"And That's Why Not"

Okay, so after years and years of research, and late nights and endless cups of coffee and heartbreaks and genuine puzzlements, I am ready to make my (infallible, undoubtable, yet mindbogglingly simple) theory public.
Now mind you, this theory, though foolproof, is entirely tailormade for the random doodler, so any raising of eyebrows, shaking of head (unless in agreement) and general dissent will not be entertained (gomakeyourowntheory!) And woe betide anyone who tries the alternative route of consolation or 'tsk-tsk' or ofcourse-that-isnt-true crap, this baby is time-tested i tell you.

So anyway, now that disclaimers are over, here we go.
The theory, which for now has a working title of "And That's Why Not"(ATWN) basically examines the possible reactions that can occur within a given framework of conditions (in this case, four) and also possible variations in case one or more of the conditions are altered or absent.

We consider first a homo sapien, necessarily of the male variety, and one who is necessarily not attracted to other homo sapiens of similar orientation. This is a mandatory clause, which when not met with can add serious complications towards the end of ATWN. Now, being just a required homo sapien, whom for simplification purposes we shall now call M.A.N (maleus andois niceus), is not enough. The theory requires that this particular M.A.N under study, must fulfil the following conditions:

• Intelligence. Not just first-in-class/ i-read-eliot/ i-know-all-the-elements-of-the-periodic-table intelligence. But the kind that comes with being well-read, having a good upbringing and a certain clarity of perception. The M.A.N in concern must also possess the ability to conduct an intelligent conversation (that need not necessarily be about himself) with liberal doses of good (or bad) humour and wit. (If you think this clause by itself is a rarity, wait till u see the other 3!)


• Cuteness. Not necessarily jaw-dropping, hearbeat-skipping, knee-hammering good looks (though one is not against it, one simple wants to be realistic). But reasonably decent looking, enough to make one think, to consider and reconsider, just about enough to be attracted to. This clause further includes the inbuilt clause of height, which again is a necessity, given that even without heels one seems to be taller than the majority of the male homo sapien population. And one is not necessarily happy about the fact.


• Focus. What one refers to is a one-word substitute for 'going somewhere'. In life. Like our M.A.N may be hot a la Tom Cruise and able to quote pages and pages of Homer's Odyssey, but that still does not qualify him if he is basically drive-less. What one has in mind is a M.A.N who is doing something useful with himself, with what he has at his disposal. He need not be finding a cure for cancer, as long as he knows where he is going, and it isn't backwards.


• Attractiveness-index. This is where one herself comes in. The point is that the previous 3 conditions must play in such a proportion that one is attracted to M.A.N, even to the slightest degree. Since cases have occured where the occurence of the first three have not resulted in the occurence of the fourth, this condition must be necessarily maintained as an assumption rather than a clause. (One is yet to come up with a theory that will determine in what proportion the first 3 are to be found in M.A.N for the fourth to be valid. As of now, the index remains a complicated abstraction.)

So these are your clauses. Now for the theory itself.

Given that the four conditions (as explained above) are found to be valid in the case study (in our case M.A.N) , the chances of M.A.N being even remotely interested in our Random Doodler is found to be zero (also known as zilch, none, nyet, oh-no-no-no!) Copyright- RandomDoodler

Further studies and more cups of coffee have also revealed that if one or more of the required clauses are found to be absent or modified, the conclusion of the theory can take an almost 180-degree turn. That would explain why not-so-bright, or not-so-hot, or perpetually-stuck individuals, or all of the above seem to take unnatural interest in one. Or why a M.A.N possessing the first three pre-requisites but falling short of the fourth through no fault of his own (in which case the whole thing takes an extremely tragic turn), would also do the same.

How far changes or modifications in given clauses affect the final result is still under research. Eventually one hopes to come up with a foolproof quadratic equation that will determine an exact change in the result when one or more of the clauses are changed in whatever degree.

However, the final result, all clauses and conditions given, remains unchangeable and fool-proof. The posession of the clauses in M.A.N and his interest in Random Doodler are inversely related, with increasing returns to scale dominating the scene. For the uninitiated, that means, greater the presence of the clauses in M.A.N, lesser and lesser is the interest shown towards one. (Note that one used 2 'lessers' as opposed to one 'greater'. That is increasing returns to scale.) The relation of the result to the clauses individually as of now follows a chaotic system of permutation combination that one is desperately trying to solve. (It is extremely probable that the same may take several light years as one was awful at PandC during school and to this day, has never quite got it)

Footnotes: The number of years gone into observation and understanding of the theory is more than a decade. Number of cases studied are at their least about a dozen. Theory has remained a sad, infallible, inevitable truth over the years. Earlier, one was puzzled. Now, one is more knowledgable.

