Pondicherry. (I believe i am revisiting my past and putting silent ghost-forms to rest. There was Goa last year, and Coorg as well.)
Our journey to the town was disastrous. Do NOT travel by Red Bus. EVER. The service is terrible. Hell on wheels. Death Proof reminiscent - it's like only the driver was safe in his seat, the rest of us were as vulnerable as insects on the highway. They delayed the bus by two hours, then put 60 of us in a rickety six-wheeler, sent us 20 kilometres out of the city to board the bus, caused another half hour of confusion and made us stand on the highway like w****s waiting for truck drivers to pick us up. It was humiliating, infuriating and above all, disgusting. I'm planning to take them to Consumer Court. Or whatever Court it is that will hear me out.
We reached The French Villa at 7 the next morning, all worn out by the drive. Freshened up, ate a hearty Continental breakfast with well-done eggs, toast, butter, jam and fresh fruit. Had another fiasco about renting a bike, walked a lot, put a lot and like good children (for the first time in our lives, i'm sure) went to bed at 8:30 p.m. Oh, and had a super-relaxing foot massage as well. And some good food.
The next day was more fun. We totally took the trip of a couple of guys who'd apparently driven down from Pune to Pondi for the weekend. Apparently, one of them was the guy who provided the bikes for Dhoom 2, while his cousin was in Service Management for Nokia. We were so engrossed in kicking butt that we didn't realise it was time to leave for the bus stop and board our bus back to Bangalore till it was too late. Besides, neither of us were looking forward to the ride back. So we decided to stay in Pondi for the night, and took the bartender - a nerdy 22-year fresh from Hotel Management - out for a couple of drinks on us.
Rode back the next morning with a bunch of really sweet musicians who played at the Freedom Jam the previous night.
Overall, it was quite a trip. For the first time in my travelling history, I:
... abstained from wearing shorts, and wore capris instead. Only because shorts were riding up and Pondi is a bloody lecherous place.
... didn't give a damn about being stared at (whatever little that happened, because B was the focus of all attention). Maybe i've just grown up.
... rode a bike on foreign land, and that too doubles. (Even if it was for half a kilometre because the bike ran out of petrol.)
... spoke to strange Indian men and took their asses.
... took a total stranger (the bartender) out for drinks.
... showed the middle finger to two AHs without worrying about my safety.
... called the bus driver who took us to Pondi all sorts of names without worrying about my safety. Again.
... missed a bus. Intentionally, too.
So it's true, what they say about the New Year Eve setting the pattern for the New Year: i am, indeed, meeting a lot of new people and doing a lot of things i've never done before!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
F,
You cared enough to gift me something out of my wishlist - something that i've been dying for - for a loooooong time. Don't ask me why, but i was very touched. It's not often that one finds people doing these things for them, which is why yesterday i was overjoyed, torn between grinning from ear to ear and shedding a tear or two. But tears there have been many in the past, so i settled for the grin. Oh, and thank you for completely killing the urge to give you a hug as well. Fucker.
So anyway, i wore the perfume this morning and it felt...wow. I feel good about myself, and that in itself is an occasion to celebrate because the feeling is rare. Hopefully, this time it will last longer - perhaps even as long as the little blue bottle does!
Thanks for caring yo. It means a lot to me.
B.
(P.S: Would it be too much to expect the big bottle in a couple of months' time? *Grin grin*)
So anyway, i wore the perfume this morning and it felt...wow. I feel good about myself, and that in itself is an occasion to celebrate because the feeling is rare. Hopefully, this time it will last longer - perhaps even as long as the little blue bottle does!
Thanks for caring yo. It means a lot to me.
B.
(P.S: Would it be too much to expect the big bottle in a couple of months' time? *Grin grin*)
Thursday, January 22, 2009
What is it like to be 26? No different than being 25, really.
My birthday happened off. Full, fuller, fullest day. Birthday eve, i had a party thrown for me - you can read about it on my other blog - after which i went to G's place and crashed there. On birthday, i had a relaxed lunch at Toscano, UB City. Then i went to visit A and her little star, from there to Grandma's and then to dinner at A.J. By the end of it, i was ready to collapse like a ton of bricks (i'm both heavy, and unattractive). I did have a surprise waiting for me at home, though - 26 long-stemmed red roses and a box of Ferrero Rocher Chocolates with this tag on it:
P.S: PK was the one who sent the flowers and chocolates. PK is a woman. She is married and i am straight. It was a gesture of love. Platonic love.
P.S: PK was the one who sent the flowers and chocolates. PK is a woman. She is married and i am straight. It was a gesture of love. Platonic love.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
My wishlist for my birthday, pliss.
26 wishes for my 26th.
1. Diamond nosepin.
2. Davidoff Cool Water.
3. A month of drumming lessons. (Wisecracks out there, lay off of this one.) (Conditions apply. Interested parties may contact me for further details.)
4. Jack Johnson / Strings / Moby CDs.
5. A nice black pen (ink only) and beautiful sheets in colours of clotted cream to draw on.
6. A night at a lusciously expensive and luxurious resort.
7. A man. Sensible, fun, and oh yes, hot. Like French Beard, Bald Pate, Lean kind of hot. (I just made it completely impossible to find one.) (Points number 6 & 7 don't go together.)
8. Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book.
9. Lemony Snicket's The Lump of Coal and The Beatrice Letters. Please note, while i completely love Blossoms i prefer books that look like they're fresh off the press and not like they've been handled by grubby little (or worse, big) hands.
