allowing my parents to bribe a male thing into marrying me and then shall be solely concerned with knitting, sewing, cooking and mild population explosions.

3. Why do you want to study history and not English honours?
Oh it’s very simple I am too good in English and I know everything so I needn’t study that. I am studying history to further intellectualise myself so that I can impress the bribed folks who’ll be my in-laws.

4. How are the boys in your college? (Cheesy grin).
Where? What? Is this a co-educational institution? I didn’t notice.

5. Why won’t you sit for the IAS examination after college?
That’s because I am too intelligent to study for that.

6. Why are you so thin?
Thank god you said that. I am dieting. Does it show? Pretty please tell me. I’ll be so happy (gasping for breath in excitement.)

7. What do you want to become in life?
An owner of a male harem with men wearing skimpy clothes. I’ll throw one rupee notes as they shall dance like Rakhi Sawant.

8. What have you done with your boyfriend? (Sleazy grin or glaring eyes.)
I only have a male consort. (Rest of the answer is censored.)

9. Have you studied for the examination?
Yes and I am expecting nothing less than 100 percent in the result. I am great.

10. The best one of the lot: Why do you blog?
Hmm. I see. Hmm.

P.S: Merlin humbly and unknowingly provided what the college couldn’t. Thank you, old friend. May you find all the answers to your SQCA.

Saturday, 11 July 2009

happy and gay... and why not?

Since time immemorial men have been men. Then god started making them ugly. Adam and Eve was one happy go lucky pair in the Garden of Eden. Then they had to do the thingummy with the apple. The problem with time is that it has a tendency to be wild. I mean, Adam and Eve could have easily rested in peace, doing all the things that they were supposed to do if you know what I mean. But the fellows got bored and what follows changed the course of history, or myth or whatever.

So to go back to what I was saying, at a point of time men were men. Now they wax their chest. Previously God made women like Aphrodite. Now they make things like me. I have this belief that when a business expands and production rises because of higher demand, and public being the way they are constantly wanting faster and better service, the divine bloke can’t make all people look like salivating-worthy anymore.

With the number of men dwindling, women are bound to choose women as their partners, and since the bloke up in the sky can’t make many gorgeous women anymore, brawny men have to choose their waxed counterparts. And since the Almighty still knows his art well, provided it is sent in limited numbers, there are still some good looking women and men who are Men, being sent to earth, so it’s not that all are so called deviant folks, and therefore religious groups needn’t worry their pretty heads about misbalancing the social structure and all that. So decriminalising gay sex is an act that follows the course of nature, and it also helps to reduce population. With all its plus points, I can’t see why homosexuality shouldn’t be decriminalised.

I am simply trying to explain to the jammed heads that being gay isn't abnormal. Just because a group is in the minority doesn't mean that they'll have to adhere to the norms of the majority. With all the quotas in India we should already know.

Doh :|

One of the reasons why I should be burdened with examinations and exam related depression is that they provide me with the adrenalin to waste time. Since I am a rather eminent nincompoop I’d pass my time writing blogs and hence this place would at least have respectful posts for it to swank.

College life commences. It will be wrong for me to claim that I have been dreading this. There is something genuinely wrong with me apart from the fact that I can give Kiera Knightly inferiority complex where skinniness is concerned. One is supposed to be this lost fish kicked out of water, gasping for the life saving drops or else would get conked then and there. I mean, a bloke isn’t really human if he isn’t chickening out with this new-place thingy. I am supposed to do some frustration-ventilating head banging, poem writing and the et cetera. but me being the odd person that I am, I went there, barring the first two days when I hovered around with glassy eyes thinking I am going to be badgered to death by some opinionated honchos, I actually found college pretty similar to school. Except for the fact that our school had more boys. Or that there are small human chimneys here and there to which I am slightly allergic, to say the least. Or, like school, I am the skinniest kid in the block. I am a tad bit concerned about this abnormality of mine.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009