Practical uses: Earlier one tried, got confused, got demoralized, got hurt, got angry. Now one simply checks to see if the first three clauses are in order if the fourth is activated. If they are, one simply does not bother. One knows what the result will be. And if by any chance, the result isn't what it always is, one checks the clauses again. And sure enough, one of the four is suddenly diminished, evaporated, or had never-been-there. The theory saves one a great deal of trouble and unnecessary deliberations.

Warnings: As one has mentioned before, ATWN has been categorically developed from experience, personal research, soul searching and simple logmathonomics. It is entirely suited to the dubious personality of Random Doodler, and in all possible cases will not apply to you. Therefore, think twice before attempting to practise this in real life. No requests of refunds, threats or coffee and milk-biscuits shall be entertained.

Now with the great theory out of the way, one is back to doodling and moping, and working out the the mechanics behind quantum physics, permutation combination and the Black Hole. One is also thinking of a better name for the theory as one suddenly realizes that ATWN sounds extremely silly.

Bee-sized Bonnet

I'm Back to Blue and Blogging.
Only while this weird feeling lasts. Which isn't saying much.

I'm semi-obsessed with a few things right now. These being:

• Photographs. Old, new, photoshopped, non-photoshopped, peopled, non-peopled, familiar, non-familiar (but looks familiar!), sepia, yellowed, faded, artistically taken, badly taken, et al. I stay up late going through random people's photoblogs and it has never been so much fun. (I am not much of a clicker myself, and in any case, I dont like the pictures i take)It reminds me of an older semi-obsessive phase I had of reading short stories on the net, and I wasnt even on broadband then. Try explaining huge phonebills to irate parents who refused to understand the merits of free original fiction.
• Color pencils. I got a new set, picked it out all on my own and now i'm just raring to go. These are ordinary Camlins, set of 12 (actually eleven, i never did see the sense of a white one) and they have this cool tip which, when u dip into water, gives a darker, smudgier effect. I always preferred the pencil sketch effect over crayons, though crayons are undoubtedly more brighter. Anyway, I am currently doodling over anything and everythin, even though i have a brand new sketch book for the very purpose. That just seems too...white...to mess about in. Something tells me, all my life will be sketched in practice sheets.
• 91.9 FM. Its this new radio FM station by ABP i think, and i listen to it all the time, whenever i'm downstairs, or out, or not around the PC. I loved their promo ad hoardings (I'm a sucker for things like that--Coffee House, adda, old gaan) and now I cant get enough of Rabindra sangeet, and Lok Geeti (is that it?) and Adhunik Gaan and Manna De and Hemanta and Salil Choudhuri (pardon me, but these are the only names i know :( ) The RJs are pretty bad, and talk far too much than they should, but oh, the music. These are all the Sunday morning songs that used to be played at home when i was in Bombay, and unconsciously or otherwise, it seems i know most of the lyrics to them, even though i cant remember the time i last heard them. They're all a little sad, looking-back-to-the-past times, but it reminds me so much of my dad and my childhood, that its not funny. (Sigh, i must be getting on.)
• Bombay. I miss :-( for reasons beyond my comprehension. And some within. Maybe its because i was on holiday and life was pretty much a lazy sunday afternoon. But i miss. And i wish i knew it better. I stayed there for 10 whole years! And I barely seem to know it at all. I want to go back. Not to stay or something. But just...
• Suzanne. By Cohen. I cant get it out of my head, cant stop singing it, cant stop picturing it. Its exasperating me a little now. I am almost tempted to quote the entire lyrics but i shall refrain.
• Southern Avenue. I am back to my walking days. Even though the worst of summer is on its way, and sweat beads threaten to obscure my line of vision, i realize that i am happiest when i walk. Its just mindless, hands-stuffed-in-your-pocket, not-looking-at-anyone-around, full speed, threatening-to-crash-into-the-woodwork walking but oh its so senseless and so liberating. I just dont have to think!

There is more. But i'm done for the moment. Its 4:12 right now, i do not see how that would change the course of your existence, and it just became 4:13. That is how quickly I'm getting old. I wish somebody would do something. Its all so ohh-shucks-darn now. Why why why? Will the why never leave?