10. A house of my own. Specifically, a penthouse.
11. A month-long holiday to a place that will give me back my peace of mind.
12. A generous soul to pay my credit card bill every month. (Last month has left me begging on the streets.)
13. A masseuse at my beck and call.
Updates due as and when i think of more.
1. Diamond nosepin.
2. Davidoff Cool Water.
3. A month of drumming lessons. (Wisecracks out there, lay off of this one.) (Conditions apply. Interested parties may contact me for further details.)
4. Jack Johnson / Strings / Moby CDs.
5. A nice black pen (ink only) and beautiful sheets in colours of clotted cream to draw on.
6. A night at a lusciously expensive and luxurious resort.
7. A man. Sensible, fun, and oh yes, hot. Like French Beard, Bald Pate, Lean kind of hot. (I just made it completely impossible to find one.) (Points number 6 & 7 don't go together.)
8. Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book.
9. Lemony Snicket's The Lump of Coal and The Beatrice Letters. Please note, while i completely love Blossoms i prefer books that look like they're fresh off the press and not like they've been handled by grubby little (or worse, big) hands.
10. A house of my own. Specifically, a penthouse.
11. A month-long holiday to a place that will give me back my peace of mind.
12. A generous soul to pay my credit card bill every month. (Last month has left me begging on the streets.)
13. A masseuse at my beck and call.
Updates due as and when i think of more.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Tripping on strings.
What-ey. This morning i heard somebody playing Strings, and my mind flipped a switch. It was beautiful listening to songs with melody not just in music but also in the lyrics. Started with "Yeh hai meri kahaani" from Zinda Hoon, one of the most goose-bumpy songs i have ever come across. Then went on to hear Anjaaney, Duur, Dhani, Naa Jaane Kyun, and then to songs from various singers - Chandni Raatein (my theme song from school days when i used to have a crush on my neighbour), Sajna aa bhi ja, Chand sa mukhda (my theme song for school days when i vacationed in Hyderabad and had a huge crush on the guy a lane away whose balcony looked onto ours) and more. And as i hear them, i'm reminded of lovely, lovely days from the past. Days when love was about meeting just a guy and falling for him totally and weaving dreams of marriage around him; days of hide and seek with balcony doors, with songs blared across the street as signals to come out of hiding; days of waiting for him to park his bike in the passage just outside our dining room so we could sneak in a touch or two through the window; days that melted into nights that melted into never-ending sighs that melted into...well, just melted. (Imagine me smiling wistfully at this point.)
So, anyway, beautiful days. Listening to the songs also reminded me of something else, something M - a Swedish designer we met at New Year's - said when we sang songs for her on the way to the after-party. She said that the songs were so intense, so full emotion. It's true. Most songs in the past were, thanks to writers like Gulzar, Javed Akhtar (he used to be good in those days), musicians like Khayyam and more. They brought emotions alive without, you know, trivialising them the way its done these days.
I figure that's probably why we never let go of our past entirely - because it has given us some of the best days of our lives. (Thanks Bryan Adams for that last bit.)
So, anyway, beautiful days. Listening to the songs also reminded me of something else, something M - a Swedish designer we met at New Year's - said when we sang songs for her on the way to the after-party. She said that the songs were so intense, so full emotion. It's true. Most songs in the past were, thanks to writers like Gulzar, Javed Akhtar (he used to be good in those days), musicians like Khayyam and more. They brought emotions alive without, you know, trivialising them the way its done these days.
I figure that's probably why we never let go of our past entirely - because it has given us some of the best days of our lives. (Thanks Bryan Adams for that last bit.)
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
The Man Proves Fatal Already. (Aka The Speedbreaker With DID, aka Happy Birthday R.)
It was supposed to be R's birthday yesterday. Supposed to be, because i thought it was and managed to convince a whole bunch of others about it as well. As a consequence, the surprise we planned for her got buried six feet under; i got abused left, right and centre; R got pissed because it seemed like none of her friends remembered her birthday.
Of course, i was the root cause for all this, and i got punished appropriately as well - i was the victim of an above-average road accident for the first time in...umm, my life i think.
K was the mastermind behind the surprise that was put together for R. We met last night at belly dancing class, finished a con-call and then got to Church Street to buy f&b. From there, we left for R's place to meet up with the rest and try to do damage control to the surprise party we had planned. Close to Prestige Elgin, it struck me that i hadn't told her about the boy. (Oooooh, incidentally, i haven't posted about him; update is, i managed to get in touch with him but he hasn't called back or made any attempt to get in touch).
So while we were talking, we came close to MICO on Adugodi road. Now, this place has a mother of a speedbreaker that's almost always wet with the waste that no matter what, manages to find its way from the naala close by. Such an ideal setting for an accident, one would say. And it was. When our Activa and the Maruti van ahead of us reached the speedbreaker, our actions were almost identical: while the van braked, sped and suddenly braked hard again, we braked, sped and skid.
It was a pretty bad fall, especially for K. Thank God for her helmet and overcoat. Both of us fell on our right side, with K's shoulder taking all the impact while her knee knocked against the asphalt. I scraped my elbow quite badly (it still hurts like a bitch) and injured my wrist (a pain that i noticed only this afternoon). The most damage was done to my chappal - it just snapped - and my jeans - the rivets that hit the road as i did, came off. Plenty of people came to our rescue - a woman even offered to drop us off in her car to our destination. Politely we refused, and like brave knightesses (why isn't there something like that?) we got back onto the bike and rode to R's.
