Friday, 16 December 2011


I'm typically one of those sad fellows who finds immense joy in observing the lives of others. That compensates for the lack in life, and also contributes humbly to the popularity of Mark Zuckerberg. Very Utilitarian, I know. And what better than human bondages, and their severances. Anyway, so break ups are always supposed to be this sad affair that involves some hours of sentimental tear jerking, sniffs, reminiscences, what-ifs and some more of tear jerking. But everything has a positive side, I'd always like to believe.

Post severances of alliances, one is liberated for a while, and that's when one can fondly check out the girls on the road without pangs of guiltiness (basing this on a dubious assumption that guilt pangs were felt when alliances were intact). One's monthly budget is generously reduced, and one is not scolded for not calling up, or calling at the wrong time, or calling at the right time with the wrong purpose, or calling at the wrong time with the wrong purpose. A lot of trouble is solved at one go. There might be sudden feelings of being left alone for the rest of the life or something like that. But it's never like that. The world has too many people, and on top of that there are also too many people who wouldn't mind maintaining two or more relationships. Nothing can be too bad in this world. ;)

Thursday, 8 December 2011

December Resolutions

So time is running fast. A few days ago there was January, and a whole new year ahead of me. And now it's December. Resolutions never work for me. I am too irresolute a person to tackle with New Years' Resolutions. Getting some adipose has always been there in the list. But needless to say, that's not happening as you all know. But it's December. And I like the racy feeling of having lots to do and having too little time for all that. Somewhat like life, squeezed into the remnants of a month.

I'd like to cross the river on a ferry once more. Get on to the top of a really tall building from where I can see the two bridges as well as Victoria Memorial. The grand skyline always makes me feel that I'm just a tiny dot in this big world, and it's a nice feeling. I'd like to see the night sky and stars for a long time. I'd like to hear the ship's siren from the docks near Calcutta on 31st midnight. I miss that since my six year-old days. I want to be on the college grounds. This shall probably be the last time I look at it like this. I want to sing myself hoarse with people whose company I cherish. I want to go to school and sing Christmas carols. I want some Decembers back. There's so much to do in a fraction of a month. A few days later there'll be a new month, and a whole new year ahead of me.

Sunday, 4 December 2011

I think, therefore there's boredom

I am fond of reading. In fact with time I am realising that I am so fond of it that I'm quite dealing with a lifestyle dangerously close to being sedentary. Of course the adipose associated with isn't providentially turning up, but then that's one hope I've given up. I had resolved to read a certain book by this year and am having to deal with it now that it's December and the Earth is revolving a bit too fast for me it seems. The book talks about how certain criminals are necessary for the greater good, or something like that. All fair and all that. It did set me into thinking deep.

I've been thinking about having thoughts. Thoughts that I often sentimentally deem profound because of my inherent quality of self-appreciation; a view that most does not share with me for logical reasons. And I think of life, the world around me, the cows and people living on grass, on people not living on grass, and all the remaining stuff that one can think about to kill time. And I by divine intervention realise the whole problem of mankind. It's thinking. Whatever Descartes may have had to say about it being the essence of being and all that, thinking kind of tends to make things a mess.

I mean, the basic thoughts are quite okay. Look at the early men, of course they thought on some levels. They slept, ate, procured food, mated like bunnies and scooted off to heaven sooner or later. Constructive thinking obviously led to fire and all that jazz, but I suppose they wouldn't be too fond of reading stuff that are supposed to have a deep impact on the intellect of mankind. I think a lot, mostly because I am too lazy for anything otherwise; but there are times when I suppose one needs to pause all that profound intellectual brain-digging for sometime, and be at peace. Else, boredom inevitably follows.

Thursday, 1 December 2011

All that mush

There's something about agony aunt columns that hugely attracts me. I mean, who wouldn't like to read about sixteen year old hormonal beings confused about which girl to choose, what alcoholic experiments to indulge in or ask the very pertinent question of which is better: studies or sleazy movies. Of course relationships receive primary focus.

I wonder what it is about relationships that makes it so popular. Look at the movies, agony aunt columns, advertisements, songs, story books. Almost all has some liberal dose of man-woman bonding. So there are those stories where one specimen of human nature wants to bond with another specimen, or there's the case of actual bonding, or cases of post breaking up of bonds between human specimens. The good stories bring in multi-specimen-bonding angles resulting in infidelity of some sorts that ironically make it all the more charming. (I mean, look at Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in You've got Mail. They both were cheating on their partners on some sort of a higher level but it is to me of the best romantic movies I've ever seen).

