New Year resolutions …. Snigger not you foul creature.

Do not scorn me, point at me and laugh (well you can do that and I won’t care two pence because I am used to it.)I will make New Year resolutions and vow to keep them. The knight riders may actually win a match, Suhel Seth and Mamata Banerjee might have a passionate, amorous affair and Amitabh Bachan might go into a late retirement but my resolutions will not be broken.
1. I will not have fries, not in Scoop or Mac or Tasty Hotty ( a tiny yet true its name snacks store near our place) . Every time fries lure me with their smell and crispy warm touch I will try to visualize the ocan of oil they have been soaked in.
2. I will not warn random people in our college that our canteen’s chowmein renders men impotent. I will especially not say this because my only proof is a crazy dog who might have been purposefully made impotent so that our canteen owner could direct all his (I mean the dog’s) sexual frustration towards the ones who play cards in the canteen.
3. I will not go on random shopping expedition and be induced to buy clothes I will never wear just because they are cheaper than dirt (really Rs. 10 near park street metro station). I will not be lead by beautiful girls who do the similar task, but actually wear these clothes and look a million dollars in them; they would even in a sack.
I WILL study, even if it’s an hour a day, I WILL STUDY. Very soon my books would be singing “Zara zara touch me touch me touch me”
Ps: I got this joke from someone yesterday.
PPS: if I read these kinds of jokes ever again I swear I will not update them in my blog.
4. I WILL NOT fantasize about a certain professor; I will not sit the first bench of his class and ponder if he looks better in stripes or checks, purple or blue. It is vile, blasphemous, profane… but oh he is so … SORRY.
5. I will try to remember the names of all my friends’ boyfriends even if they change on a weekly or monthly basis. I will not mess up social gatherings by calling someone’s present partner by their previous’s name. If a certain friend has more than one partner I will select the right name from the list and assign the correct name to the face. If two of best friends share one guy, not platonically, I will try and admire their generosity. Boyfriends telling their girls choose between drinks, cigarette and me…girls choosing the later with pride, charvachauth mangalsutra style…I will not mock these situations anymore.
6. I will pray to the crow ‘mata’ or ‘pita’…. (Do the crows follow a matriarchal or patriarchal society? I guess patriarchal they are quite similar to us) so that the united crows of Kolkata stop shitting on me. It is amazing how united they can be, Indians should learn from them. From Jaya to Priya, from College Street to Gariahat wherever I go crows bless me from above. It is not restricted to crows now a days, a tiny baby wet on me the other day… I know I have a shitty appearance and personality but does that usher in something similar? And it’s contagious; people who are generally around me have become a victim even when I’m not around.

There a million things that I need to do… like lose weight, write blogs of substance, read good books like Camus, Kafka and quote them in the right places and get through life without falling into ruts in every second step. So heres to the end of a decade, a year and to the beginning of another crappy new year!

Of national concern

I had almost stopped blogging probably would have done so if something of national concern wasn’t pressing me. Few days ago I settled down with a piping hot plate of biriyani and mutton tikiya and a smoking hot girl in front of me to share the food with. We took our first spoonful when this friend of mine pricked up her ears and said “isn’t the song familiar?” I strained my ears expecting to hear ‘tunir ma’ but what came to ears was something sounded faintly like the national anthem. Imagine, an evening of 15 degree Celsius and you have just paid one fifth of your pocket money for a plate of biriyani when you are forcefully pulled away by your sense of patriotism and you have to stand with a spoon in your hand and a mind full of swear words.
I think we have a great deal of hullaballoo made over patriotism and things related to it. All those rich nations… say U.K, U.S.A. and Australia (I mentioned these three because I kind of get confused regarding their flags) make money out of spreading their patriotism even to other nations. Go to any local market you’ll find handkerchiefs of these nations and every Raj or Rahul wearing them to Mohan Bagan or East Bengal matches, if not a India versus Australia match. There are thongs being made out of American flags the least we can do is have our own handkerchiefs. I mean what skewered sense of patriotism makes a government declare a dry day on the Independence Day? Make liquor legal, available and earn more revenue. This weird sense of nationality plays the national anthem in the movie theatres, it doesn’t matter that the movie you are watching later is an Emran Hashmi movie.
Besides our national anthem is not even appropriate any more, already three states are not mentioned in the anthem and there are more to come. I wonder who would write your next national anthem. If I could assign a lyricist I think it would be the composer of tunir ma or Phoebe.