Funny thing is, when the van braked the first time, both of us instinctively knew we were going to get hurt. Falling just before a speedbreaker meant that our heads would've suffered had we hit it. But it also meant that traffic on either side was slow at that point, so we were saved from getting crunched under wheels like gravel. It was almost like the speedbreaker couldn't decide whether it wanted to be good to us or bad. (Must've been created in the month of June, poor thing.) Surprisingly, our clothes weren't dirtied by the muck.
When we got to R's apartment complex, K parked her bike; we both looked at each other and burst out laughing. And it didn't stop there. We got into R's place, where a waiting B, V and P were only shocked that we could be laughing like two madwomen when we had just had a pretty bad accident.
Ice packs were brought forth, Dettol bottles and cotton brandished like instruments of torture, with B and P as our tormentors. An hour later, K still couldn't move her hand so we took her to Sagar Apollo and got an X-ray done. No dislocation, but inflammation of tissues around the bone causing excruciating pain. P and I got her into a sling and got back home to find a very angry R trying to smoke away her fury. We wished her a happy birthday, but she didn't respond. That sort of set the mood for the rest of the evening. Twenty minutes later, we were out of there because R just didn't seem to be interested in responding to our efforts to make everything seem normal. And the accident wasn't so bad, really. Nothing life-changing happened to us - K and i were in one piece, nothing broken.
I rode back with P on his bike at 2 in the morning. Dad was asleep, so this morning i explained my injury with a watered-down version of the accident. While coming to office, he declared, "Take it as an omen, and avoid staying out late from now on."
I don't know about the latter half of his statement, but it sure did seem like an omen: i have now inaugurated my current account with the Demon of Road Accidents.
Of course, i was the root cause for all this, and i got punished appropriately as well - i was the victim of an above-average road accident for the first time in...umm, my life i think.
K was the mastermind behind the surprise that was put together for R. We met last night at belly dancing class, finished a con-call and then got to Church Street to buy f&b. From there, we left for R's place to meet up with the rest and try to do damage control to the surprise party we had planned. Close to Prestige Elgin, it struck me that i hadn't told her about the boy. (Oooooh, incidentally, i haven't posted about him; update is, i managed to get in touch with him but he hasn't called back or made any attempt to get in touch).
So while we were talking, we came close to MICO on Adugodi road. Now, this place has a mother of a speedbreaker that's almost always wet with the waste that no matter what, manages to find its way from the naala close by. Such an ideal setting for an accident, one would say. And it was. When our Activa and the Maruti van ahead of us reached the speedbreaker, our actions were almost identical: while the van braked, sped and suddenly braked hard again, we braked, sped and skid.
It was a pretty bad fall, especially for K. Thank God for her helmet and overcoat. Both of us fell on our right side, with K's shoulder taking all the impact while her knee knocked against the asphalt. I scraped my elbow quite badly (it still hurts like a bitch) and injured my wrist (a pain that i noticed only this afternoon). The most damage was done to my chappal - it just snapped - and my jeans - the rivets that hit the road as i did, came off. Plenty of people came to our rescue - a woman even offered to drop us off in her car to our destination. Politely we refused, and like brave knightesses (why isn't there something like that?) we got back onto the bike and rode to R's.
Funny thing is, when the van braked the first time, both of us instinctively knew we were going to get hurt. Falling just before a speedbreaker meant that our heads would've suffered had we hit it. But it also meant that traffic on either side was slow at that point, so we were saved from getting crunched under wheels like gravel. It was almost like the speedbreaker couldn't decide whether it wanted to be good to us or bad. (Must've been created in the month of June, poor thing.) Surprisingly, our clothes weren't dirtied by the muck.
When we got to R's apartment complex, K parked her bike; we both looked at each other and burst out laughing. And it didn't stop there. We got into R's place, where a waiting B, V and P were only shocked that we could be laughing like two madwomen when we had just had a pretty bad accident.
Ice packs were brought forth, Dettol bottles and cotton brandished like instruments of torture, with B and P as our tormentors. An hour later, K still couldn't move her hand so we took her to Sagar Apollo and got an X-ray done. No dislocation, but inflammation of tissues around the bone causing excruciating pain. P and I got her into a sling and got back home to find a very angry R trying to smoke away her fury. We wished her a happy birthday, but she didn't respond. That sort of set the mood for the rest of the evening. Twenty minutes later, we were out of there because R just didn't seem to be interested in responding to our efforts to make everything seem normal. And the accident wasn't so bad, really. Nothing life-changing happened to us - K and i were in one piece, nothing broken.
I rode back with P on his bike at 2 in the morning. Dad was asleep, so this morning i explained my injury with a watered-down version of the accident. While coming to office, he declared, "Take it as an omen, and avoid staying out late from now on."
I don't know about the latter half of his statement, but it sure did seem like an omen: i have now inaugurated my current account with the Demon of Road Accidents.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
And so it all comes to an end. Or does it?
It's been a horrible year for me. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Work and personal life wise.
70% of my year was spent looking, feeling, behaving miserably. My personal life hit an all-time low, with me behaving like a c**** the first three months and a devdasi for the next five. My OH consumption hit an all-time high of 1,000 litres for the year. (This is beginning to sound like a mix of stock exchange and weather reports, no?) I feel better now, but death is death no matter what form it comes in, right?
My work life underwent a change in June, and then it just hit rock bottom thereafter. Things only started looking up a couple of weeks back. But the climb upwards is going to be slow, so slow.
