So I'm back Helloring. Posts shall get frequenter with advent of new technology called Wireless. On happy days(i.e. Thursday and Friday) I shall sleep till 12. I shall also have crazy ass prof whose sex ed classes make the paavam girls in my class do "the roll your eyes scandalously" routine. I shall also have studmacha boydom in my class shouting Mr. India songs in Plant Physio class. I shall also have "Wear a labcoat and evade the Warden" strategy planning sessions. And welcome back into my life the Teen Deviyan, The Non-Single One, and the One with the Cyst. And the unneeded experience of the inexperienced. And the nautanki of dramatics and the people in it. And the continuous recharges. And a new roomsharer.
And most of all hail the Return of Grape Juice.

And "icebreaking".

:D

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.

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.

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.

I call this day a lot of things. But mostly the Day of the Doughnuts. And Evil Waffles. And missing Nutties. And Chicken and Roti. And missing(?) raindrops. I shall miss the Singaporean. And mashima. And the girl who keeps quiet when we annoy. And the pretty colors.

Wait. I just saw them again.

Looks like this trip aint over just yet.

You cant exactly blame me for not turning in a single post this month. Blame it on Hellore and this semester, rather the lack of this. The extra break home. The holidays marred by classes. And the exams that got cancelled in a parallel universe. And the dialer that never got fixed. But right now no more. Which is where Bangalore came in.

I've never been able to understand the deal with people and their cities. Look, its really easy to love Cal. The city doesnt impose on you its myriad traditions or centuries of heritage. It aint rush you--moving at a pace epitomised by its most famous symbol---the rickshaw. You need not be anyone but your usual damaged bandaged supercilious annoying bubbly cynical self to survive. Other cities often make me wonder. Bangalore has. Quite often. This time I figured it out. The people here probably thrive on that gymlike furious pace I so consciously avoid. Multistoreyed buildings and castles of steel frame their horizon like the haze that outlines Cal's skyline. We both live silent lives of misery, make up lies for a living---breathing in toxicity and Raat-Ki-Rani with the same efficiency. The 'cities' provide us with that. The maze that constitutes MG Brigade Koramangala is self-content, satisfactory---Camac and Rawdon beckoning. Their talli gallis are neon-lit like stills out of a Wong Kar Wai production. They breathe on this evanescent euphoria their citizens send billowing...the currency varying by a few hundreds here and there. The nights end differently. They begin in the same way. And nostalgia swoops in, slowly and inconspicuously.

I think the next time I visit Bangalore, Ill probably finally understand it. And learn to love. It.

Happy 29th Feb

Its been a month since a post and I had to get in one before February ended. Its one of those obsessive things that you cant really make sense of. Like, 40 degrees in February, or working Saturdays, or Youth Parliaments or Accidental Deaths of Anarchists. There is too much happening way too soon for The Old Lady( read as me) to process with clarity. Reminds me of Benjamin Button. And times-when-things-were-slower. And easier.


No I'm not color blind
I know the world is black and white
Try to keep an open mind but...I just can't sleep on this tonight

Stop this train I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly won't someone stop this train

Don't know how else to say it, don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own

Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
but honestly won't someone stop this train

So scared of getting older
I'm only good at being young
So I play the numbers game to find away to say that life has just begun
Had a talk with my old man
Said help me understand
He said turn 68, you'll renegotiate
Don't stop this train
Don't for a minute change the place you're in
Don't think I couldn't ever understandI tried my hand
John, honestly we'll never stop this train
See once in a while when it's good
It'll feel like it should
And they're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing'til you cry when you're driving away in the dark.

Singing stop this train I want to get off and go home again
I can't take this speed it's moving in
I know I can't
Cause now I see I'll never stop this train(think I got 'em now)