There are hammers singing in my head.

Mad angles … Bingo

In the traffic police box, right in the centre of our four point crossing, there stands a mad man. Somehow a mad man or a crazy person does not have the vibrancy of the word ‘paagaol’. Lunatic? It comes close… but people have saturated the word dipping it too often in Pink Floydish connotations.
The crossing, bound with morose looking zebra crossing at its four sides suddenly blooms with a burst of colours in the middle. A traffic controlling madman takes the centrifugal attention. The green, yellow, red lights do not really obey his gleeful gestures. But the orange patched pajama wearing madman suddenly reminds the people trapped behind the black and white bars of the road, of the colours of life. For a moment the ‘9-o-clocks’ are forgotten and the briefcases turn into magic kits.
I have often found madmen taking up the role of a traffic sergeant, at crossings, pointing us to the right directions , we refuse to accept.

PS: I ruin it with the title don't I?

oldie

I am very bad at being young. There is something intrinsically old and grey about me. Phuchkas never appeal to me; I don’t understand the hype and enthusiasm about getting high; instead I swallow a galleon of tea all day along dipping Marie biscuits in time from time to time , a food item that even street dogs refuse to have now a days. I do not comprehend why people go to discotheques to pay and dance, for that matter I do not even understand the purpose of gyrating at all. And I am sure had I ever been young I still would not have understood the work of a disc jockey… why does he scratch? I mean the disc.

...

There’s always that sense of not-being at play. Amidst the chirps of friends, amongst the pile of collected notes on the desk. This not being feeling hangs around, like smells of stale wine and smoke clouds. You clear your desk, paint your room, but the sense lingers on, revealing itself at times like a cobweb in the sun. When you are lost in your storybook pages, you are drowsy, your glasses hanging to the edge, your tea growing cold, the music you are playing seems distant this feeling of not-being springs from nowhere.
It is there in the smoky moments of bliss and in the crunching autumn leaved walks. It is just there. It makes the full moon a loner in the sky, the November trees barer and You further.

Sour oranges.

Winter tinted afternoons are very deceptive, like everything else. They conspire to give impressions that the orange scented afternoons would last forever and the moment you snuggle in and settle with your yellowed library books that cyan coloured, damp and stale dusk sets in. never get used to anything, even for a moment. It just dampens your mood for a good read.

Title under construction

What is the point of reading if you cannot quote (read …copy without quotation marks)? What is the point of listening to good music if you can’t tell others about your diverse and unique taste? I lack many talents, in fact I do not own any… including the above two. Often I have written my class essays being ‘inspired’ by other authors but after my exceedingly well read class teacher remarked in a certain essay of mine, ‘portions which have been written by other people are beautiful” I have abandoned my efforts.
One needs to have a certain flair for this art. Take Robi Thakur, for example, he gets inspired by auld Lang syne but dear old poor Pritam, gets sued for doing something similar.
But copying, rather trans-creating is genuinely art. You need to have a grasp over classic lyrics and extremely tasteful books. I really don’t think an extensive reading of Jeeves will ever equip me in this art.
Knowing the right things and letting know that you know the right things at the right time to the right people does wonders to your impression. For example, you have a picture of the good old Ganga in your social network account and you lend it the title ‘dire straits’. I don’t know about others, I feel pretty impressed.


I want pain in my life. No I meant it. The pained people are so creative. They write such lovely impressive poems about pain, bronzed blood and red oceans in their veins. Where do they get this pain? Will listening to bands like dying foetus and carcinogenic love affairs help me get pain? (I thought S for Sonia would be painful enough) (ps: I do not know if such bands exist if they do… I am sorry. I respect your music surely)
Regarding this, what is the difference between a Goth and Emo? How does one become one? (Apart from having straight hair. That bit I understood way back… to be a type you need to have straight hair. Any type. )
It is apparent that I have not lost all tracks of thought. My exam is a few days away. The pain of examinations isn’t even to be a Goth is it? Greek myth you make me slit….