There were turbulent marriages all around among family and friends, made me wonder why people get married - and that too, to people they have chosen. And there were lots of visits to the hospital.
The good thing is, i travelled quite a bit. Twice to Mumbai, both trips that didn't give me any peace of mind like i had wanted them to. Twice to Coorg, the best trips of the year - drove down both times, stayed in gorgeous places, lazed around. In short, idyllic. Went to Goa once 'on work', had a blast there as well. Discovered that once i start laughing after i'm high, i don't stop. That was the only time it didn't feel fake. Pit-stopped at Chennai as well, had a nice time there too. And that's that. Watched lots of movies, went out for lots of dinners, lunches, coffees and sessions at HRC. A couple of concerts - Jethro Tull, Boney M - and a lot of book releases - Amitav Ghosh, Patrick French, Kunal Basu et al.
On the last day of this year, i'm looking back and i'm thinking, there were so many things i wanted to do. And i just let time pass by without attempting to do any of them. I feel pathetic about myself.
So my new year resolution is just this: i will make every attempt to be genuinely happy, and find my peace. Wish me luck, y'all.
70% of my year was spent looking, feeling, behaving miserably. My personal life hit an all-time low, with me behaving like a c**** the first three months and a devdasi for the next five. My OH consumption hit an all-time high of 1,000 litres for the year. (This is beginning to sound like a mix of stock exchange and weather reports, no?) I feel better now, but death is death no matter what form it comes in, right?
My work life underwent a change in June, and then it just hit rock bottom thereafter. Things only started looking up a couple of weeks back. But the climb upwards is going to be slow, so slow.
There were turbulent marriages all around among family and friends, made me wonder why people get married - and that too, to people they have chosen. And there were lots of visits to the hospital.
The good thing is, i travelled quite a bit. Twice to Mumbai, both trips that didn't give me any peace of mind like i had wanted them to. Twice to Coorg, the best trips of the year - drove down both times, stayed in gorgeous places, lazed around. In short, idyllic. Went to Goa once 'on work', had a blast there as well. Discovered that once i start laughing after i'm high, i don't stop. That was the only time it didn't feel fake. Pit-stopped at Chennai as well, had a nice time there too. And that's that. Watched lots of movies, went out for lots of dinners, lunches, coffees and sessions at HRC. A couple of concerts - Jethro Tull, Boney M - and a lot of book releases - Amitav Ghosh, Patrick French, Kunal Basu et al.
On the last day of this year, i'm looking back and i'm thinking, there were so many things i wanted to do. And i just let time pass by without attempting to do any of them. I feel pathetic about myself.
So my new year resolution is just this: i will make every attempt to be genuinely happy, and find my peace. Wish me luck, y'all.
Monday, December 29, 2008
United by skirts and dresses. Divided by the moral police.
Saturday night was eventful, and not just because i had a goooood time but also because i was at Fuga.
Ignorants may ask what the big deal about that is. Not much, except that in the middle of the partying, the place was cordoned off by some activists who believed immoral acts were going on inside, and even had the bravado to lock everybody in. A pretty potent experience for someone who's been to the place for the first time.
We reached Fuga at 8:30 p.m to celebrate H's last week of singlehood. She was super excited about getting married (a rare feeling among to-be-married-soon couples these days), and we were super excited about throwing her a super party before that. Hence the venue - it was the hippest place in town with no restrictions on music or dancing. I've had friends go there week after week to party, emerge blown out of their skulls but also emotionally (and physically) intact. Therefore, the happening on Saturday was a complete shock.
Twenty minutes after getting onto the dance floor, the music was switched off. The DJ left us with a mysterious one-liner: "You know why guys..." Dejected, we went back to our places. Ten minutes later, the DJ calls us back on the dance floor and we gyrate. Ten minutes later, lights are shut off and everything is engulfed in the gloom of darkness and quietude. Figuring out that things are not going to go anywhere at this point, we decide to leave. And that's when we discover the problem.
Some Kannada Sangha guys had locked us in, screaming slogans on restoring the purity of the culture/down with Westernisation etc/the usual stuff. Skirted and shorted birdies went oooh and aaaah inside, while some dumbass firangs and Iranians kept hooting their asses off without fully comprehending the seriousness of the situation. Most women were freaked because they had a) lied at home about coming out partying and b) didn't know what torture was awaiting the free spiritedness that showed in their clothes. Apparently, Athena had a similar attack where the women dressed in 'extreme' Western attire were undressed so as to leave nothing to the imagination and put through more humiliation of the sort. And my, my, were the skirts short and the dresses flouncy that night. Obviously the wearers were going to be terrified.
Stranded inside for close to an hour, the alcohol flowed for the unaffected, the smoke swirled over the stressed and phones rang for the loved. At least two break-ups also happened because guys abandoned girlfriends to take care of themselves. Tch tch.
We stood in the corridor, where the glass floor was reflected by red lights underneath it - an attractive sight when you're out partying but not in the face of jobless activists to whom the lighting would only add a cheap filter to view the people stuck inside through. And they did make full use of it - when the doors were opened, in walked the cops in full uniform. Followed by media - cameras glaring into our faces, tapes rolling, hungrily searching the area for shortest skirts and most transparent dresses. C covered up R and S as soon as he saw the media because he wanted to save them the embarassment of getting caught on camera. And guess what? The camera found its way to C's crotch, squeezed into the little gap in between and SNAP!, the brilliant photographer just had a winner worthy of the Pulitzer that he could comfortably title "A young man engaging in un-public activities caught on camera by photographer XYZ."