Tomato Soup and Murgi'r Jhol.

Sometimes you wonder how little things can make such a big difference. Like this picture i saw of my grandmother taken quite a few years ago. It was not particularly subtle, with a bright studio seashore scene set up, and she had this intense look on her face as if someone had told her that if she smiled, the world would end. So she had her eyes screwed up, and her forehead wrinkled--and she didnt look like my grandmother at all. Its funny, because everything else was so familiar, the clothes she was wearing, and even her spectacle frames. But she was not my grandmother in the picture. It felt a little weird, and even a little sad. Like she was someone on her own. And all these years she had just been my grandmother (and other people's mother and wife and sister and aunt) and not much else.
I cant make up my mind about the picture, as in, whether i like it or not. And i cant get over it either.

So anyway, people everywhere are trying to make up my mind for me. On every possible issue. Sometimes i think it would be so much easier to go with the flow. But but but... the stars get in the way. I just dscovered a few days back that my lunar descendant is Leo. And i seem to inevitably end up with the worst of both. What a laugh this is.
Speaking of stars, i got tarot card readings. Oh and inevitably again, whatever card i picked ended up being a slutty high priestess with enormous endowments. (Sigh!) So anyway, the cards hinted that i might meet someone new in the future, which is a good thing as i am tired of recycling people in my life. Oh, and it is also most probable that i might be the first to 'get some' and soon! Which leaves me to wonder if this is going to be another round of recyclement (yes i know thats not a real word).

I dont want to 'get some'!! I want excitement, and intelligent conversation, and lots of laughter, and butterflies in my stomach, and funnyquigglyfeelings, and corny sms, and meaningless phone calls, and giggling, and surreptitious glances, and bunches of wildflowers, and long walks in the evenings, and handwritten letters, and balloons and watercloured pictures, and random memories, and waterfall picnics, and redwinehighs, and bleary eyed mornings, and...

And there is and can never be any end to human want.

And so we sail on...tide against current, or some such thing. What a bitch the world can be sometimes.

Parzania

I happened to have seen Parzania today, and am still reeling from it. The last film that disturbed me to such an extent was Osama, and even that had the rosy envelope of a story-that-happened-to-someone-else-far-far-away.
When the Godhra riots and its aftershocks occured, i was a school student in the very neighbouring state, concerned only during the 9'o clock news, and indifferent soon after. It must have lasted in my memory for what? One month? Two at most.
What i have seen today, i know i can never forget. Films based on communal violence is not an exceptionally new idea, tried and tested infact. What shook me most was the picture of the real boy, the lesser know Mody, at the end. It sort of drags you by the noose into a reality not too far from your own, even though it may seem worlds apart.

I think we have lost the right to call ourselves secular. Violence is not new in this country. But state-sanctioned violence of this sort, its definitely a first for me.
For the first time in my life i was ashamed to call myself an Indian.

Rajdeep Sardesai's article asks some extremely pertinent questions. But i think its a long time before he, or any of us will get any answers.

Azhar, wherever he is, i hope he is okay. For the sake of his family, i hope he is found. Though, if he has found his way into Parzania (where mountains are of ice-cream, and cricket comes before everything) I'd rather he stayed there.
This isn't a nice world for kids to be in.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Wouldnt you like to know? This happens.
This.
This.
This.

Trinity and all that. Hah hah!
And 14 years 5 months and 6 days on I suppose I shall look back in anger. Or apathy.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh.
The world revolves like ancient women
Gather fuel in vacant lots.

Not original ofcourse. All by Mr. Eliot. All. Every bit. Who died and made him king? Who told him to make assumptions on behalf of the rest of the world?
Ah, but he had something going there didnt he?
And so we laugh, darlings. We laugh.

There was terror outside windows, outside doors, outside hearts. Men still took the 9:18 CST local. For life must go on. And the government issued plans and figures and memorandas. And checked your hand baggage twice. And we went on our work like mannequins with a purpose. Or without. Whatever u say. You told me in an emotionless voice about your sister. And i tried to empathize.But you were a stranger. And you could be one of them.

I painted three posters which celebrated the "spirit". And lay on a cold white bed while someone stole some of my blood. I attended three peace rallies and a demonstration that nearly turned violent and effective. I did not attend the fourth, for my feet hurt and i wanted to listen to music. On the ride home, people stared defiantly at each other, determinedly indifferent. And i saw you, or thought i did. Your lurid green kurta and soft speckled beard. And i remembered.