Sorry for this post.

ABC :|

I am so terrible in naming things, why are titles so difficult to come by? I must have got this gene from both my parents who have terrible names and have thus assigned such a terrible name to me. I mean I have a million namesakes for god sake! I am sure if I ever have babies ( the if existing because a person willing to impregnate me would be hard to come by) I would name them A,B and C or maybe 1,2,3 in this way I’ll never run out names and if I marry Brad Pitt and adopt a child from every country I'll name them similarly to their adoption location. But then again I’m terrible in geography and people will call me Jolie cat.

That day I chanced upon a certain photograph… one of those random photos pretty people take of other pretty people doing ‘cool’ things. The photograph bore an attractive girl ‘mushing’ her even more attractive boyfriend, which is perfectly normal, causes a slight barfing sound but then again bearable. But the girl was holding a book in her hand while committing such a frivolous act. The book, I knew from the cover was The Catcher in the Rye. It’s a cover which aptly represents the book, a white cover, a white representing blankness not purity and three stripes at the diagonal corners.
A plea to all the pretty girls with impeccable smiles in the world show some respect to the book which has kept the other half of the population alive. This book is not a book, not fiction, but a way of life. Holden has taught many to tolerate the phoniness around and it is very difficult to bear when Holden is used to accentuate one’s phoniness. I know the book has a cult status and reading or flicking it through amidst a mass will lend an extra ‘cool’ (starting with a ‘k’) quotient but I think James Joyce’s Ulysses would do just the same.
I never really understood the concept of making a statement by reading a book in public. I have observed a certain friend of mine read books only in buses and the other day I actually saw a girl reading a book in a theatre, under the dimmed lights… I have proof.
To people who are intent on public reading please do not read Chetan Bhagat, Paulo Coelho, Sidney Sheldon and Jeffery Archer. I don’t think it would help in your impression building.
PS: which is cooler will you please advise? An iPod or a glossy story books cover?
PPS: does it not hurt your eyes? I mean I’m spectacled.

Help. Please?

The gods of blogs have unleashed their wrath upon me. I had terminated the life of my previous blog. The gods are angered at such audacity of mine and they have decided to take revenge.
Moral of the story: nobody can post comments on my blog. I am so desperate that I actually gave my elder brother my password. I must rescue my blog from non-comment hood.

because i need time

A. There are no bells designating the end or beginning of a period. We do have heritage gong… but the gong man or his hammer goes missing. Watch-less me is always late for classes.
B. There are no morning assemblies where I can see everyone. Huh… I used to like that.
C. There are BOYS in my college. Ergh…
D. Teachers teach out of syllabus and that is generally appreciated. Why? Hasn’t C.U provided enough?
E. I never understand what people eat… bringing lunch boxes will brand you an international loser. Eating in our canteen will give you jaundice, diphtheria, typhoid, cholera, plague, aids, influenza, swine flu, hydrophobia… (I did not study science… ever.)
F. I can’t surf books in the library. We have to submit orders, write a one million complicated information about a prehistoric book, its accession number, cupboard number, editor, publisher, book binder, the number of pages it has…. By the time I finish I forget the name of the book. It’s like filing a lawsuit in an Indian court.
G. Wearing civilian/ color dress is very tedious. I hate ironing. I don’t have so many clothes. I hate combing my hair every morning. I can’t even slick my hair with smelly coconut oil anymore.
H. I hate staying in college till 5. I want my afternoon sleep.
I. People in college borrow money or ask for treats. For the first time in my life I am running short of cash.
J. I have to say hi to too many people I dislike. In fact I hate saying hi … I would much rather prefer a hello or hola. Why do people feel so ecstatic every morning that they shout with glee and scream hi into my ears?
K. People smoke in our college and do not do classes. If one does classes and does not smoke one is branded loser for life. (I am one… but I would not want to be a loser for these reasons)
L. I miss my friends.
M. there are attractive male teachers ( they are not dancing sir or drawing sir or Eric or Muhammad or Rehan)
N. There are too many free periods, I run out of gossip material.
O. People gossip a lot, more than me. Besides there’s a ‘political connotation’ to everything.
P. A smell slightly more pungent than skunk odor pervades our college; it is formed of dog shit, men, ganja and biri. Very soon it will form the gas Hitler used for holocaust. Very soon it will be taken by the big daddy and Osama rhyme alike man.
Q. There are some beautiful intelligent girls, who play the guitar, tennis, what not and send me into depths of inferiority complex.
R. There are too many pigeons and crows that are against me. They bombard me white. It has been three days college has opened and some bird has shat on me twice. I do not know if it was the same bird and I am trying to figure out if it was a crow or a pigeon… any knowledge about bird poop, how to get it off a brand new white top and how to avoid being birded every morning is welcome.
Ps: I think I look like an inverted commode, really.


