Sunday, June 28, 2009

Things are leaving me increasingly disillusioned.

1.I just found out the House theme song is called Teardrop. I mean, really? Doesn't House have a conscience, but at all?

2. Michael Jackson died. Now where will all the jokes go?? :(

The children are glad, though. Some of them might just have a chance at a normal childhood now.

3. There are way too many people creating How Well Do You Know Me quizzes on Facebook.

Fine! I'll admit it. I've thought about it more than once.

4.The Mummy in Tamil actually has seeds and leechers on Mininova.

Lots of them. That's scary beyond belief.

5. I have started following a serial on a Bengali satellite channel. Its about a girl who willingly marries a retard and has some divine connection with the Goddess Durga.

Now I am scaring myself.

Also. My mom has a more active social life than me.


I rest my case.

Friday, June 12, 2009

These smells I know of.

There's a certain way a book smells. Its not nice, or something you'll remember once its encased in your high and mighty bookcase. Its almost invisible, lurking behind certain pages you'd normally skim, skip even. You'll smell it, only if you want to (which I'm guessing in most cases you wouldn't). Therein lies its charm. Its self-assured, satisfactory, elusive(?) charm. If you notice long enough, you'd know each author has their own smell. I smell Chingri Maachher Malaikaari in an old Sidney Sheldon, boiling with secrets and sauces that make it bestselling. A Roald Dahl smells of a Kookie Jar fudge brownie, peppered with words, which otherwise would be limp, but in this delectable concoction become beautiful. A Mahfouz smells of cinnamons--the one spice I haven't yet fully understood.

There's Zadie Smith who smells like Andhraite cuisine--so spicy that you'd want to tear it apart to figure out the myriad senses that go into its preparation, yet so wholesome and satisfying that you can't help a generous second helping. Amitav Ghosh plays with your senses--like a good Thai Red Curry which smells fishy, yet not, tangy, yet not. But stringed with ingredients that strike at the right place. The place called home.

Then there's Ian McEwan who smells like a four-tiered wedding cake, a Crème brûlée ....so pretty you're afraid it might crumble, so delicate you're almost afraid you're damaging it.

Samit Basu is good, old-fashioned Biriyani-- tingling new tastebuds everytime, producing unique and utterly compelling sensations. Reminds me sometimes of Chopsuey---put in all known, mundane ingredients, yet produce something remarkably original.

These smells.
These books.
These writers.

They just know.

They just know how to.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Summer

These things that we do, we do in summer. We make exits. We make entries. We find. We lose. We travel. To spaces in our head, to the places in these spaces... We live. Eat 4 rotis. Wear collared shirts. Visit pan shops. Become racist. Or make-faces-to-keep-little-kids away. Its summe"R" with an accented R. And Virginia Slims.
In summer we make faces. The We Cant Be Worthless, We Have To Write a Play face. The cheeky smile face. The Wide Toothed grin when you realize that months of conspiring has led to nicety. The Dimples on Dimpal. The Shy is Coming face. The What the Fuck face. And the 3 day extension smiles. Also there's the QWERTY face. But thats always there.
There is also the Communing with the Astral and Parvati Valley. And Tumi Amar...............(pause) Maa. And there's Oly. And Monsters Vs. Aliens. Also disillusionments with primetime idols. Jai hok.


Oh, And there's sleep. So good night.