Doors and windows were shut but insecurity seeped in anyway. And i curled tighter against myself while the PA system declared Emergency. Blank, vacant looks greeted unsympathetic unresponsive faces until it all became a blur. There was either colour, or fear in those eyes. And suddenly i was running. Running down the tracks in wild, carefree abandon. Ity might as well have been yesterday. Or last year. Only it wasnt. For i was the only one running. And i was runnin away.

Liquid kisses under flourescent lights.Unknown fingers, unknown lips. And how terribly terribly real. Cracked windows, and a broken PA system. Dancing neon-light-shadows of unreal people in an unreal world. And i remember your hands, though your face is a blur. Intertwined fingers, interlocked hearts, intermingled feelings, and an irreversible act. On unfamiliar unscrubbed floor, amidst muffled voices and undecided sentiments. Sirens blared at a distance. You knew what had happened. Again.
And i remembered about your sister. And quietly wept.

Tobacco Trance

There is smoke-filled coffee haze, there is arguing over Menthol and Marlboro, there is quoting a little Prufrock, a little Yeats, there is a little Dylan, a little Polly.
Sometimes we read plays, and sometimes we play. There are those rare discussions, those rare flashes of wit. Sometimes we are all too insecure, sometimes we curl our lips at other people not-so-different from us.
We got the booz, the weed, the rock-n-roll, the sex, the freedom. We got it all so much, that now we dont know what we want.
I belong to a lost generation. and i have no idea where I'm going. As long as i know i'll have chances to dream and fly. And maybe write poetry at times. Or sing to a tuned-out guitar.
We know we care, yet we cant show it. There is too much of protecting the self from being hurt. Everything is too corny or too lame.
Where is the quest? what are we questing for? As long as we know where the next joint is coming from, the next broken record...the next high and the next dream.
I am the warped mixed up product of an age that believes in Satyajit Ray, communism, consumerism, and John Lennon all at once.

Change? Cholbe na cholbe na...

An Abstract Piece of Prose

It started pouring. Suddenly, just like that. People everywhere were running for cover. The shops near Deshapriya Park that had stuff hanging outside started closing down. The man selling telebhajas on the road wrapped up his wares in methodical order, looking the least bit bothered about it. The Ballygunge-Esplanade tram derailed in all that confusion. Bright, colourful umbrellas were pulled out of bags, children scooped up in arms. An auto conveniently splashed water over my skirt before speeding away. I noticed that it had jumped the signal. Two policemen nearby were talking about the world cup. I was waiting for an SD4 and hoping that Rooney would play.

“…Amidst the hundred droplets that fall,
I have seen the two closest to the earth…”
It was the only poem anyone had ever written to me. And though it wasn’t a Keats, who incidentally happened to be my favorite, and though it was what you would call extremely corny, I still thought about it all the time, and recited it in my head. It was about the rains. And about me. I couldn’t write poems at all. I could write answers, and really short stories or rather ‘pieces of abstract prose’ as they have been called…but poetry eluded me. Poetry is my favourite part of literature. I alternate hopelessly between Keats and Plath. Sylvia Plath of course.

The tram was still derailed. Two other trams had joined the line behind it. The last one would take me home, it was a Tollygunge-Ballygunge. I got into the first one even though the conductor warned me, “onek deri hobe kintu”. I got a single seat near the front and left my window open. The rain got my left sleeve and made me shiver from time to time.

Some poems made me shiver to. When I read them the first time without understanding the meaning involved, but knew all the same that they made sense somewhere. Sometimes they made by blood run cold, with their sheer intensity. And I always wished I could write even half as well as that. But I could only write answers. Not poems.

A few workmen had gathered near my window. The conductor closed all the windows near the ladies’ seats and then proceeded my way. I put my head outside pretending not to be aware of his presence. Soon, my window was the only one left open in the tram. I pretended not to notice.

The rain would come right onto my bed and desk if the windows on the west were not closed. So in order to avoid that, my grandmother would close every window in the house as soon as the daylight streamed in. During summer it protected the windows against the sun, and in monsoon it protected the windows against rain. The neon light would remain on all the time and it would be hard to say if it was day or night. My cousin and me would sneak out to the chhat whenever nobody noticed. It was always too hot to be there barefoot, so we would hop around like those green insects with wings. During the rains, I was allowed to get wet. My grandfather would stand inside with a towel in his hand while I danced about and sang in the rain.