And thus love is always in the air. Or at least some other forms of it that can be passed off as such when garnished well. There's the hopefulness of finding new love, the happiness or the stagnant phase of worn out love stories and the post-break up love stories of the single hearts. However macho one might be, I suppose it's hard to ignore the mush, when it is all around you.

Friday, 11 November 2011

So, it's good weather alright. Of course everyone has noticed. So has their cameras which now is busy capturing the nascent wintriness that's all around us. Subtle, gradual, yet timid. There are pictures in the memory cards thats ready to be published on the favourite online networking sites with a copyright sign making it vehemently one's own, however ocassionally unphotogenic it may be. There's soon going to be pictures of pretty people with their new winter clothes that now adorn their wardrobe. There's going to be status updates of the foggy mornings and the lazily late suns. Happy ones. For we feel what we express. A few scribbly blog updates about how heavenly and breathtaking nature really is when it is in a mode of metamorphosis. A few more expressions without really coming in touch with people. Are you alone as you see winter come? Not really. Are you not alone? Well, again, not really. There's the virtual modes of communications you see, where we choose to express ourselves as the world turns cold around us.

Tuesday, 25 October 2011


It would have been sad if music was the monopoly of musicians. As I sit in my room while the world around me proudly shines in festive glory, I hear around me the music that my city hums on its own. May be, nothing is without rhyme and reason. Everything in this world has their rhythm, their pattern that they can call their own. The universe of our mind has a cosmic regularity that aberrations often make us take note of. It would be a pity if we reduced music to what only predetermined instruments can make, because in reality it is everywhere. It is in the wind of the thunderstorm that gives a thrill in our heart and makes the heartbeat come truly alive; in the footsteps as we trace a line along the squares of the red pavements in the city of joy; in the raindrops on the tinned rooftops of fallen buildings, in the river as the oars stride against it under the backdrop of the grand bridges that caress the skyline of the old capital with old glories; in the silent breathing of the dejected dog forlorn in the corner of the pavement; in the verses of a poet; in the water from the tap, slowly easing itself, in the dead of the night when the world is asleep; in the silence of the night when the cricket sings; in the punctual regularity of moonshine, in life itself. There’s a hidden song everywhere. And that makes me feel nice about everything else.

Thursday, 20 October 2011

Good Ol' Fairytales

Cinder-Mann was typically the tragic being. Oppressive alcoholic father and a spendthrift sister who'd burn a hole in his pocket before he could replenish it with his salary. He was sad.

He'd while away his time reading books and hoping that the world would become a greater place. The father married time and again for the fun of it, and ended up being quite a bit serious about a rather pretty widow with two kids of her own. Now Cinder-Mann had two other kids burning holes into his little pocket. Sad story. Some say that the brothers were ugly and mean and described them using all the negative words possible. But I secretly believe that it was just to increase the great tragic quotient of our hero. However, the fact remains that he was having a tough time and couldn't see any silver lining whatsoever.

There was a big party in the city palace where Princess Charming was coming. Some say she looked like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. She wasn't really a princess you know. But she was, well, quite swell. And men admired her both for her looks and her sharp tongue that would win both the hearts and the intellects. Cinder-Mann wanted to go. But he felt like William Thacker of Notting Hill or something like that. Well, Charming was way out of his league, and while his step-brothers happily dressed up to woo the lady, Cinder-Mann sat near the fire moping about his distress.

And then suddenly came a fairy. She asked for weird stuff like mice and pumpkins. But while our hero suspected her to be some sort of a loony medieval witch, she had in the mean time created a dazzling coach and sparkling suits that made our man look like a movie hero. Seriously, sometimes all it takes to take off commonness is good clothes.

Anyway, he went to the ball and princess was visibily smitten by his charm. Yet when the clock struck twelve, the man disappeared, leaving behind a shiny boot. The princess looked for it and later found Cinder-Mann distressed, sitting in rags. She was a nice person and asked him to tell what happened. He narrated his sad story while she patiently listened. Due to her charitable disposition, she married the chap. Of course, divorce ensued but the alimony was enough for Cinder-Mann to live happily ever after.

Wednesday, 19 October 2011

Excessive ramblings of a fellow who likes to type, and a thing called contentment

Most of the philosophical brouhahas are about life, to define them in a nutshell. I'm not a cynical person and therefore I don't see life as a series of agonising days where my primary desire every morning is to slash my wrists and see how people mourn my plight. Sentimentality is fine. We all need bits and pieces of it to stay in tune with emotions. But when sentimental extravaganza spills over into pessimism-filled distaste towards everything life has to offer, it is, to put things mildly, a bit over the top. One might argue that I, having a peaceful life so far, am clearly too unaware and immature to comment on a matter so serious. Of course I can't defend that. Immaturity is just another human trait in me that I cannot get rid off.

