Randomness makes the world a better place. An easier place. A sexier place. Randomness brings together retards annd makes them "special". Randomness makes wilderness and creatures of the night come alive. Randomness makes us anti-social. It makes us pole dance. It makes us sing Rhythm Divine. Makes us observe strange mating rituals and walk into unisex toilets. It makes us find Ladies In the Water. Apparently it also leads to Tango. It leads to aimless walks amidst Barns against backdrops of rain-lit skies. It leads to scarilicious eyes, disoriented 'orientations', single malt whiskies and intoxicating slushes. Randomness causes Lone Wolves to answer questions about Sex Positions at 4 in the night, and about brilliant retards at a 'more suitable time for girls'. It also causes myriad renditions of Na na na nananana which would put George, Paul and Co. to shame. Randomness reasons out One Spot, Jump Down, The Knife, Sssss and charading into the night. It makes sense of Condoms and Chewing Gum. It also gives meaning to being perpetually stoned apparently. And horrible V for Vendetta-like(or the eponymous version) sunburns. It takes us to Samudra Permit rooms. It makes us appreciate subtlety or the lack of it. And the various kinds of girls there are. It makes us make poor comebacks and talk till sunrise. And sometimes, once in a while, it makes us silent. And then it overwhelms us.

And just then it leaves. Quietly, shadily, mysteriously. And if you look at it as it walks away, it might just resemble a blue bus with headlights vanishing into the night.

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.