My earnest petition

Dear Lord,

This was supposed to happen. And now I’ll have to metamorphose myself into something at least minutely sociable. I’ll have to buy a pair of skinny jeans. Half a pair and some alterations. That will be sufficient for me. I also need to buy some fair and lovely. My friends have already started using them and I don’t want to lag behind. I am fair, but the cream will make me lovely. I also need a notes-boyfriend. The type who collects notes and gives them to me. In history they don’t take boys. So I will do with a notes-girlfriend. Our relationship shall be limited to notes exchange for I don’t think I’ll be capable of anything else with a girl. I’ll also have to study very discreetly. I will have to shed my geeky image and pretend to stop studying. Then if I do well in an examination I can behave like someone with an exceptionally high I.Q who needn’t study. I’ll have to avoid all those blokes who say that I should sit for the IAS examination after graduating. I am tired of parroting to them that I talk too much to become a diplomat. Avoiding those who ask me what I want to do after completing my studies is also on the cards. These two covers almost all the people on earth barring a few benign souls who are smart enough to not meddle with my blurry future. I’ll also learn to bunk a few classes and have an attendance bordering on low and very low. If I don’t do this I shall be regretting it for the rest of my life.

There. I have got my college priorities straight. Do grant me the powers to grant me my wishes.


Sunday, 21 June 2009

Brain dead

I wake up at ten, laze around with the newspaper and switch on the computer, which is equivalent to connecting to the internet. I have my breakfast of toasts, cereals and imagine myself getting fat on such a meagre diet, and then gaze at Orkut hoping that by some miracle at least someone or the other is online to get rid of this morning ennui

I know what I’ll do in the evening. Take a nap or watch a movie. If the movie defies all sense and sensibility I’ll manage to do both simultaneously. I’ll go out in the evening for a while, take a stroll, run away from the street dogs, whistle at good looking peeps on earth and look surprised when they stare back, Then I’ll worry a bit about admissions and all that. I’ll come back home, stay online till I am ready to drop on to the keyboard and start snoring. And then I’ll haul myself up to Bedford. Again I’ll wake up the next day. And the cycle shall continue.

In brief, with such a boring passing of time, I really don’t have anything to blog about.

Saturday, 20 June 2009


I should be killed. Guillotined. Neck snapped to perfection so that I die without more ado. I am such a nuisance.

I said that I don’t like rain when I am out. Oh God I do. I like the rain in any form I swear. I am even ready to chant poems about the drizzles if that bring in the shower. This weather is being such a nuisance to mankind. With all the heat rashes I look like an ugly kid advertising for itch-guard. How am I to be presentable for the matrimonial columns? I can’t even use Fair and Lovely because it does not have any yellow-skin removal formula.

I've bought a pair of shorts and am roaming around in minimal clothing which, contrary to popular belief, is a scorching eye-sore to mankind. I can't help it. This post is just an apology to all for writing that I don’t like rain when I am out. May the rain Gods read this humble petition. :(

Last-minute freak :D

It’s conventional for a four plus old toddler to wail at anything that even remotely displeases the litter. I cried when the nursery teacher would try to shake hands with me, offended that she was not doing justice to my active left hand, I cried when I couldn’t tie my shoe. I'd wail when I had nothing much to do. It was a very good time-pass that I perfected. I moaned myself up till class two or so, and then I sobered down I guess for some obscure reasons, mostly because I started becoming nerdy. (Though I haven't lost it all. I still have my fits of sporadic moaning here and there.)

But the problem lies in the fact that I am not supposed to do this when I get into college. I mean, I can’t sit down and fling my arms and legs all over and wail at 150 decibels the moment I enter college and succumb to the school leaving nostalgia. I’d be labelled an immature prick, and I should be. Hence this college thing has become somewhat of a very poignant poke at the posterior. It’s not that I am not eager to get into college. I don’t want to remain in school anymore. I loved being in school. My attendance bears testimony to that. I even enjoyed being sent to unnecessary errands by some teachers. The school drills something into our hormones that makes all its students short, barring a few. So I had to look at people usually like me. But the sight of normal-weighing taller Complan girls in the colleges will make the ambience in the college decidedly different. I know the girls are going to be nice. Only nice people take up history I’d like to think. (I just mentioned girls since boys, or else people with normal manly hormones do not study history as a rule) though I'll be absolutely fine in college I know, but then I’ll miss my literally level headed school crowd and the people I hang around with.