We all hope for something better that's going to happen at some point of time. We look back upon good times with tinges of nostalgia and silent sniffs somewhere around the olfactory area. But let us face it, we live right at the moment. The rest are either dreams or memories lived. Somewhere down the line, I feel it is so much more important to realise that all the hurdles that life presents us are merely an obstacle to clog our greater picture. They are like the small air-pockets that aeroplanes often plunge into. More often than not the big birdie manages to fly alright. (Of course those prematurely deceased due to plane crashes are cursing me from above). I've always wanted to be happy. Till I realised that there's nothing to plan for. I'm happy for the moment anyway. And that makes a lot more sense than what the past gave or what the future holds.

Disclaimer: This view of life is subject to momentary whims.

Thursday, 29 September 2011

On hope, festivity and growing up.

Too much enthusiasm is detrimental to health. Sometimes, the mind is in a state of utopia. Everything works according to your own will. And then there's the collusion with reality that erodes much of it's dreaminess.

Welcome to the festive season. It's the season of make or break romances, heart burns, vanity, larger than life realities and realisations of the unmakings and makings of friendships. The world shrinks itself into the city with make-belief palaces cropping up here and there, glittery streets that otherwise wear an old forlorn look, girls with prettiness painted on their faces and others wearing their hearts on their sleeves with much elan. There's music. Not a single street is devoid of them. And there are short midnight naps and exciting mornings when one looks forward to their single day of living larger than life, going beyond the mundane humdrums of everyday details. And there's hope of something magical happening each day.

Hope is one of those greatest shatterer of hope itself. No reality can live up to the expectations the mind creates for oneself. It's the festive season. Sometimes, I think, one just needs to realise that inspite of the unwillingness to accept it, we've grown up into prim and proper grown-ups. The type we used to hate when we were kids. The ones who'd curtail our freedom, be it the ice cream cone or the battery-operated aeroplanes that would transform our rooves into giant airfields. Enjoyment has reduced itself to hours of pre-planning, worries and joyous recalling and consolations of the one day of every three-month when we all can say we enjoyed, pictures hoarded up for the world to see are the required proofs. We;ve learnt the art of deliberation and rejection. But on our way to become composed adults, I suppose we had to lose the child in us.

Monday, 19 September 2011

Creeks in the city

I saw the sea in the heart of the city today.

No, I'm not delirious. True story. My college is in an area where even if you have one of those little fountains under which Jaya Prada used to dance in her movies, there's going to be some great amount of water-logging. And I saw the city come alive amidst all the discomfort. Students grumbling on their way back, would remember this day when they fondly look back upon their college days, little boys on their way back experimenting in knee deep murky water as if they didn't care for all the dirt... every mother's nightmare. Cars almost wading slowly, wipers fast moving, trousers up till the knees, umbrellas bright, clashing against low lying roofs of roadside second hand bookstalls that has a misty smell of old books and moist wind, the college folks of the male kind hoping that the pretty ones of their female counterpart will do a Sridevi stunt in the rain, hawkers hurrying to take their items off the road before the water devoured them, Hand-pulled cycle rickshaws suddenly getting a life back from their collective demise as people realise they are the only comfortable mode of transport in the temporary creeks of the city, Ambassadors showing their might over the sleeker cars, food stalls bursting with people, wet umbrellas and murky shoes. As life went on.

Just another day went by. While I was safely huddled in a car hoping that the water won't seep into the engine, I saw my city come alive around me.

Thursday, 15 September 2011

On the art of herding

Much of my college life’s pedagogic moments have been spent trying to make sense of polite squabbles amongst intellectually superior historians. Not that I mind, because debates and discourses are supposed to make us mortals become enlightened soul and all that. But such scholarly debates are often boring to our spring-like minds, to say the least.

The historical debates go something like this:

Elton: There was a Tudor Revolution in Government.
Other chaps: No there weren’t.
Elton reloaded: Yes there was, (with modifications on his views, and slightly annoyed but refuting with gusto)
Some other chap: no there weren’t… and then a lot of other intellectual fellows have a go at it. (The uninitiated reader drops dead... I eagerly survived because of an excellent Professor who made them very interesting and won our hearts in the process). Anyway, such scholarly debates can be intellectually stimulating and all that, but often not very humorous.

Hence, a blog-debate was much fun to read. A fellow blogger explains with much humour ingrained with an idea of the reality that is essential, the pain in the posterior that stereotypical attitudes can be, as a reply to another post where another fellow soul of the female kind ranted about the libidos of dilliwalas amongst other things in a way as if all the stupid, men of the world are imported from Delhi annually. (To be fair, though I don't agree with the view, it was fun to read).