I knew it would stop raining soon. It was becoming brighter. The workmen had disappeared to the front of the tram. A mother and her kid got into the tram perhaps for the shelter. They sat on the adjacent 2-seater next to mine. The kid wanted to open her window but her mother refused. She even looked at me a little angrily. She obviously thought I was responsible for putting such ideas in the child’s head. I turned away again as the mother started rummaging the girl’s school bag for her homework. I tried to tune out her voice. “Eto kom ki kore pele?”, “Eta to ami shikhiye diyechhilam”, “Ronny koto peche test-e?”

I had got 55/100 in maths on my unit test. And though in school I tried to pretend it was all ok, I knew I was in big trouble. I told them my literature marks first (85), but they wanted maths. Everybody in my family for as much as I could remember worshipped maths. And I just couldn’t get the hang of Boolean algebra. My pride was too mortified to eat that day. I stood on the roof and got wet all night. In the morning I shut the doors and windows so that no one would find out. No one did.

I hoped the tram would get repaired soon. I wanted to see how the Maidan looked after it rained. I love the tram ride to Esplanade. I had done it thrice. However it was the first time I was sitting on a single seat. The kid in the next seat was sneaking glances at me while her mother was reprimanding her. I smiled. She looked away. A couple stood in the bus stop nearby talking. The girl was very pretty. The boy had his back turned to me.

I came home running in the rain. Running because I was late. My mother didn’t look at me before she yelled about how late it was. Then she looked. And asked me if I was crying. I said no—it was only the rain. She told me to get changed so that everyone could eat. That night I stood on the chhat…all dry even though it was pouring around me. It had been covered last year by blue plexiglass.

The rain had stopped by now. The telebhaja man took out his frying pan again. The tram was repaired too. It was waiting for the signal to turn green. The seconds showed. 16,15,… The sun came out. The kid was halfway through her homework. I suddenly felt really silly sitting inside the tram all wet when everything around was dry and sunny. And…I didnt feel like going through the Maidan after all. I jumped off just as the conductor was coming my way.

I decided to walk home. The wind hit me in my left-side wet clothes and made me shiver. Not the kind of shiver I felt when I had understood Snake-charmer the first time. Not the shiver i still feel when i read the Ode.
No, this one just left me feeling cold to the bones. And horribly, horribly empty.

You know what i dont have? One of those 4 a.m.-friends. Realized it sometime around 4 a.m.(ah...thats why the name!) this morning.
Its all a little ironic. And i thought somebody would do something. But then i have these crazy expectations from the most unlikely people. And lets face it. People sleep at 4 a.m. And they arent likely to read my mind either...i keep all telepathic lines firmly shut.
But then...i guess what really matters is not that people are asleep, but that i really couldnt think of anyone to wake up. As in, what would i say? "Help!?!?"
Its weird. If only a little. All these years on the planet and i couldnt think of anyone i could wake up. At 4 a.m. Or p.m.
What a profound epiphanic moment. am i going to see fireworks now?
Too bad, theres daylight.
Oh, and my throat hurts.

This blog has died its natural death. Just like so many other things that die everyday--stuff you wouldnt notice if it dangled before your nose.
Come for the funeral if you are free. Ah, but then, you probably wouldnt be.

Wheeeee....gift!!!!!!!

YAY! my first ever 20th birthday gift!! Don gave. The bear is called Begun, because it looks a little like Don, and i call him Begun sometimes. So in his very own words, i 'transfer' the epiteth. It is too adorable for words, even though the photo quality may not vouch for that.
The book is In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. It is the book upon which the film Capote is based. Pretty good choice, though i have a strong hunch that the reason he gave this to me is coz he wants to get his hands on it soon after.
So..yay! I got vudday gift too. I can be such a kid sometimes, but little things like birthdays are so darn important.
Oh, and i also got a card...which does not present me in an extremely flattering light as it bears heavy references to my...errr...situation on Saturday. (Funny..ok..get over it!)
Butbutbut yayyy...am happy, all's good...happy birthday to me again...and I'll treat u for sure, and not just in Barista and not just beer. Ki fun!! I finally feel 20. Or 19. Or whatever! I feel a year older. Thanksthanksthanks.