I've never seen so many cops in one place, and all of them pinning you down with accusing eyes. And that too despite wearing full-length jeans and a full sleeve top with an almost-closed boat neck. R was shivering by the time she got out; H and her sis-in-law were laughing their guts out because they had looked right into the video camera and waved happily; S was worried about her friend's car that she had driven that night; the men were just focussed on getting the women away from the picture.
It's one thing that we went to H's place after and sanitised ourselves against the situation by resuming the party where it had broken off. And it's another to actually go out with the intention of having a good time with friends and come back with a bad taste in the mouth. One that takes its own sweet time to go away, like a hangover.
(P.S: I've tried every means to get some sort of coverage on the incident over the Internet and have had no luck so far. Generous souls are welcome to post links if they come across something.)
Ignorants may ask what the big deal about that is. Not much, except that in the middle of the partying, the place was cordoned off by some activists who believed immoral acts were going on inside, and even had the bravado to lock everybody in. A pretty potent experience for someone who's been to the place for the first time.
We reached Fuga at 8:30 p.m to celebrate H's last week of singlehood. She was super excited about getting married (a rare feeling among to-be-married-soon couples these days), and we were super excited about throwing her a super party before that. Hence the venue - it was the hippest place in town with no restrictions on music or dancing. I've had friends go there week after week to party, emerge blown out of their skulls but also emotionally (and physically) intact. Therefore, the happening on Saturday was a complete shock.
Twenty minutes after getting onto the dance floor, the music was switched off. The DJ left us with a mysterious one-liner: "You know why guys..." Dejected, we went back to our places. Ten minutes later, the DJ calls us back on the dance floor and we gyrate. Ten minutes later, lights are shut off and everything is engulfed in the gloom of darkness and quietude. Figuring out that things are not going to go anywhere at this point, we decide to leave. And that's when we discover the problem.
Some Kannada Sangha guys had locked us in, screaming slogans on restoring the purity of the culture/down with Westernisation etc/the usual stuff. Skirted and shorted birdies went oooh and aaaah inside, while some dumbass firangs and Iranians kept hooting their asses off without fully comprehending the seriousness of the situation. Most women were freaked because they had a) lied at home about coming out partying and b) didn't know what torture was awaiting the free spiritedness that showed in their clothes. Apparently, Athena had a similar attack where the women dressed in 'extreme' Western attire were undressed so as to leave nothing to the imagination and put through more humiliation of the sort. And my, my, were the skirts short and the dresses flouncy that night. Obviously the wearers were going to be terrified.
Stranded inside for close to an hour, the alcohol flowed for the unaffected, the smoke swirled over the stressed and phones rang for the loved. At least two break-ups also happened because guys abandoned girlfriends to take care of themselves. Tch tch.
We stood in the corridor, where the glass floor was reflected by red lights underneath it - an attractive sight when you're out partying but not in the face of jobless activists to whom the lighting would only add a cheap filter to view the people stuck inside through. And they did make full use of it - when the doors were opened, in walked the cops in full uniform. Followed by media - cameras glaring into our faces, tapes rolling, hungrily searching the area for shortest skirts and most transparent dresses. C covered up R and S as soon as he saw the media because he wanted to save them the embarassment of getting caught on camera. And guess what? The camera found its way to C's crotch, squeezed into the little gap in between and SNAP!, the brilliant photographer just had a winner worthy of the Pulitzer that he could comfortably title "A young man engaging in un-public activities caught on camera by photographer XYZ."
I've never seen so many cops in one place, and all of them pinning you down with accusing eyes. And that too despite wearing full-length jeans and a full sleeve top with an almost-closed boat neck. R was shivering by the time she got out; H and her sis-in-law were laughing their guts out because they had looked right into the video camera and waved happily; S was worried about her friend's car that she had driven that night; the men were just focussed on getting the women away from the picture.
It's one thing that we went to H's place after and sanitised ourselves against the situation by resuming the party where it had broken off. And it's another to actually go out with the intention of having a good time with friends and come back with a bad taste in the mouth. One that takes its own sweet time to go away, like a hangover.
(P.S: I've tried every means to get some sort of coverage on the incident over the Internet and have had no luck so far. Generous souls are welcome to post links if they come across something.)
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Vices of the visceral.
The sort of visceral i'm talking about is the second in the series of meanings from the Merriam Webster Online Dictionary, namely 'not intellectual'.
I'll tell you what i'm talking about. The lame comments people leave on posts that deal with the recent Mumbai attacks. Take for instance, a post by a Muslim youth who sort of decides to come out in the open about his name and his religious identity. One who also talks very strongly about how these so called jihaadi acts are anything but jihaad, and are doing more damage than good.
Out of the 30 odd comments the post generated, at least 75% of them say "Nice post" or "Wow! Great post!". Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen, but if that's your way of appreciating blog content that deals with serious issues, i suggest you take a print-out of the same and shove it up. Such posts don't for the life of them strive to be nice. What they do try to do is share the author's angst, frustration and call for action with readers. What, pray tell, is 'nice' about it? If somebody had to walk up to you and say, "I'm so frustrated with the way your girlfriend's been whoring around man, it's time to do something about this whole high-society prostitution business" or some shit like that, would you still go "Wow!"?
The there's the Bearded Guy From Chen-eye, who talks about yellow journalism and the most-irritating branding of the attacks as the 9/11 of India. While i personally am astounded by the media's shortsightedness at comparing something as massive and shocking as 9/11 with what happened in Mumbai, some others felt the following:
"Hi, I’m a regular reader of your blog… nothing but admiration, appreciation etc. for you and your writing…AMAZING. However, here’s a first, a typo! In your blog! “hold” up instead of “holed” up!"