It set me thinking. I mean, we all do have our sets of stereotypical notions I suppose. It’s the notion that one’s stereotypical notions are infallible is what becomes troublesome to those who oppose it. I’ve come across people look down rather snobbishly upon people who prefer Bollywood movies to Parallel cinemas, (or conversely, judge people by their appreciation of Truffaut, Fellini and the likes who by the way are becoming so popular amongst the intellectuals that they run the risk of becoming massy and thus losing their aura). Or categorise the Chetan Bhagat fans as uneducated. I mean, it’s okay to not like Chetan Bhagat or Bollywood. But no one is making it compulsory for you to marry that particular fellow who appreciates all these stuff. So one might as well give the neurons some rest.

And let us accept it. All Bengalis are not fond of Tagore. He was this awesome chap no doubt, but one really can breathe, eat, drink, be merry and do all that even without going head over heels for him or singing his songs in every possible occasion. Also, all men here don’t play football, or have midnight dreams about Sourav Ganguly.

Nevertheless, however much we shall rant, India is too big a country to let go of stereotyping people. It’s like, if you have a farm with two sheep, you might name them Tom and Harry. But if you have a hundred, you might as well address them simply as that big flock of sheep. (I am not great at explaining, and this is the best I could manage). Matrimonial columns are the best example of stereotypical ideas. From the description of girls, it often seems that all are running after the same girl who is tall, fair, convent educated, of a particular caste, can cook, can sing, dance, knit, have a superbly fertile interior to top it all.

Anyway, come what may, the art of randomly categorising people shall remain eternal I suppose. I've been there, done that. But at least we can be mature about it.

Friday, 26 August 2011

On Reading

The lonely soul's companion and pillow-friend since adoloscence, reading often is a more desired choice than people themselves. But I suppose that's more so because the characters are what you interpret them to be. In case of people, they are what they interpret themselves to be, and the choosy human mind can't always adjust with the inadjustments. Of course, such is only one of the cases and not the only one. Appropriate disclaimers always have their roles.

As we aspire to study more and become worldly wise, we try to grow into an intellectual level that is distinctly different, nay, loftier than the general mass. There are the austere readers who not only chide those who do not read, but also those who read books that the aforementioned strict fellows does not themselves like. There are the readers who believe that one who doesn't read isn't made the proverbial man. They say books are supposed to broaden our minds. But often, contempt for anything less intellectual does a wonderful counter-productive job of narrowing it.

The walls are adorned with the Kafkas, Camus and Doestovoskys. One is often proud of their knowledge of all the big names of letters. often the more obscurely famous, the better. But it takes a lot more than reading, to broaden one's mind with the fodder of ones intellectually stimulating textual pleasures

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Being Original.

I'm tired of trying to create nice imageries in my writings. I start with a high on sentimentality enthusiasm but it ends with a dejected whimper. Too much inspiration kills the originality within.

That brings me to the weird question: where does one's originality lie? Since a kid, one is being taught to articulate the rules of life according to set social norms. Therefore, the impressionable mind of the kid learns to stick out her tongue mockingly at a passerby because some other bored fellow did the same to her. Not very original, but then, it has not been a terribly conscious attempt at imitation. Hence, pardoned.

The madmen that you see on the road doing stuff that you wouldn't imagine doing on the roads is being original. But no one's going to give the chap some super-hyped prize for originality. One's services are original and not bordering on lunacy when it is restricted to socially accepted norms. Be original, but within limits of course. Abberations can scare the hell out of people, and that is just not very nice. We are sensitive folks, you see.

Saturday, 13 August 2011

There are two kinds of people I know of, one is sad, the other is happy-sad. It is so much easier to be sad. The old philosophers always tried to find out the dazzling key to happiness, and apart from a few cool Hedonist chaps, most of them gravely say that happiness is in God/The Ultimate/salvation and all that. I mean, eternal happiness is always seen in something that we cannot perceive. (Oh yes apart from the Paolo Coelho-ian 11 minutes maximum, as they say). Happiness is seen as momentary flashes, episodes in our lives that predominate the memory often, like a mother seeing her newborn. It's not eternal because life provides us with too many things otherwise. But sometimes we forget the charm of this little happy moments to try to seek the Greater thing that in all probability is too intangible.

We strive for the eternal bliss. Paradoxical as it may sound, we take immense pain in trying to achieve it as well. And we are so shifty in our idea of happiness. There's joy in winning, and conversely there's joy in seeing someone else lose. It gives a feeling of contentment to know that what you probably could not do, someone else cannot either. The confidence grows at the expense of someone else's failure, unable to interpret the fact that the same failure might at some time be yours.