Monday, 8 June 2009

break-time :p

It’s one of those days when I feel literarily constipated. No amount of purgatives in the form of books has cured my condition. After rushing to colleges like some wild boar on the run, I’m tired. Almost dead meat. Rather, dead bone. At the same time life isn’t throwing up some anything even remotely thrilling. I don’t need much hullabaloo in my life but had others’ lives been more exciting I would have survived instead of being consumed by boredom. I have even got a decent result in my exams so my channel of cribbing has been sealed. And I can’t go on writing that I am thin and about my future plans of gaining weight or hair transplantation. They are old subjects, I’ve got used to these tragedies in my life and even I am bored wailing about that. I mean, moaning won't make me get back my long lost epitome. So for the time being, unless something interesting crops up, I am going to take a sabbatical from blogging. Till then, I’ll spend my time watching the birds and relaxing with cucumber on my eyes. :p

Monday, 25 May 2009

It's raining dogs, and cat

The rain makes me want to fly
Like a… pig under the cloudy sky.

(Pardon me, I was never poetic and this good weather hasn’t done anything good to my prosaic mind either.)

The rain has always brought romanticism to people. They all want to fling their arms and legs like performing some sort of a dervish bhangra, and drench themselves in the deluge. They don’t bother about their umbrellas or whether it’s doing some odd gymnastics. They just let go, waggling their hands from the umbrella if possible, to feel the pitter-patter. Amongst all these happy nature loving fellows I see this thin, shrunken being walking on the road, royally angry with the cheekiness of the umbrella to get upturned when it’s hammering on all sides. Not a sense of romanticism, this fellow. Has got all the potentials to be a dreary school principal in future, one who wears oversized dull grey skirts with excessively white and flat shoes. While some look at the sky to see the rain, she grumbles that it will wash off her contact lens and she’ll have to return home semi-blind. With a mere minus 3.75 myopic power she shouldn’t complain of being an owl in daytime but then that’s her way of amplifying situations, to finally engulf herself in self pity. She is someone I watch in delight. You can’t have a more comical spectacle on the road when it rains. She looks pathetically funny, all of less than forty kilograms, with her bones jutting out from all the odd places, and her lack of adequate adipose making her seemingly look like a newly shred shrunken and drenched chicken. I have seen her once fall down on the pavement as it was raining. I couldn’t hear but I can imagine she grumbled all the way back home. While little girls jump in glee in the puddles she worries more about the water that has got into her shoes and what infection it can spread. A girl can’t be more repulsive I must say. When all the girls in the road are drenched they make an adorable sight, but if you can see this fellow I am talking about, you’ll laugh out loud for she has an attitude of a sixty year old haggard, and spoils the scene altogether with her lousiness. She might pretend to like the rain for a while if she has company, but within minutes she’ll shed the charade and resume sulking, which she is really great at when it rains. Beware of such company, for they spoil the romance that surrounds you during monsoon. But if you are looking for a free circus with sulky tantrums thrown in, such a person is a delight.

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

At peace. Really.

Examination results are always a day of celebration or grave condolence, depending on the numbers bequeathed by the generous boards of education. India’s clichéd ‘unity in diversity’ tagline is well represented even in the various board system of education in school. The old school blokes of west Bengal state boards are never on a high when it comes to donating some marks and hence plutocracy of the central board outputs are well established in the reputed institution. Sigh, they are the blessed souls.

I suppose such disparity is intentionally maintained because the government aims at a well balanced society. If all the good chicks get high marks and get dragged by the intellectual bandwagon, who will be left to deal with the domestic side of the balance? Here comes our state board which religiously limits the marks of their candidates and consequently churns out a large chunk of young things (the prettier being consumed by the Central) who are bestowed with enough (lack of) marks to be labelled as a bimbo. It’s these people who then help the matrimonial columns of the newspapers to prosper. It’s the less-marks obtaining students that actually hold the society together nowadays because they don’t even bother to surge towards the pursuit of professional happiness, and hence dwell in the domesticity of life.

Hence, I have no intention of cribbing when I get lower marks than Central board counterparts. I am merely doing my job in the society, without much effort. I’ll get my results, stick my tongue out to all those poor slogging people in the top notch colleges, have a laid back happy attitude towards life, pay for an ad in a well reputed newspaper and live happily ever after without seeking any intellectual or worldly knowledge. Am I complaining because I am a student under the West Bengal state board? Huh. Never. I am blissfully happy and at complete peace with my laid-back life.

