Sunday, 27 April 2008
Saturday, 26 April 2008
Thursday, 24 April 2008
Existence or non-existence of appendages on my right hand.
Right Hand, no feeling therein.
Last night, post the paper, I could not feel my fingers. (1)
Tonight, post paper, again, I cannot feel my right hand. (2)
From (1) and (2), we can derive either
a) prolonged absence of fingers, or
b) absence of hand.
But Given existing right hand.
Ergo, existence of appendages on right hand can be disproved.
Now, once asleep, when people wake up, after they open their eyes, they're not completely awake yet. There's this little sludgy feeling in their brains called grogginess. It's there for everyone. And for some it lasts longer than for others. Now it's very important to not treat this as hearsay (I see you shaking that head), because this really happens. And one must note, it's difficult to immediately engage in complex mental activities until such time as the brain clears itself. Hence, I most strongly urge you to GET OFF MY FRIGGIN' BACK!!!
Pinky, please note, seeing how I know you will ask, this is not directed at you.
That, also, just has to be the time I wake up and realise with creeping horror that it wasn't even my answer paper.
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
She loved the wooden floor. It made that sound when you walked on it. Beautiful, she called it. She walked the halls, letting her fingers run along the wall leaving wavy streaks uncovered by dust. She really loved this place. The way the windows every six feet let in so much sun. Brought those beautiful angles of light. The ones in which she could see little particles dancing without a care, blown this way and that, happy to just keep moving. ‘Who really cares about street noise?’ she thought as a car honked loud and long. She drew a little figure in the dust on the windowsill. A ballerina. Rough, but distinct. Clean lines. She was just about drawing the crown when she heard a baritone softly whisper into her ear, ‘Nicely done, Netu.’ She jumped, quickly erasing the sketch with her fingers.
It was beautifully crafted. Cupboards along the top, plug points under it. Wood panelled sunmica and ornate handles. Naina sat at her desk, books spread out before her. This stuff barely made any sense to her. ‘Why do I have to do this?’ she thought desperately. Sighing, she picked up her scale and pencil, measuring her page, marking out the centre and two other spots. She slid the ruler down an inch or so and repeated her markings. Then flipping it around, she drew three perfectly parallel lines down the page, dividing it into four. She picked up her earphones and plugged them in. Set her iPod to the song she wanted. This was the only thing that was going to keep her sane. He’s a real Nowhere man/Sitting in his Nowhere land rang in her ears as she filled in the headings ‘Liabilities’, ‘Rs.’, ‘Assets’, ‘Rs.’
Netra looked into her reference book. She was at her study table. Standard 90s metalwork office desk, complete with creaky drawers and cracked, pale grey-green paint. She'd asked for it. Thought it would look cool. ‘Why the hell do I have to do this? Why does it have to be so exact?’ Sighing, she picked up her pencil again. She held it about an inch off the point and held it against the image in the text. With her thumb, she held the measure for the thumb bone. Then, without losing the measure, she brought her hand to her page, marking off a point towards the bottom straight away. Then bringing her hand upwards, she brought her thumb level with the marking and made another one, and then repeated the action yet again. She released her grip on the pencil, reaching over to the computer to set the music playing. Help! I need somebody/Help! Not just anybody… her head bobbed in time with the music for a moment. Then looking into her text again, her head bent at an angle and she began to draw.
***Blogger's Note: I don't have the time to finish this right now, what with exams and all, but as they say, keep watching this space...***
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Why can't people see what's so obvious? Why must we make assumptions where they aren't necessary??? Why can't a literary work just be taken to mean what it frikkin' says????
Can I smash in my keyboard? Here I was thinking it'd be a nice gesture and shit, but no!!! You have to ruin it for me. Why? We really need to get around this love-hate thing.
Monday, 21 April 2008
Saturday, 19 April 2008
- your compressor doesn't switch on and off, saving power for the state and money for you.