We mortals have created bubbles around us of self confidence. They work as long as they aren't pricked hard enough. After that, we all are the same vulnerable souls.

P.S: It's not bad to contemplate once in a while, I guess. :P

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Monetary woes

Money sometimes matters you know. Assured full scholarship provisions can deal with the rest. I used to study in a school where 50% of the students couldn't pay their fees while the rest of the students who could afford, paid slightly more to compensate. And, albeit your criticisms, I think most students come out from the school as socially aware adults. It is imperative that an institution should use the resources of those who can afford, to compensate for those who cannot. I don't know much about economics but my common sense says it is simply a case of transference of money from those who have surplus to the coffers of the deficit areas. Provided fiscal assistance is assured for those who cannot afford right from the beginning, I don't see why the rest can't dole out more. I mean, say, simply by cutting down one's smoking costs, one can balance the whole thing you know. The question then isn't about money over merit, but the development of the fund of an institution like Presidency planning to perch itself on the road to success.

(This is a personal response to some students' movement against fee hike in Presidency University.)

Friday, 3 June 2011

On grievances. :|

Often, the quietness outside is endearing. In the darkness and silence of the night, one can see a whole new world come out of nowhere, busily making the most of time till daylight breaks. The shadows play, the little door in the corner creaks to let out a cat that stealthily got into the unaware kitchen. The world outside is sleepy, resting after the tiring day. And one feels content and happy, and thinks about all the good times and all that is gleeful, garnished with red heart balloons.

Not when the God-cursed city behaves like it's a big boiling tub of sweat. I was about to be more descriptive but certain things are better left unsaid. Next to extensive water-logging inducing monsoon, summer seriously annoys me. I never could get it why Enid Blyton would talk of summers in such an endearing way, but of course it was like our winter. One would obviously find that great.

This weather makes one think of all the jobs left unfinished, all the things to work on the eleventh hour of yet-another-examination, all the people with whom closure was never achieved in the form of choicest hard hitting one liners that sound very cool in one's head, all the good food that wasn't eaten because the humidity makes you question the honour of mutton biriyani, all the sunscreen advertisements, and all the food that turned awry but you've realised that only after they've settled in your hapless stomach.

It's just June. And the monsoon's to follow that I think is tolerable provided I'm not on the road.

Happy mid-summer, fellows. May it not make you as lousy as it makes me.

A glum cheerio,

-Lousy mind personified.

Sunday, 22 May 2011

On one's calling and all that

The world often intimidates me. (Had I been appropriately intellectual, I would have dared to comment that it amuses me, and get away with it). I am one of those typical nerds who likes to sit with her dog eared books and read about how a sixteenth century king managed his extra-marital affairs. It's like tabloid for the insipid. In brief, as many claim, I am one of those fellows who live in a slightly different generation altogether, unaware of the fast-paced reality around us. Ah well. My shortcomings.

I see people around me doing unimaginably enterprising tasks. There are fellows who are suave talkers, fellows who get into great professional courses that provide them with cool jobs at the end of the day, while they are happy to see their books out of their shelves and houses. But there are some fellows who actually like to study you know. Of course when some remark that history is all about mugging up and is appropriate for the dimwitted and the uninitiated, One usually complies with their humble observations. The proverbial case of each unto his own.

I intend to stay in academics, mostly because I am nerdy and I am not enterprising enough for anything else. To be fair, I'll enjoy it too. (or so I think till I change my decision) I once thought of taking up journalism as a career option but halfway down college I realized that it isn't exactly my Calvinist calling. And as I came to conclusion with one of my college fellows, what better than history to be an intellectual prick in the adipose-blessed posterior merely by quoting one's syllabus?

But somewhere down the line, I just don't think it is easy to convince some people that one can actually look forward to an un-enterprising geeky uncool life, appreciating it as way better than slogging all the time without getting enough time to sleep, you know.

Oh well, the intricacies of the mature world.

Friday, 20 May 2011

Old school thoughts. :)

Once upon a time when I was nine years old with two pigtails and a height that didn't evolve much later, I remember staring at the fan when I was trying to sleep. As I looked at it, I thought proudly of my sister who'll be leaving school to enter college that year, and I convinced myself that if I blinked hard enough, I might reach grow ten years older to become her age, the moment I woke up. (I was a dreamy lousy unsocial kid then, so my past time consisted of such weird science-defying approaches towards life).

Somewhere down the line I have grown-up remembering this little idea of mine. I blinked in the normal rate I assume, but nevertheless the day came by quite soon. And passed.