S. I fumble in class when handsome teachers ask me questions or I want to query them. These handsome teachers are usually above fifty.
T. Water logging in college. It comes up to people's knees but up to my waist.
U. People make too many faux De pas which is a sore for my aging eyes.
V. I can never get what I want in this college. (the same old story)
W. I have PHILOSOPHY as my pass subject. My teacher asked me to prove that a chair is a table.
X. Most girls in my class have already had it. Refer to alphabet.
Y. We have an exam next week. I will fail.
Z. I miss school. My barrel shaped skirt, Mrs. Paul’s beautiful feet, our library chats, the sun on our balcony, the uppermost gossip breeding staircase, sister’s sad jokes, the dirty cats I always planned to kick, girl watching, the pigeons on our roof (who by the way NEVER shat on me) and each and everyone.

Nothing but bookshops on our walls

My heritage college has little to offer; no bookstore with overpriced books, no stationary shops or sprawled out theatres or glossy ID cards. Outside its gate, which closes only during elections, its reputation is decaying, rusting with each passing year. But I will defend, not with silly cricket-match like patriotism but with rationality. The rigorous paper that we gave to enter this college did not query who the Beatles were or who was Mark Chapman; and before I looked around I thought it was great injustice. Literature encompasses everything and we should be queried about every stream. This was before I met my classmates, many, hailing from the interiors of Birbhum, Medinipur. They do not know the significance of the Beatles; their life was not touched by them but is it not a mistake to deny them a chance to get to know it? A large section, the larger section of my college is like this, intelligent students hailing from suburbs and distant villages in the middle of nowhere who do not own SLR cameras and bands making ‘gravy’ music. As I observe a certain paper promote a dinosaur old card game with an ‘educational institution’ I sit dumbstruck, a few teenagers in branded clothes, guitars and piercings can generate business? An international denim brand won’t come running to advertise when this cobwebby college of mine organizes something, people won’t say something as it’s the best college in Asia (people actually term this to another college… in Asia… for heaven sake grow up… being best in Asia is like being tall in Lilliput, Anjan Dutta won’t use our college as the backdrop of his movies (thank god for that… phew) but I’m learning to like this place.
Ps: There is no tinge of sour grapes as I must clarify, I did not try in the other colleges that I dig above, being too far away from my house.

Chaiya chaiya :|

The journey becomes more pleasurable than the destination if I am going there by train. It’s not just because train berths cradle me to sleep or the toilets give the bowel a ‘rocking’ experience or the wisps of white clouds and blurred green fields which race the train. It’s also the people, the strange mixture of fellow passengers who are determined to entertain me with their quaintness.
Each time I board the train, I pray to my nonexistent god that he put a hot boy next to my seat as my fellow passenger. But does that ever happen? (This is a rhetorical question  ) I have aged; have covered the greater part of India through our railways but I have never pulled the chain (I mean of the train) and have never met a hot boy in the train. The usual crowd is huge families with yelling babies with the number of suitcases being triple the number of family members.