- when you leave the room, you don't have that icky feeling sticking to your skin that makes you want to strip in public.
Power conservation. Now an official theme on this blog? Scary thought.
Boss, give me a packet of Tang.
Sorry, we're all out of Tang.
Oh. Okay. Thank you.
Boss, can I get a packet of Tang?
My stock's finished, sir.
Oh. Crap. Thank you anyway.
Dude, do you have Tang?
I am, duh.
Do you have Tang?
Not anymore, I don't.
Walk back home, past Store Two:
Did you find Tang?
Nope, no one's got it.
I told you. They haven't brought around stock for a while.
Walking past Store One:
Get over here.
You want Tang? I got some Tang.
Then why'd you say no before? I want some!
Yeah, it's going to cost you.
Obviously, I wasn't expecting to get it free...
Yeah, that'll be 5 lakhs for a half kg packet.
*Wake up screaming*
Friday, 18 April 2008
Come on, people, it's simple logic!!!!!
Thursday, 17 April 2008
Thank you. You've given me more than I ever dreamed I would have. Ever. Whenever I find myself thinking I deserve this, you just have to bring around this new piece that makes me go, "Shit."
Seriously, though. What on good God's Earth did I ever do to deserve such bounty? I'm not complaining, mind you. I'm just curious. 'Cos I'd do it again a million times over, in a heartbeat, if you'll give me her again next time around.
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
No, I heard the Prush Ramen is doing it.
No, no!! The Prush Ramen called them all little cowardly bitches. It can't be him. The Covenant won't let him do it. It's This Dude from inside Jayant.
No, man! I'm telling you, it's the T-Lang.
It's not the T-Lang. You see, the Shakey-la told me in person that they've spoken to them. The Settlers.
So they didn't mention the names of the Settlers, did they??? It's the T-Lang. I'm telling you.
Look, I'm guaranteeing that it's This Dude.
It's the T-Lang.
It's Swan Nee.
What? You're not even talking about the same thing, you idiot...
No, it's Swan Nee.
You're deluded, man. It's the T-Lang.
The Prush Ramen.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Are you ready?
Deep breath. Here it is.
Lick clean a jar of Nutella. Trust me, you won't even be able to spell 'wories'. 'Werrois'. 'Srewior'.
hadofyaf yafpo io OIYlnhaf hafpin;.a sfugasf o[iasdf
afuoyasfugas afyul fyasfo; uiap9f;qhinc uas dopua w rlyasf o8 juasd kj.
Decode THAT, bitches!
Monday, 14 April 2008
Sunday, 13 April 2008
- Wind Riders
These spirited individuals like to enjoy the thrills of water skiing (or other such adrenaline-pumped physical activities) whilst on their bus journeys. For the same, they stand at the footboard and enjoy the wind running through their hair (or bald patch) till such time as another irate passenger asks them to step off or the conductor (descriptions of conductors given below) threatens to throw them off (I must add, it really does get the adrenaline flowing. Or maybe I'm a wimp who enjoys cheap thrills).
Contrary to what crappy Kurt Russell movies will tell you, this guy does not set off bombs, but uses long bus journeys to catch up on lost hours at home/class/office. I must admit I fall rather heavily and blissfully in this category. Subsets include the Nodders, the Snorers and the I-Don't-Know-You-But-You-Have-A-Wonderful-Shoulder-Please-Let-Me-Sleep-
These individuals get into buses they don't really like. Once in, they see the proverbial grass on the other side, and after having bought their tickets, get off to switch buses. Another subset in this kind is the one who buys a ticket to a particular stop but eventually ends up getting off three or more stops before it.
- Broken Records
Need I really say more? Sitting next to them is akin to hearing an LP being played on a gas stove. Mind you, these individuals believe themselves to be experienced campaigners in these so far uncharted vocal territories. They are also the ones who go line up fifteen days in advance with tents, clothing and food (if not highly geeky "collector's" items) for Indian Idol auditions.