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. Gaaah. I'm not really a socially (culturally, geographically and all other -ally) sensitive soul, but this form of inane shit-shat thoroughly pisses me off. Pah. If you got nothing worth anybody's salt to share bimbettes (yeah, that goes for the men too), zip it. Zip all of it. Really. The world can do without more idiocy than there is already.
I'll tell you what i'm talking about. The lame comments people leave on posts that deal with the recent Mumbai attacks. Take for instance, a post by a Muslim youth who sort of decides to come out in the open about his name and his religious identity. One who also talks very strongly about how these so called jihaadi acts are anything but jihaad, and are doing more damage than good.
Out of the 30 odd comments the post generated, at least 75% of them say "Nice post" or "Wow! Great post!". Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen, but if that's your way of appreciating blog content that deals with serious issues, i suggest you take a print-out of the same and shove it up. Such posts don't for the life of them strive to be nice. What they do try to do is share the author's angst, frustration and call for action with readers. What, pray tell, is 'nice' about it? If somebody had to walk up to you and say, "I'm so frustrated with the way your girlfriend's been whoring around man, it's time to do something about this whole high-society prostitution business" or some shit like that, would you still go "Wow!"?
The there's the Bearded Guy From Chen-eye, who talks about yellow journalism and the most-irritating branding of the attacks as the 9/11 of India. While i personally am astounded by the media's shortsightedness at comparing something as massive and shocking as 9/11 with what happened in Mumbai, some others felt the following:
"Hi, I’m a regular reader of your blog… nothing but admiration, appreciation etc. for you and your writing…AMAZING. However, here’s a first, a typo! In your blog! “hold” up instead of “holed” up!"
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. Gaaah. I'm not really a socially (culturally, geographically and all other -ally) sensitive soul, but this form of inane shit-shat thoroughly pisses me off. Pah. If you got nothing worth anybody's salt to share bimbettes (yeah, that goes for the men too), zip it. Zip all of it. Really. The world can do without more idiocy than there is already.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
To Salman Khan with love.
Dear Salman,
The next time you decide to shoot black bucks, take this piece of advice: visit Nagarhole and kill the deer instead.
No, no, i'm not trying to play devil's advocate here! If you hear me out, chances are you will feel the same about it when i finish.
The thing is this, Salman. We went to Coorg in August, my friends and I. And we chose to take the Nagarhole route because we thought we would get lucky and perhaps see a lion roar us senseless. So we entered the gates of Nagarhole in great excitement, fingers crossed and baited breath. A little into the forest, we thought we saw something big and golden move but we couldn't be sure, when suddenly as the car ambled on we came upon a family of golden sunshiny deer! Beautiful creatures, them. Sigh. It was an absolutely pleasant sight. Their black spots shining in the sun, their coats glistening with good health and natural, un-organic-rendered grass, they ate in all their glory. We went berserk taking pictures. The younger ones got scared and scooted, and poor Mommy deer had to drop her poses and scoot after the young ones lest they get eaten up by the carnivores. The Papa deer, though, stayed on and continued posing for us.
So excited we were, Salman, that we thought we would never see such a magnificent sight in our lives ever again!
But we were wrong. We saw the same again. And again. And again and again and again till we got sick of the bloody deer.
They were all over the place! In front of houses, crossing the road, insolently munching on grass everywhere! Even when they weren't around, i was seeing them, there were so many! It made me wonder if the carnivores had converted to vegetarianism. How else would one explain the abundance of these creatures, unless you're telling me they're far cousins of rabbits and therefore breed like crazy?
On the way back from Coorg as well, we saw hordes of them. I don't know about the others, but i wanted to shoot them right there! Then i thought, why not get somebody who's already an expert at shooting?
And so, Salman, i am appealing to you. Please do something about these...these...these pests. If you need help, just call. I know somebody who knows somebody who works in the forest department. (It can all be arranged.) For all you know, even the authorities won't arrest you because they must be sick of the deer too.
With all due respect,
Nabila.
The next time you decide to shoot black bucks, take this piece of advice: visit Nagarhole and kill the deer instead.
No, no, i'm not trying to play devil's advocate here! If you hear me out, chances are you will feel the same about it when i finish.
The thing is this, Salman. We went to Coorg in August, my friends and I. And we chose to take the Nagarhole route because we thought we would get lucky and perhaps see a lion roar us senseless. So we entered the gates of Nagarhole in great excitement, fingers crossed and baited breath. A little into the forest, we thought we saw something big and golden move but we couldn't be sure, when suddenly as the car ambled on we came upon a family of golden sunshiny deer! Beautiful creatures, them. Sigh. It was an absolutely pleasant sight. Their black spots shining in the sun, their coats glistening with good health and natural, un-organic-rendered grass, they ate in all their glory. We went berserk taking pictures. The younger ones got scared and scooted, and poor Mommy deer had to drop her poses and scoot after the young ones lest they get eaten up by the carnivores. The Papa deer, though, stayed on and continued posing for us.
So excited we were, Salman, that we thought we would never see such a magnificent sight in our lives ever again!
But we were wrong. We saw the same again. And again. And again and again and again till we got sick of the bloody deer.
They were all over the place! In front of houses, crossing the road, insolently munching on grass everywhere! Even when they weren't around, i was seeing them, there were so many! It made me wonder if the carnivores had converted to vegetarianism. How else would one explain the abundance of these creatures, unless you're telling me they're far cousins of rabbits and therefore breed like crazy?
