I discovered/re-discovered The Kinks tonight.

If I was ever a musician, I just know this would be exactly the kind of music I'd make. Not the kind of music I wish I had made, because THAT list is practically inexhaustible for anyone with a Facebook profile.
It is the kind of music I would make. If I was a musician, that is. Somewhere in a parallel universe they would call me The British Invasion. I'd wear leather capes and boots on stage and try not looking like an ad for a BDSM website. And I'd make happy-crazy-audacious and always, always oddly satisfying music.

And then I'd put on my slippers, and sit by the fire. Cause I'd know I've reached my top and I couldnt get any higher. I'd be in my place and I'd know where I was. In my Shangri-La.

“This,” he says. “This is why The Beatles got it.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following…”

“Other bands, it’s about sex. Or pain. Or some fantasy. But The Beatles, they knew what they were doing. You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?”
“What?”
“‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That’s what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blow job or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can’t hide. Every single successful love song of the past fifty years can be traced back to ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding. Trust me. I’ve thought a lot about this.”
“‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand,’” I repeat.
“And so you are, my friend. So you are.”

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.