- Fountain Statues
Momentary dementia or severe identity crises cause these individuals to believe, while seated on bus window seats or standing at exits, that they are centrepieces of Venetian marble on beautiful garden attraction fountains. They understand perfectly how the use of light and colour is important in fountains, and therefore ensure that their streams are bright red from time to time.
- Long Stalks From The Beach
These amorously inclined individuals (mostly young gents) enjoy following the objects of their affection around the city, standing at a safe enough distance to be viewed as an innocent co-passenger, yet close enough to smell their muse's perfume, or whatever the hell gets their balls rolling (pun not intended at time of writing; perhaps later...).
These are irate individuals who feel rather strongly and negatively about their bus driver's abilities (descriptions of bus drivers given below). So strongly, in fact, do they feel, that they decide to brave the zero-G trip down the gangway to relay this opinion in person and in no censored terms to said driver.
These individuals share much of the previous category's views. Unfortunately they either lack the courage or the conviction in their beliefs to move to action, as do the members of the previous category. Instead, they grace their co-passengers with their flowery language in their description of their feelings about the bus driver's talents.
- You Really Think I Give A Stinking Shit?
Generally reserved for the emptier buses, this kind of conductor, contrary to his job description, will sit in the very first seat of the bus and chat up with the driver about 'toh apla mulga gela aani tithe tyaala ti midale...' It's your job and your concern to walk up to him and ask for a ticket. If you lose your window seat in the process, stop bickering. You should have travelled ticketless.
- Will Trade Preferential Treatment For Small Change
My favourite kind of conductor, he can be bribed into offering you the first seat that frees up near him if:
you buy Rs. 15 ticket, and
no. of coins given > ten.
no. of coins > price of ticket,
another passenger may be evicted from seat, and indeed, bus, to seat you, most benevolent of souls.
- Rope Banging Means Move Your Ass
That rope they have hanging works two ways. One way makes that bell ring at the front of the bus (effectively disallowing anyone seated there from sleeping) and the other makes that rope smack into the roof of the bus (supposedly scaring people into moving forward down the gangway. Why? Can he hit us with it?). Requires the utmost finesse and wrist control not to ring bell also when doing this. This is generally one of the most seasoned conductors plying the most popular, crowded route in the city.
- Lonely Hearts
Plying the most underused of routes are the lonely hearts. They'll come sit next to you and tell you their life's sorrows and joys. Before you start considering listening to them out of pity, remember, they're worse than the Type 1 conductor, meaning not even the drivers are willing to listen to them...
- Obsessive Compulsive
This is the rarest kind of conductor. He'll sit on any available widow seat, furiously cleaning out that cool ticket holder thingie. And when he's really bored, he'll pull out a blank ticket and punch it full of holes.
One: The kind who'll kill you by running you over.
Two: The kind who'll kill you by crashing the bus into something with you inside.
Three: The kind who'll kill you of a heart attack on the way to 'Kind Two' above.
Friday, 11 April 2008
Haircut --------------------------- Rs. 35
Shave ---------------------------- Rs. 15
Haircut with shave ---------------- Rs. 45
Hair wash and haircut ------------- Rs. 60
Head masage --------------------- Rs. 25
Haircut with head masage --------- Rs. 60
Ladies Bobcut -------------------- Rs. 75
What’s the extra for in the Ladies Bobcut? Self-restraint?
Right. Maybe we should stay on this level for a bit. This map really sucks, though.
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
Eleven thirty-seven. He tugged at his collar. He could’ve sworn he saw the steam escaping. He cursed out loud. ‘It’s going to kill me,’ he said. He took the little cloth and wiped the sweat off his face.
Twelve fifteen. ‘This is not going to get any better,’ he thought. He walked around the house shakily, closing the windows and drawing the thick blinds in every room. ‘At least now there’ll be shade. God, I hope that means less heat.’