On getting old :p

I have managed to be 19 with a 36.3 kg weight and in spite of that hindrance I have had an interesting existence so far. Now I can relax like a laid back government employed bong for a long time. The birthday presents have definitely been queer and all had a same pattern, they brought back something of my bloomer-days. I bought a few books that are originally meant for those kids who have just begun to boast of a decent vocabulary in the lingua franca, and then I get a cd full of videos of songs of my recent yester-years. I remember spending 160 for a cassette which got entangled in the tape- recorder sooner than I could re-collect the money I had spent; only to get back those songs yesterday. Two friends today gifted me a set of poster colours, something that I never really owned as a kid in a complete set but yearned for it nevertheless. I was actually giggling like an old granny being shown photos of her youth when she was ogle-worthy. I may not have the opportunity to enjoy this situation when I am old unless I marry some rich tycoon and devote myself to the hands of an expert plastic surgeon in a jiffy, but it did remind me of those days when I was an even more geeky kid with fresh new spectacles and a denser summit.

At the age of nineteen, things are reminding me of my yester-years. Sigh. I am getting old. Not that I mind. I am surging towards better times anyway.

Friday, 15 May 2009

laziness syndrome

It beguiles me how I have discarded reading fiction altogether. Not that I read non-fiction much but it has definitely got a more respectable position amongst the two. Briefly living in a fictitious world and then weaving dreams with the reality isn’t my cup of tea but then I have a high regard for great minds that do this. To tell the truth I am not really extraordinarily creative. I mean, I haven’t drawn any other animal or thing for the last two years apart from pigs, or men with balloon-shaped face and dark circles that look like gramophone records around the eyeball. Perhaps it’s this lack of creativity that stops me from seeking succour in the fabricated world and lace dreams that is way different from the world we live in. the only fiction I read nowadays and that too in the proximity of a commode is Jeeves, and I have been reading and re-reading Wodehouse’s miracle man since class six. That itself shows my limited literary ardour. Or else I must have placed Wodehouse on the epitome of all the storybook honchos and hence don’t bother with the rest. Or may be it's sheer laziness. I know I am good at it and I have a hunch that this is the reason. So far I can only scrape through the short stories if possible and with time I might even lose interest in this.

Monday, 11 May 2009

'Stuck in second gear' ;-)

Life is a lot like Friends except for all that hahaheehee in the background. But then things would be so much more fun if we had that background guffawing for real, though presumably it wouldn’t be fun for the object of all the hilarity. And as for me, if I were such a character, the laughter would have been continued incessantly (at me). I am a lot like Ross. The only difference is that he got hold of Rachel. Firstly, he married someone with whom his preferences didn’t match, even after a son. Amongst all my fellow classmates I am the one who has got a hundred percent chance of getting hold of a gay boyfriend, who might even look like Rachel, if not the ugly- step sister of Penelope Cruz; or at least similarly feminine. The fact that Ross is a palaeontologist, combined with the fact that I intend to study history if I can scrape through my examination proves the fact that we are equally mind-numbing and insipid. His fashion faux pas are of the same echelon as mine. As a kid I have worn the Bengali’s patented underwear-as-swimsuit in Digha with a mannequin like ease, I still can’t see why t-shirts can’t be worn over formal trousers that clutch you at odd places like aggressive crabs. Also I am about to be nineteen and I don’t have my ears pierced which I think is a blasphemy of some sorts. Also I stink like I am freshly out from a refrigerator storing stale dead fish and yet I forget to wear the deodorants. But then Ross was mugged as a kid and he even wrote a science boy fiction. Providentially I was never that much of a geek to be similar to him in these criteria as well. (Is being part of a group that created a magazine in class 6 equally geeky?) Nevertheless, similarities with him in other fields are rather disturbing for my sanity. And the final cliché? I even look like him, just shorter. But then, it doesn’t really matter. At least I look like some celebrity whom I devotedly love.

Wednesday, 29 April 2009

and divine chastisement follows...

Resource is a man made creation as utilisation of it depends solely on mankind. Man is constantly endeavouring to create new resources while experimenting with resistances and neutral stuff so that even they can be utilised to accelerate development. It is man’s demands that are the forces behind development and this effort shall be interminable.

In short, we mortals are a greedy lot.

And castigation follows our gluttony.