Snippets of conversation that I heard this time:
Conversation: 1
Bald history professor (to me): so dear what do you study?
Me replies.
Bald history professor: I have a son just your age. (whats the point of saying that now? Huh?)
Bank manager a young uncle just touching on baldness: you are a professor? You are a lucky species on earth. Dictating the same notes year after year (this being the C.U last changed its syllabus sometime between ice age and the time when Neolithic men arrived.) in fact I hear professors don’t even take classes now a days. Besides the vacations you get … (man glowers)
Bald history professor: you are absolutely right. We get solid three months vacations. Besides the entire year is almost like a vacation, we can attend our classes whenever we want… if we ever want it. Repenting aren’t you? That is why you should have studied during the right time. I did it.
Me thinks (who needs his son?)

Conversation: 2
Whiny nagging kid: tell me stories…. Pleeeej (whines like a new chalk on a shiny blackboard… nerve scratching noise)
Bald history professor: I tell stories all day in class, I need a break in the train.
Whiny nagging kid: then tell me jokes.
Bald history professor: I know only two jokes, dear.
Whiny nagging kid jumps to hear it.
Bald history professor: joke number one, every auto in Kolkata says OBEY TRAFFIC RULES
And joke number two, Obama got the Nobel Prize.
I laughed.
Bald history professor laughed.
Everybody stared.
Whiny kid whined even more.

A glass of water

The solution to all problems in life does not lie in a glass of water. Popularized by Coldplay and my mother and the theory that the third world is going to be about water, the importance of water has reached new heights (rather depths). Having the immunity system of a dodo I am always the first person to catch everything that’s in the air, conjunctivitis, flu (haven’t got the swine one though) or the seasonal cold that attacks milk toothed snotty kids or toothless old men (and 19 year old me). This post is dedicated to my mother, who, as I went about blowing into my handkerchief, said; all these diseases keep on happening because I don’t drink water. With the tone of someone who has studied medical till the fourth year she handed me a glass of water.
This also reminds me of a person who once suggested that I drink water when I was bellowing that I was going bald.
Next time somebody tells me to drink a glass of water I will revolt… I refuse to do something without any results. Cold and fever has no relation with water, gallons of water won’t make my hair grow and that hot water lemon trick that dieticians suggest from time immemorial won’t make you thinner. So next time somebody tries to deceive you with a glass of water, pour out my wrath/ water on them.

We will, we will FROCK you.

A friend of mine had once supplied me with a number of feminine songs, literally because the folder was named Girls. Typical to my nature I completely forgot about it till I rediscovered it today. I was ecstatic to see a folder called GIRLS … expecting to open it to get a collection of pictures of girls that I have collected over the years surfing facebook and orkut (yes my lack in life is that intense) I got a folder with a compilation of songs by girls. The term ‘girls’ here incorporates – Ashley Tisdale (a blonde girl from high school musical...Reserve your smirks till the end), Atomic Kitten (can anyone explain what these band members were thinking while naming the band), PINK, Pussycat Dolls (doesn’t pussy and cat mean the same… if I refuse to acknowledge another meaning exists of the previous word) and many more bands with equally anatomical names.
Well there was a certain song, a famous song “we will rock you” (ya I know you are giving me a look for calling it a famous song… okay it’s a classic). In this certain folder, there is a cover of this song by Britney, Be Bouncy (Beyonce) and PINK. I panicked; I thought it was another virus in my stable full of Trojans. Delicately I clicked on it almost expecting it to burst or consume all my work but it was actually a file with a song entwined with it. It had an immense build up; I could imagine Britney spears coming up from the centre in a tight glittery pink two- piece and Beyonce slithering down a rope in a cat suit like thing. The gyrations soon began in the song and in the video of my mind…. It was scary. Those ‘singers’ kept on singing rock you… in the most hip hopish orgasmic manner. (Actually thinking about Beyonce was not all that bad… ermm due to certain reasons …)
A request to all the POP-ers in the world, please leave Pink Floyd, Bach, Radiohead and Coldplay from your jaws.
Thank you.
Ps: if you stop talking to me after reading this title I completely understand.

Note:

I had a blog but then one day I was feeling low and had nothing today, (something which happens almost every day), I deleted my blog. I am reopening another one, although without any purpose for I have nothing to write. If the stagnancy in my blog bothers me I might give you weather reports and solutions to get rid of your arthritis.