One thirty-three. He stood up. He couldn’t bear it. Not any more. It had only gotten worse. He practically ripped off his shirt. Wiped himself with it and tossed it aside. Collapsed onto the cool stone floor under the fan. Oh, relief!!!
Two forty-six. Now in just his shorts, still on the floor, still uncomfortable. The heat was unbearable now. Not even the floor was helping. He let out a low moan. Those curses coming thick and fast now. He was parched – mouth, throat, it was all dry. But he couldn’t get up for a glass of water. Too much effort. So he just lay there, breathing, his body slick with sweat. Glistening.
Four twenty-eight. Evening had brought with it none of its usual respite. Everything baked in the orange-ing sunlight. ‘So this is what it feels like to be the Kalahari,’ he thought. Even like this, humour didn’t leave him. Never would, he swore. Around about then, he started wishing she was there. On the bright side, it meant he repented the fight. But he just lay there, breathing, thinking of a better time.
Nine eleven. Darkness had brought with it silence. Nothing else. Clouds hung in the sky. Mocking. Calling. Of course, if his curtains weren’t drawn, he’d have known that. But he just lay there, breathing, alone, miserable.
Eleven four. ‘Whoever said night was cooler than day, fucking lied.’ The line kept repeating in his head. Of course, the weather outside told a very different tale. Because the heat was now trapped inside the house. Windows shut. Curtains drawn. One unmoving occupant. If only he’d had a drink of water… But he just lay there, breathing, cursing in his mind.
Two twenty-six. ‘The phone’s rung five times. I think. I’m not sure anymore. Must be her. Calling to make up. It’s around that time. She probably thought I was asleep or something. Wait, I can’t see the ceiling anymore. Three mails I had to send. That last Doors album. Had it finished downloading? Can’t remember. There she is. The beach. That not-so-hidden corner. That wall. Sun blaring down on us. The beggars when we were leaving. Oh, look! There’s the ceiling. Hmm… That’s odd, the cracks seem to spell out her name. I should tell her that.’ But he just lay there, breathing.
Two fifty-two. The first drop. Stayed on the ground for a fraction of a second before the earth soaked it in. They followed in the thousands. Falling together. Calling him out. Screaming to him. Singing his song. The earth broke out that fresh spring cologne it wore to their parties. They pattered against his window, beckoning. But he just lay there.
Three seventeen. Thunder boomed a salute in the distance. A note of finality in the air. Together with the wind and the rain, it played a sonata. One of his favourites. A heavy, crashing tattoo that usually made him want to dance with them. The drops journeyed to his window and cried. But he just lay there.
Whose Goddamn idea was pre-match analysis anyway?
Why me, God???
Monday, 7 April 2008
I shook my head. Closed my eyes. Scratched my head, rubbed my fingers across my forehead, all that. Suddenly, there was something. A word. Suddenly there's an explosion in my head. Images, sounds, faces, places, events. I see me sitting by a stream, someone next to me. I can hear the bees. I can feel the stream moving.
This is it. It's beautiful. And I've got it. I thought I'd lost it. But I found it.
Then came that yell again. And I lost it. Again. I close my eyes again. Focus, focus. Ignore the sound. Block it out. I can do this. It's right here. I can get it.
That yell, yet again. And it's gone. I can't find it.
Ma, I'm up, you can stop yelling!!!
Sunday, 6 April 2008
I'm going to manufacture and sell shaving cream, Dad.
I think I'll call it "Pestonji's".
Go back to sleep, son.
Saturday, 5 April 2008
They barely even remembered each other. One even reached out his hand to make sure it wasn't a trick. That this wasn't a mirror. Grinned. That grin set it off. Brought everything back in a swirl.
Grins changed to smiles spreading across their faces. In minutes, they were children again.
Friday, 4 April 2008
abhi deepesh mare gher aya tha to he visite ur profil than i come online and strike this web address...
and find u got it .....
or jyada vaw mat kha yar....
bhukh lagi hai to gher aaja khana khilata hun....
I mean, really, dude. Get a life.