On the way back from Coorg as well, we saw hordes of them. I don't know about the others, but i wanted to shoot them right there! Then i thought, why not get somebody who's already an expert at shooting?
And so, Salman, i am appealing to you. Please do something about these...these...these pests. If you need help, just call. I know somebody who knows somebody who works in the forest department. (It can all be arranged.) For all you know, even the authorities won't arrest you because they must be sick of the deer too.
With all due respect,
Nabila.
When the 'Kabab mein haddi' became a Kabab.
S, G and I went to Coorg this weekend. And everybody i told this about, before and after the trip, came back with the same retort - "Oh, kabab mein haddi haaan?"
Little wonder, i was completely pissed off. But momentarily, because if they wanted to be left alone, they would have kept quiet about it and not called me at all. So anyway, after momentary pissedness, i ran home, packed my bags and went over to stay at their place so we could leave at 5 in the morning to Bamboo Loft, our home stay in Coorg. (Note be, their apartment has THREE bedrooms, so i slept in one of them while they slept in the other. So stop clicking your tongues. Hmph.)
Our drive to Coorg in G and S's new Alto was pleasant and short, if one can call it that. The estate owner of Bamboo Loft had given us directions for the shortest route from Bangalore to his place, so we ended up saving at least two hours of travel. Despite stopping for breakfast and lunch - each a comfortable 45 minutes - and for a bit of picture-taking, we reached Bamboo Loft by 12:30 in the afternoon.
I can best describe the home stay in one word: breath-taking. The entire structure, the rooms where we were staying, was made of bamboo and was on an elevation. Sky lights dotted the roof which was draped in stacks of hay, a bit of order in its disorder. The beds were super-comfortable, the pillows supersoft and the room basic but clean. Big windows gave us a view of endless coffee plantations doused in mist and resplendent with bird songs and chirping crickets. Needless to say, the setting was completely romantic. So i decided to veto the original plan of me sharing room with G and S, and moved out into one of my own. A wall away from theirs, but still, it wasn't the same room so i was happy.
Most often, when i'm in a new place, i'm terrified of closing my eyes because i think the shadows will come alive and by morning i'll be dead as a stone. This time round, the initial fear gave way to peace. Absolute, smiling peace. I was lulled to sleep by the cicadas and the moonlight streaming in from the sky lights. It's a different thing that i almost froze to death because of the cold, but my sleep otherwise was restful. To illustrate, G woke me up at 6:45 the next morning and i was up without a second though and out in the freezing cold to watch the mist lift from around the home stay.
The morning was white. One couldn't see beyond a 100 metres because the mist had enveloped everything. Surprisingly, though, it wasn't very cold.
Post breakfast, which was a grand affair of Puri palya, honey, butter, jam, bread, scrambled eggs and tea, we set out to Dubare Elephant Camp, cracking bad ones all the way - Dubaare aa gaye Dubare par, Dubaare mat poochna etc. From there, we headed back to the Bamboo Loft, finished lunch and hit the Golden Temple. Once again, i was overwhelmed with the place. Rows of monks in maroon robes chanted prayers while two more blew into gigantic horns, creating a somewhat trance-like setting. We also caught some interesting sights - a little monk-boy showing the middle finger to his companion and running away, another singing a flirty Hindi song while walking past us, and so on and so forth. After an hour or so, we headed back towards Bangalore, taking a longer route this time by default.
I hated leaving Coorg so early. Wanted desperately to spend a few more nights at Bamboo Loft and soak in the silence of the place. Back in the city the feeling just grew stronger, what with the traffic and pollution and shit. If i had a choice, i would make enough money and go stay there for as long as possible.
And yes, i'll make sure i have a man of my own then.
Little wonder, i was completely pissed off. But momentarily, because if they wanted to be left alone, they would have kept quiet about it and not called me at all. So anyway, after momentary pissedness, i ran home, packed my bags and went over to stay at their place so we could leave at 5 in the morning to Bamboo Loft, our home stay in Coorg. (Note be, their apartment has THREE bedrooms, so i slept in one of them while they slept in the other. So stop clicking your tongues. Hmph.)
Our drive to Coorg in G and S's new Alto was pleasant and short, if one can call it that. The estate owner of Bamboo Loft had given us directions for the shortest route from Bangalore to his place, so we ended up saving at least two hours of travel. Despite stopping for breakfast and lunch - each a comfortable 45 minutes - and for a bit of picture-taking, we reached Bamboo Loft by 12:30 in the afternoon.
I can best describe the home stay in one word: breath-taking. The entire structure, the rooms where we were staying, was made of bamboo and was on an elevation. Sky lights dotted the roof which was draped in stacks of hay, a bit of order in its disorder. The beds were super-comfortable, the pillows supersoft and the room basic but clean. Big windows gave us a view of endless coffee plantations doused in mist and resplendent with bird songs and chirping crickets. Needless to say, the setting was completely romantic. So i decided to veto the original plan of me sharing room with G and S, and moved out into one of my own. A wall away from theirs, but still, it wasn't the same room so i was happy.
Most often, when i'm in a new place, i'm terrified of closing my eyes because i think the shadows will come alive and by morning i'll be dead as a stone. This time round, the initial fear gave way to peace. Absolute, smiling peace. I was lulled to sleep by the cicadas and the moonlight streaming in from the sky lights. It's a different thing that i almost froze to death because of the cold, but my sleep otherwise was restful. To illustrate, G woke me up at 6:45 the next morning and i was up without a second though and out in the freezing cold to watch the mist lift from around the home stay.