It's strange that years pass faster nowadays. It seems like it was a few days ago when I promised myself that I my first priority will be my old associations, as I survived the first class in college. And now we are about to become the senior-most, and priorities have uneasily shifted to and fro with a natural grace that makes it harder to complain.

I like the laid back life where we won't have to worry of what's going to become of the future. But it does bother me as unfortunately no matter how wise I try to pretend, this is my temperament.

All of a sudden, when I remember those days when I wished to grow up in a jiffy, I wonder if my wishes have been granted too fast.

But then, I was a dreamy lousy unsocial kid then, so this has been an improvement.

Monday, 16 May 2011

On imperfection/perfection.

Did you ever have this desperate desire for perfection in all spheres of life when there's an examination coming up? The rare regular readers of this blog (which consists of mostly the narcissistic me) will know that examinations give me an extra adrenalin rush to blog, and hence I have to comply with one of my typical posts.

The world suddenly comes alive when the only alternative (and for the rather not-so-happening people like me, often the only choice) is to study. I came back home from a very happy evening with friends coated lavishly with sentimental mutual thoughts like 'what will happen when college ends' and all that brouhaha; and saw that the current was gone and the sky was dark and starry. The moonlight had created shadows with the trees, trying to boast of it's borrowed glories. I took a brisk walk in the backyard (surprisingly for a thin person like me, I am excessively fond of walking) and had one of those realisations of how merry life is and et cetera.

Without the impending sadness of examinations I wouldn't have seen life with such saccharine-tinted glasses. Not to say that I dislike examination, but I do hate the idea of preparing for them, and I'm not much of a daredevil to actually sit for an important one without preparing. The results shall hurt the Great Female Ego, which, contrary to popular perception, does exist, you know.

My mother now is perpetually surprised (and I dare say pleased) because I more or less clean my room regularly and not only that, I am often seen at 4 am in the morning with a vacuum cleaner and a grim mission to set scores with the dusts in the whole apartment. Added to my life-long passion and ability to kill cockroaches and delicately hurl other winged things out of the balcony, this is a renewed me that my mother must necessarily be proud of. (However, I usually made peace with dirt before. But with time I must have become somewhat of a lousy grown up in face of examinations, and I can see my future with a broom and a cat for company).

Whenever I sit to study, I find some obscure book in the shelves out of order, or the edge of the bed-cover folded to my dislike. The window just isn't appropriately open or the speed of the fan just can't reach perfection. The whole world crumbles around me with it's imperfections and I embark upon my journey to straighten that small representation of the world that my room and periphery offers. Of course the greatest imperfection is left unattended, and it occasionally logs on to write obscure blogs. But there are certain things that just can't be mended.

Now that I study a subject whose understanding lies in higher studies and beyond (and I am sure it will remain as vague to me even then), examinations won't let go of me. Hence with much reluctance I must admit that I can see the path to my future well from here.

However, if my sister was reading this post, she would be happy beyond her senses; but a warning goes out to her that I am hopeful that such behaviour is temporary. And my sense of cleanliness and hers is radically different anyway. :|

Saturday, 9 April 2011

The Great Indian Stalker.

It's tough being unaware of the political scenario, really. I have tried to be so but rather unsuccessfully. I mean, they budge in between my life so often that I think these fellow Gods of Indian Politics have quite successfully managed to make themselves heard by us attempting-to-be not-bothered youthful spirits. A few days ago I was trying to return from college and merrily hopped on to an auto. As it glided through the alleys that in other times repeatedly make one realise of the rising population, I knew something was brewing up ahead. Of course I was not wrong. There was the lady-in Opposition doing her I-walk-alone stunt much to the amazement of arthritis ridden fifty somethings and the annoyance of punctual me.

As I entered my home after fumbling for keys inside my politically-symbolic khadi side-bag which resembles the hippie culture more than Gandhi would have approved of, an sms urged me to support Anna Hazare. It made me recall that in the morning my mother and I were intently gazing on the picture of the old chap and saying if he was thinner he'd definitely look like Gandhi. My mother voted him to be a Lal Bahadur Shastri look-alike. Very politically conscious peeps we are. I mean, I am grateful that someone has finally given a do-or-I-won't-eat challenge to the government. I like the Congress chaps. BJP peeps were too saffron for my taste. But that does not mean that the high and mighty fellows are going to get away with corruption. While they stack moolahs into their designer bags and Swiss banks, I don't even get swiss chocolates. Not fair I insist.