Adam and Eve was a fine couple, they could do whatever they had to do in peace and harmony with nature. But then Adam had to have that apple and since then the male mankind has to deal with the lump in their throat. Cronus could have been living happily ever after with Rhea and the kids but he chose to gulp them down and thus the poor Zeus had to do many thingummies and ultimately see his brothers and sisters getting puked out alive. Gross. Shilpa Shetty shouldn’t have bought the winning team. Rajasthan Royals would have fared well so far without her. She can’t distinguish between IPL and Big Brother. (Though at times neither can I find much difference) Muthalik shouldn’t have been tempted with pink chaddis. Now he will unleash his fangs on pub goers again to get some more of the bright essentials, and them sell them to make himself cosy with a blooming chaddi business.

Moral of the stories: I should have studied hard to get the marks I hanker after. Then I wouldn’t have had to efface my Orkut account from the public world to save me from the impending embarrassment.

I rest my case.

Monday, 27 April 2009

End of a morbid past (perhaps)

Ever since class nine, almost everyday my life at 2 pm would reduce to a bullock cart chase and then a ride on a huge jalopy with my arms swinging on the rods, perpendicular to each other. Had I looked different many would have considered me to be pole dancer doing her thing in a crowded bus. Bus route 235 had defined me quite well, it proved me that I am short and hence would have to carry out gymnastics and other stunts in front of bewildered co- passengers. For once the fact that I am thin paid me. I would be able to squeeze in between well-tiered aunties. I also had this obnoxious habit of thinking that someone was pinching from my bag when I would be inversely batting on the rod in a miraculously awkward position.

It also made me realise that the bus was the modern day wooing ground for all my school going desperate fellows. The rather cute chick would perch herself up on the seat; (these chicks would amazingly find seats in a crowded bus. Man, they were smart!) The lanky boy with a fair-and-handsome face and a goatish beard would stare wide eyed with a flossed smile while the girl would giggle gleefully till perpetuity. The boy would almost look like a salivating puppy. I wonder what they’d gawk at so much. But I guess they are just like me.

I have also been the victim of gallons of puke, not once but thrice. Nowadays I avoid sitting beside such perpetually excreting broods. And of course every single girl in the bus has been a victim to that clan of men who have an excessively uncontrollable libido and perennially ogling eyes, though I have not come under their scrutiny much mercifully, I’ve seen quite a few coming under the scanner. It must be some sort of a malady. They must have had very strict mothers when they were young and blooming and hence couldn’t do a bit of the thingummy that is so vital and indispensable for the budding men.

I would usually pass my time in the jalopy looking outside instead of taking note of my co-passengers like most do. My nonchalant attitude was often chastised by the conductors because I would ignore their calls for ticket. Most likely, my journey in 235 has come to an end. I am glad though I will miss the bus. It brought some excitement to my lackadaisical life. But then, I have this hunch that I will have to hop onto the same bus and go through this same process when I get into college.

Monday, 20 April 2009

An affair to remember :|

Its always a trifle sad when a long- drawn famous affair comes to an end. Like, when Brad Pitt and Aniston broke up, the repercussions were felt by many, though mostly by Jolie. I have been having this little affair for the last three years and now finally the break- up has been concluded.

I have deleted my Orkut account. So I request you all to maintain one second of silence for this disaster that has struck my life.

Sunday, 19 April 2009


Perfection is a Utopian ideal. You wake up, take a rather foamy bath in the tub singing ‘sonny boy’ like Bertie Wooster, or play with the old rubber duck, Take a leisurely hour choosing the right thing to wear, and gazing at the mirror to see where the tummy is at the present moment, and all is perfect. Till you get late for whatever that you are supposed to do, and then ultimately screw up the whole day, returning home groggy and tired and absolutely down and out.

For some other people like us, we jump out of the bed almost at the eleventh hour, cursing the provision for ‘snooze’ in the cell phone, have a bath that does nothing to take out the morning stink, counter it with lots of good deodorants, have a breakfast of assorted crumbs and leftovers, and we are on time, if not early, for whatever we are doing. In the end we return home as happy as a tipsy birdie, and enjoy life.

These words of wisdom were illustrated in my sister’s t-shirt. They are the new philosophers.