Pathetic is not the word. More like downright disgusting. Is how i have been today.
With two of the few people who mean anything to me. And now i understand why sorry is never enough.
Birthdays are big overrated bullshit. And it took me 20 years to get that in.

This is to me me me! Not coz its today. But because i didnt see anyone else closeby. Bacause i was running too fast. Bacause slow walking is not in my system. Because i said that. Time to be fly again. Only it gets harder with every passing year.

Goodnight and goodbye kid. Its finally over.

Strangely enough, this time i am really sad to be leaving bombay. its something i cannot quite reconcile myself to. i never really have much feelings for this place.
But...its weird. i'll miss the folks too. and everything else. this has been one of the best breaks ever. and i wish it wasnt going to get over so soon. quite a neat little suspension of reality.
Oh well...one can only hold out so long.

i wish i knew stuff before that i know now. maybe i would have come up with a different equation then. right now its all a horrible tiresome Sudoku puzzle. Where at the last moment i find two 7s in the same row. back to square One kid! oh wait...not kid. not anymore. cant hold on forever, i guess.

from this side to that

Note to Pretty Boys on the Street:

Thank you for being patient enough for this hearing. It is of utmost importance that I get this through to you now before u die thinking that all is right with the world inside your pretty little head.

I saw u at a crowded pub looking err…dishy. Cute, very cute I say to myself. Just the right height, clean stuff-free teeth, great hair, great eyes and all other blah blahs. Lingering glances, hint of a smile. And the evening is more or less set. 2 beers and 3 cocktails down I finally swallow all my inhibitions (well ok, not all, almost) to look up and actually do a weak wave. And before I realize things are set into motion, and you are walking upto me flashing a wonky grin, things are going weak in my knees, and I could swear that the whole room is suddenly dancing with rainbow colors (hic!). Its all just about right, I’m already someplace else inside my head with you, my friends have left me alone with knowing grins, you are here…almost, almost…there’s that cute smile again…you sit down: You speak—

“ Your looks are vairry beaootiphul. Want to dance? Chick? ”

And suddenly all my thoughts are in a whirlwind—cute grin, white tee, wonky smile, three cocktails, friends, glances, all collaboratively cumulating in a head rush while I struggle to stand up steady. And all this is apparently not clear to you since you so obviously live in a different dimension that can only be occupied by great looking guys who cannot spell c-o-n-v-e-r-s-a-t-i-o-n.
Since you still look cute and I’m still quite high I make another weak attempt at sanity:
-Er…sorry?
-(flashy grin again) I wazs stearing at you all night from other side. I wish u to dance with me. We can be vairy good friends.
-MY spaceship awaits and I must leave.

Hasty retreat. Disbelieving silence. And all that jazz.

Pretty boy 2:

Me: What about Pulp Fiction?
PB2: Ermm…
Me: You have seen it haven’t you?
PB2: sure. With all those rewind things and loads of blood, huh?
Me: Maybe you mean Kill Bill.
PB2: eh…Kilbil?
Me: (Sigh!) Don’t you see films at all?
PB2: Sure I do. I thought KANK was pretty good. Did u see that?

I rest my case.

Pretty Boy 3:

(talking to his reflection) Maybe I need to get my sideburns trimmed. If only I were 2 inches taller. (to me) Is my nose too shiny? Do I need to use a facewash? Do you think this hair gel makes my scalp oily? You don’t think I should powder my neck?
(to himself again) Darn, I shouldn’t have stayed out in the sun for too long. I’m too tanned for words.

Eeeks!
Repeat actions. Hasty retreat. Inward groan.

It concerns me to a deep, earth-shattering tragic extent that most of the males I encounter today who are inbetween wearing nappies and showing later signs of grey hair have temporarily (I hope temporarily) lost all powers of intelligent communications. That the so-called men of today have for some unknown obscure reason have forgotten how to talk. Really talk. Not as in move those jaw muscles and go “duh-duh-duh” but really talk. Communicate. Something that would make me think. Or atleast raise my eyebrows. And I don’t mean in disgust.
There isn’t any decent guy that I have seen in the last godknowshowmanydays who happened to have opened their mouths to speak and not made me cringe as an afterthought.
What have you done with the real men, you weirdlings? The ones who knew another way of using their tongues besides going yap-yap-yap.