Of course one sms doesn't provide such a big chain of thought. Just typed a bit too much. Nevertheless, when I switched on the television, there was Arnab Goswami barking out loud somewhere and I hurriedly changed the channel to see some sober chap of similar profession. I logged in to my Facebook account to see the same news of the anti-corruption chap and my friends commented away to glory.

And I wondered. We desi fellows are an interesting lot. The Great Indian Political Bandwagon always harries us with something or the other. For people like me who has a comfortable life and decent education, we can't get away with not being politically conscious. It's very funnily inter-woven with almost every aspects of our lives. And a good thing that it is.

P.S: This is a little bit dedicated to the chap who said long time ago in MTV Roadies that the current President of India is Rajiv Gandhi. Amen.

Friday, 25 March 2011


There's a wind outside every evening that to the romantics will bring in some desired hormonal surge, to the less-lethargic ones the desire for a brisk walk, and to people like my mother, the idea of chicken pox. Well, it's the proverbial case of each unto his own.

As I sit in the balcony I see a lonely cow chewing what looks like grass. (I don't know if it makes them high). A few stray dogs sitting idly (quite like us mortals; and the similarities don't end here), and a cricket which is too loud for it's tinyness. The moon has been an old faithful in the quiet night sky. It has tried to be quite glamorous in the past few days, but no matter what it tries, it is still as pretty. And as I sit I think of all the people I know, and how I am a bit of every one of them. I realise these aren't the times to hold grudges. (except the really big ones :P). But these are the times to let life savour each moment of enjoyment; be it sitting quietly doing nothing, or painstakingly taking classnotes in what looks like unknown scripts, or delivering series of obnoxious jokes. These are the times to also gracefully deal with the moments that may not be as good. But there's no point in holding petty feelings. They make us small, and undermine the inherent goodness in life. They eat us from within, narrowing our minds so much that we can hardly see beyond what goes on in it.

Sunday, 13 March 2011

On 'Friends'. (The really great one)

This post has been long due. I wouldn't do justice to my beliefs if I didn't write on this one. I'm not too much of a K-serial person. I don't enjoy the camera taking the same scene from different angles with background score that sounds like some heavenly fall of a steel bowl when a fellow is in some mess. Plus their numerous marriages aren't like Ross's. Therefore when a fellow once categorised FRIENDS as a serial, I thanked the bloke above that I am not to pally with this mortal.

The sitcom has been so well woven into my life that I now try to find out the Ross, the Rachel, Monica, Chandler, Joey and Phoebe in every group I wriggle into. And you might laugh at me (for all I care) but when there's some problematic situation that I've got myself into, I often think of how the Friends peeps would react. It does provide me with a reasonable solution. Whether the other party is going to respond to it properly is a different issue altogether. It's not that the sitcom is perfect or the people in it. But that's what makes them so charming and real. It made me realise that in life, in several situations, if we had that background laughter being played while we were being the victim of some odd situation, we'd realise how funny certain things really are. And let's face it. Life is quite funny anyway.

So here's to the sitcom I'm partial towards. It's not that I don't enjoy other shows. (How I met your mother is beautifully made) but I am just an insignificant mortal who can't control her partialities towards the one sitcom that taught her a lot in life. (however cheesy this might sound).

Saturday, 12 March 2011

On Insignificance

As I watched the waters engulf bits and pieces of Japan forever, I wondered where we all stand. It gives the same feeling that one gets when she sees the skies. The sheer grandeur makes one realise the insignificance of our little lives in the cosmic world. It obviously has greater things in mind, therefore while the earth on its way towards its usual spin suddenly trips, it takes with it the lives of people in a jiffy, like a trot of a small man that accidentally kills a few ants.

The cosmos didn't give us fellows much power, neither does it care much. We fellows learnt a few tricks during the evolution and think that we are the smartest of the lot. As our heads grew big our ideas shrank and it revolved around the superiority of mankind upon the rest of the creatures, and then the superiorty of man over man. But let's face it, even if that Darwininan monkey is laughing at our present volatile condition, I wouldn't trade places with it. I'm almost content with my present comfort, hoping to gather some more. I'm not sure if I shall ever be happy with everything I have, but then, that's what human nature is like I suppose. I'm more or less content.

But somewhere down the line, however important and magnanimous our evolution might appear to be, we are still a rtiny speck in the cosmic world, that lives for only a fraction of time before getting back to dust. It is probably this realisation of our insignificance in this larger universe that makes one create a God to symbolise hope and power of the great great unknown. We are still the little selfish creatures that swarm around the surface of the earth, and only a little tripping of the earth, some burps and hiccups is all that it takes to make us realise how insignificant we really are.