Saturday, 11 April 2009


It’s customary that the death of all things evil must be celebrated with extra fervour. Even if you haven’t really killed the evil spirit, and even if it has committed its notorious crimes, its withering away must be fêted. It calls for an undying gusto to mark ones success for not letting the evil draw out your soul like a leech on a feeble body. It marks the triumph of not yielding to the mighty conqueror that sets upon the soil to drain life from its natives. The evil cages us into dark and damp cells from where we can never see a glimmer of hope, or conceive any desire that goes against the conventions. Our spirit is trapped and life reduces to a meaningless chase to oblivion, for in the end, even the best isn’t remotely good. To thwart this evil is almost impossible, as the action of exterminating itself prematurely shall give us harsher punishment. But the brave conquer it, without being afraid of its upshots. The fight is not for the weaklings.

Yes, exams are over. I have conquered it without losing any weight. And if you think that I am being over dramatic, then go and watch Prosenjit.

Tuesday, 7 April 2009

Shoe mantra

After an unprecedented action taken by the Iraqi journalist who famously threw shoes at George Bush, the idea is being lifted and plagiarised a bit too often across the globe. A few minutes ago a very calm and composed P. Chindambaram turned out to be a victim of the shoe- game. The shoe was not aimed correctly and hence unlike the Bush stunt, it did not do anything to test Chidambaram's reflexes. But he dealt with it rather nicely, smiling and requesting the guards who took the man away, to treat him gently. A gentlemanly reception to a not- so benign action. Propagating the gandhigiri mantra, it'll make Munnabhai proud. But frankly speaking I couldn't see any reason why the shoe was hurled. But such actions lessen the significance of what happened in Iraq. I mean, shoes should be particularly reserved to hit the bird (brain) in the Bush. Anyway, such sights are always good fodder for entertainment. It has already become the breaking news of the channels, who are at a dilemma whether to show the shoe-hurling process or the press meet, and hence is showing both, that looks funny because they have "LIVE" written and it ostensibly seems that its raining shoes on the Home Minister. But I do wish it happened to Muthalik, shoe being replaced by something else; or Varun Gandhi or the likes. Chindambaram is one of those rare souls who are the saving graces of Indian politics. He speaks well and atleast looks honest. Now that is rare. But anyway, a rather entertaining press meet.

Monday, 23 March 2009

muddle syndrome

Ever wondered what being truly happy is all about? We mortals have forgotten the art of being blissful. We languish for what we don’t have, and gradually life simmers down to grey patches of displeasure. And then, when we stand at the other side of Lethe; we question the true meaning of all that has passed…

All right I am not going to delve into all this philosophical and sentimental gaga. But to think of it, our typical teenage life has blatant streaks of complaints that will definitely seem hilarious to us when we’ll become grey and wise. It’s a manifestation of our perennial confusion, especially us girls. During examination time, if we don’t study, we definitely have a big problem. But if we do, then whether others are doing as well or not is a big question. If the others do better, great- we have to face an even greater hitch. If we’ve got hold of some good chic or guy (depending on our alignment) then there is some problem or the other bubbling amidst the coo chi cooing. If we are single, then all the people in love are blasphemous bird-brained dolts. If we have the requisite curves then we complain of the lecherous eyes of men (and girls like me). And if we don’t have the required stuff, then we crave for attention from the opposite chaps. When we look nice and fat we starve ourselves to become ultra- anorexic. If we are thin, and have the desired skeleton effect, we pine for some hormonal wonder that will make us fat. (Gosh this sentence made me emotional.) If we have curly hair on top, we spend zillions on straightening them, and if we have straight hair, then a few more bucks are spent to make them curly and all messed up around your face like some angel's black ghoulish halo. If we are good at something we feel proud of it, and the moment someone else seems better, we plunge into the abyss called inferiority complex. I tell you, us she-beings enjoy feeling inferior at times. Stupid us.

A friend says that women are confused bisexual beings. Confused, yes I agree. Bisexual? Then I am in the majority. (We’ll have to be bisexual in this world where men nowadays wax and pedicure and flaunt their chest-hairlessness in a manner as if their noble heart’s covering is as good as Yul Brynner’s helm. I tell you, all men on earth. We women are confused soul. For God’s sake and your own, stop behaving like us.)

Darn. See? Even I am so confused that I deviated from the topic and started chastising the chic-men.

Anyway, the point is that there's this masochistic desire to create problems even if we don't have any. May be without such problems life will be pathetically dull and dreary. Anyway... whatever. I guess you’ve got the hang of it.

P.S: This is NOT about me. but a general attempt at...err... generalisation :|