It helps sometimes if you would talk about stuff that you actually know about, leave yourself out of the conversation most…well actually all the time, stop obsessing about your looks, and be in general a little well-read, with an IQ that’s scraped the average mark. And try also not to show off coz you will pretty much end up falling flat on your face and then I can only laugh and tell u to get a life depending on whether I’m sloshed or stoned. And if your bloodstream cannot handle alchohol, it would really be a wise idea to trust it and not consume so much that it becomes difficult to say if you are a duck or a geese, coz either way you are going Quack [hahah! That was ingenious!]
And if you are trying to impress anybody with some brains in their head by strutting your cell phone, it would be a wiser idea to put it on silent before it rings out and ends your sad game. And while we are on the topic of ring tones, an MP3 version of Jhalak Dikhla Ja (with clarity sound and disco beats and all that) isn’t really the height of cool. And stuff like opening doors, and saying ‘after you’ isn’t likely to kill you immediately as much as you would think it might.

Just a few things they never taught you at school as they already assumed you would know it! Their mistake for sure…but its never too late to learn, is it? And while we are at it…a few last bits. As much as you would like to ‘make friendship’ with me—spelling the noun as f-r-I-E-n-d isn’t going to make me think of you in a better light, howmuchever ingenious it might have appeared to you! And a full length conversation about the last time you had pet-kharap doesn’t do wonders either. Really.

Thank you for the time, Pretty Boy, and for staying with me through what I agree has been a fairly lengthy discourse—one that at first might not have made a great deal of sense in your head. But I promise, that if you would bother to go over it, slowly, with an uncluttered mind, keeping an Oxford dictionary at hand (just in case)—there will be a time that it will all be clear. As clear as you want your scalp to be. Yes, yes the shahid kapoor type.

PS: Sigh!

Its strange how you can feel both both extremely proud and extremely angry at the same time. The more that I show off before the firangs, the more proud I feel of this place that I was born in. And angry too, of an equal degree, if not more. For being another chip off the block, or stone off the whatever. For not being able to preserve what is, or rather was.
For not being able to gauge its value in any terms. For not understanding the significance, the beauty, and the transcience.
I saw breathtaking frescoes dating back to 2 B.C. defiled by cheap meaningless graphiti—that was not in any other language, but my own. I saw solid stupas with an empty silence where their original statue used to be. Vanished. Transacted like vegetables. Obviously adorning the living room of some eccentric, filthy-rich American. And what makes it even further tragic that you can blame the American only till a certain point. What about him, the insider who carried off this heinous crime in the dead of the night? What about them, the immigration officials who walked off with a blind eye and a fat pocket? What about the people who know about all of this, and yet, let it happen? Cave no. 17 in Ajanta had nothing within it. Except for this laminated painting with the caption- This 2nd century B.C. Buddhist painting has been defiled by graphiti and is beyond restoration.
Makes u sick? Your blood boil? But that’s about it isn’t it? You’ll ‘tsk-tsk’ shake your head awhile and then move on to lunch.
When I went to UK I saw stuff that was not even half , not even quarter as old as what I saw over the last few days…and I saw how beautifully stuff was kept there. And we have stuff in every nook, every corner of every darn city here lying and going to waste like this one. And its obviously not an issue important enough to be taken seriously by anyone anywhere.
The only thing we noticed was a lot of security in both the places. Because of suspected terrorist activity. Apparently there is a huge conspiracy of terrorist threats to blow up Ellora. And so as a protective measure, the authorities put up a couple of puny ‘security’ guards with no weapons who didn’t even know the way to each of the caves.
And I fail to get why any terrorist would want to blow up the caves. Its not a major place of worship, nor does it attract that huge a number of tourists. Destroying it wouldn’t mean hurting national sentiment because there are very few people in the country who really appreciate its worth as national treasure. No, more than any patriotic feeling, what they would be destroying is actually a lot simpler, and a lot more tragic. What they would be destroying is Art, an art whose form we can only imitate now, an art that is so ancient that reconstruction of any form would only be a ridiculous joke, an art that is so beautifully simple that it is beyond any of us today to understand its value.

I remember this particular bit from Aguntuk, where Utpal Dutta’s character talks about this prehistoric painting of a bison that he had chanced upon that was starkly beautiful. And he had vowed that whatever he would do with his life, he would never be an artist as no art school in the world could teach him to paint like that.
Why dont people understand that this kind of thing is never going to come back? Ever?
I just feel too disgusted to go on. I know I should have blogged about the better bits…but…