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.
Monday, 25 May 2009
The rain makes me want to fly
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
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.
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
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
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.