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.