The morning was white. One couldn't see beyond a 100 metres because the mist had enveloped everything. Surprisingly, though, it wasn't very cold.
Post breakfast, which was a grand affair of Puri palya, honey, butter, jam, bread, scrambled eggs and tea, we set out to Dubare Elephant Camp, cracking bad ones all the way - Dubaare aa gaye Dubare par, Dubaare mat poochna etc. From there, we headed back to the Bamboo Loft, finished lunch and hit the Golden Temple. Once again, i was overwhelmed with the place. Rows of monks in maroon robes chanted prayers while two more blew into gigantic horns, creating a somewhat trance-like setting. We also caught some interesting sights - a little monk-boy showing the middle finger to his companion and running away, another singing a flirty Hindi song while walking past us, and so on and so forth. After an hour or so, we headed back towards Bangalore, taking a longer route this time by default.
I hated leaving Coorg so early. Wanted desperately to spend a few more nights at Bamboo Loft and soak in the silence of the place. Back in the city the feeling just grew stronger, what with the traffic and pollution and shit. If i had a choice, i would make enough money and go stay there for as long as possible.
And yes, i'll make sure i have a man of my own then.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Hayeellllp!
I am unable, and i mean UNABLE, to crack bad ones! I can't make puns, leave alone sad PJs! From yesterday, J has been bombarding me with one-liners and phrases. I sit here and take it all, without responding to a single one in the same vein because... because my brain CAN'T THINK OF ANY! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! This cannot be happening to me! It might be a phase, but it can't be here! It's not a part of my life! I'm not a bloody residential complex to have phases like these!
Wait a minute, does that last sentence qualify as a bad joke?
Wait a minute, does that last sentence qualify as a bad joke?
Friday, November 21, 2008
Urhhh hmmm ahem.
So... (my neckline seems to be too tight suddenly)
I don't know what prompted me to go through my mails again, but i found one. THE one. And, umm, well... i don't know how i managed to write it. My ears are a bright red, and so is my face. I am, to put it simply, quite embarassed.
The humiliation doesn't stop there. Oh no no no. When have i ever let myself be in peace? No siree, i have to skim through the mail. And my first reaction is... laughter. I'm laughing, thinking what an idiot i must have been. The whole thing is so Mills & Boons-y, and for some reason i never saw it that way at that point. Oh my god, i want to bury my head somewhere and not emerge into the open again.
Shit, i was such a d*** ***d. It's not any consolation that everybody in love is supposed to be one. Hmph. I'm quite tempted to delete this documentation of my idiot-in-love days.
I don't know what prompted me to go through my mails again, but i found one. THE one. And, umm, well... i don't know how i managed to write it. My ears are a bright red, and so is my face. I am, to put it simply, quite embarassed.
The humiliation doesn't stop there. Oh no no no. When have i ever let myself be in peace? No siree, i have to skim through the mail. And my first reaction is... laughter. I'm laughing, thinking what an idiot i must have been. The whole thing is so Mills & Boons-y, and for some reason i never saw it that way at that point. Oh my god, i want to bury my head somewhere and not emerge into the open again.
Shit, i was such a d*** ***d. It's not any consolation that everybody in love is supposed to be one. Hmph. I'm quite tempted to delete this documentation of my idiot-in-love days.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Movies i've seen in the last couple of weeks.
Quantum of Solace.
I didn't think it was as good as Casino Royale, but i got a close up view of Daniel Craig (courtesy bad front row seats) which made the experience worth it. I do intend to watch it again, though.
Marvin's Room.
Star Movies on a Vegetation (word for a day/time when one wants to vegetate) Sunday. Diane Keaton, Robert De Niro, Meryl Streep, Leonardo Di Caprio. Nice movie, but i liked the title song better.
Flashbacks of a Fool.
Daniel Craig. Butt-naked. For 6 minutes. Nuff said.
(Actually, the movie was simple and beautiful. Leaves you with a happy sad feeling.)
Tropic Thunder.
Hee ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Funny. Funny funny funny. Robert Downey Jr plays an Australian playing a Black guy in the movie. To get into the role, he gets cosmetic surgery done and changes skin tone to sepia. And he's worth every pore that turns sepia because of surgery. Ben Stiller walks real funny when he's dying. And his own son stabs him! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!Confession: I slept through some of it though, because i was completely exhausted and depressed.
I didn't think it was as good as Casino Royale, but i got a close up view of Daniel Craig (courtesy bad front row seats) which made the experience worth it. I do intend to watch it again, though.
Marvin's Room.
Star Movies on a Vegetation (word for a day/time when one wants to vegetate) Sunday. Diane Keaton, Robert De Niro, Meryl Streep, Leonardo Di Caprio. Nice movie, but i liked the title song better.
Flashbacks of a Fool.
Daniel Craig. Butt-naked. For 6 minutes. Nuff said.
(Actually, the movie was simple and beautiful. Leaves you with a happy sad feeling.)
Tropic Thunder.
Hee ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Funny. Funny funny funny. Robert Downey Jr plays an Australian playing a Black guy in the movie. To get into the role, he gets cosmetic surgery done and changes skin tone to sepia. And he's worth every pore that turns sepia because of surgery. Ben Stiller walks real funny when he's dying. And his own son stabs him! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!Confession: I slept through some of it though, because i was completely exhausted and depressed.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
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