Saturday, 5 March 2011

On Intense fellows

I've always wanted to write something so poignantly sad that people would feel that lump in their throat right from the first sentence they read of mine, and they'd cry till their eyes were all weird and puffy. But the little skill I have lacks in this regard. I've wanted to write about the friends I never had, the weight that was never mine, and the places I've left behind. But whenever I plan to whine about something, trying to bring out the sentimental best in me so that people read and comment 'this fellow is quite intense', something goes awry. I think of all the chums I have for rea and all the good fortunes that have been pouring upon me. Whenever I feel quite down and out that I haven't visited school for long, I have this feeling that the best thing I can do for my school is to carry forward its principles. So you see, these feelings get in the way of whining.

And this is when I realise. It takes too much of sadness to be recognised as a very intense fellow. Sadly, my contentment with the world gets in the way.

Saturday, 19 February 2011

On Self (because it's a topic I like)

A fellow mortal asked me to write about myself. I pointed out that that's what I always do because I'm such a narcissist. Fellow mortal still insisted. And I thought about it. And I can come up with nothing. Well, almost. Err, no. Quite a bit.

I mean, I am a motley idea of all the movie or literary characters I like. What I present to another is mostly what an ideal me should have been. A bit of real me here and there manages to wriggle into the idea, which of course makes the scenario less than perfect. I crack obnoxious jokes bordering on obscenity. Though I consider them to be crap put into words in various forms, I whole-heartedly enjoy them while at it.

I wish to appear to be all strong willed and intellectual but I cry each time, when Shahrukh Khan dies in Kal Ho Naa Ho, or when Amitabh and Jaya sing the last song in Abhimaan. I also cry during the last scene of You've Got Mail because, well, what the heck, it has Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. And I cry the most during the last episode of Friends, and to recover from the trauma, I see the first episode of season 1 right after that. Obviously I end up watching the 10 seasons all over again, and the cycle continues. And I don't see an end to it. Not that I want to see an end.

I also like to dramatise situations to give to it a touch of glamour. I often end up making it seem even more boring, as some of my friends are likely to think. What the heck, I am not a newspaper reporter, and to think of it, they exaggerate in a worse manner. When I was in school, I had the negative idea that I am a terrible speaker when it came to talking on something remotely substantial, may be because I imagined judgemental eyes lurking in every corner. College has somewhat shed that inhibition. So now I have qualified from terrible to the coveted position of merely being bad, and I've made peace with it.

I enjoy writing but more than anything else I enjoy writing about my perceptions, my ideas and mostly myself. I have never come across a person so deeply involved in the study of self. I don't enjoy drinking because it somewhat makes me want to vomit and give acidity that isn't good for neighbours. Plus it makes me feel giddy but does not induce me to do things that I wouldn't have done if I were not alcoholically charged. I don't like to smoke either. May be because my braces won't allow me to hold a cigarette comfortably. And anyway I can't do the sexy-chick-with-a-black-cigarette-in-hand thingy. I'll come across as a freaky-adolescent-trying-but-failing-to-act-over-matured. And this won't be cool.

I personally dislike Hyper-hormonal-I-shall-smother-you-with-love PDA but enjoy watching them while people are at it. I am also bugged by people who criticise others on the basis of looks. Makes me feel embarrassed.

And if I go on rambling anymore, I myself shall get bored.


Friday, 11 February 2011

The usual pre-examination-blues post

I don't see any purpose of examinations. Knowledge is too profound to be put on paper and assigned marks on it's side. I mean, And if the purpose is to test one's knowledge anyway, they might as well have questions testing our wisdom, err, regarding hormonal surge of a person if an attractive fellow winks at her, or the typical pre- Valentine's Day 'she loves me she loves me not' dilemna. Now these are real questions that has bothered the minds of fellows at some point of time or the other.

What are we to do with the evolution of capitalism and the likes anyway? As far as I can see, capitalism hasn't evolved much for us. We are still digging too deep into the pocket with a hole to come out with some moolah, and for the ones who have the the disadvantage of being entangled into a 'forever a single-partner genuinely committed' relationship, most haven't successfully enslaved the other for some marginal monetary profit here and there. Nevertheless, fellows are hell-bent on making us what are supposedly considered to be intellectual, and we shall always be questioned with great gusto on the greater social scenario and all that confusion that each man created before ultimately hitting the bucket: I mean, we human fellows aren't ever happy with the eat-drink-hunt-sleep-reproduce kind of a routine and thus we have to study history for all the mess they created and we are creating now, simply because we high and mighty mortals don't like the things as they are. Ever.

But my ramblings isn't ever going to work. The desire to test knowledge shall continue, with the residue of a sense of being hit at the posterior with a very intellectual kick of mankind, forever.