In the middle of Katwe our jeep sputters some and over. Traffic around closes in, the air becomes thicker and blacker. The heat does little to help. Why does everyone look dead? The humming flies zone in. Oh dear.
Suddenly Rashid springs to life. "There!" he raves, "There goes the president!"
Olga and I turn instinctively. A president sighting? I crane my neck some more to snatch a glimpse of majesty, magnificence or money. Or even a retinue of screeching sirens. But all I see is a newspaper seller staring back at me. Rashid's animated gesticulations stir something viral in him. He begins to move faster.
"That?" wonders Olga aloud, "That is your president?"
"Yes. He was president for a year." Gesticulate. Animate.
"Did people love him? Was he a good president?"
"Yes. Yes."
Olga and I look at each other. The newspaper seller/erstwhile adored president was now standing right next to our car now. We look at him and wonder.
"Well, at least he is flexible with his jobs?" Olga ventures.
I mumble. The heat seems unbearable now. The country feels hotter somehow. No, dear.
Rashid points at the newspaperman/ex-president who is no more adored, "He is dead. May his soul rest in peace."
Olga and I turn slowly, scared and stare at Binaisa's face on the newspaper. The air clears up and the airconditioning is working now.
Right, dear.
Showing posts with label fancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fancy. Show all posts
That night many years ago
The cruise had docked for the night and the air was balmy, but boisterous. There were lights and people a short distance away - melody and mirth coming together in a mad frenzy that could only be a bride in white and a groom in black surrounded by colour and chaos. I was just a hop, skip and swim away from an Egyptian wedding. And it all started when my mother came dashing through my door.
“There is a wedding a little distance away. I know two girls who are going. Quickly! Get ready!”
“What do you mean, get ready? I am in bed. On the Nile. I am in bed on the Nile! Do you realize what a rare luxury that is?”
“Stop being so boring! Get ready and go!”
Truth was I didn’t just want to walk into a wedding in Egypt without an invitation. I wondered how we would be received? Unsolicited wedding entrances was just something I hadn’t bothered to look up before I boarded that flight from New Delhi. But my mother stood at the door, waiting. Suddenly, I could feel her excitement begin to seep into my bones. I got out of bed and into my ensemble for the evening – jeans and a t-shirt. I grabbed some lip gloss, ran my fingers through my hair and stared at myself in the mirror. There was no danger of the bride turning purple with jealousy.
Irresolutely, I walked towards my partners-in-crime. They were French. And spoke just enough English. Which did away with eclectic starts to small talk, given that our short journey to the sewan was peppered with various phrases explaining where we would be sailing to yesterday. I blinked. They consulted. “We mean tomorrow. We will be sailing to Philae tomorrow.”
By this time we were standing before the entrance to the sewan. I took a deep breath and hurried after my co-wedding crashers, and walked right into the middle of the celebrations. There was music and dance and many, many people. Some of them noticed us right away and came to greet us with warm, wide arms. “You Indian?” “You French?” “You blonde?” “You Amitabh Bachchan?”
“I mean, do you know Amitabh Bachchan?”
“Not really. He moves in glitzier circles.”
“Well, we Egyptians love him!”
And with that he grabbed my hand and pulled me in to dance. Everyone had formed a circle around the bride and groom who were holding hands and dancing. But not for long, because they had to be informed about the foreign, exotic trespassers. The French and I went ahead to congratulate them. The groom was most excited to see us, but the bride (and I remember her face all these years down) had eyes only for him. She held onto him and gently swayed. I smiled. They were beautiful.
I will remember that night for more than one reason. I was being welcomed into an intimate celebration of love, welcomed amongst family and friends, welcomed with such adoration in a land where I had arrived only days ago. It was also a night where the French and I received our first marriage proposals. My suitor took me straight to meet his mother. She kissed my forehead and told me I should marry her son. I was worth every camel she could lay her hands on. I smiled apologetically.
Before we left, tired and content with our fill of an authentic Egyptian wedding, my suitor walked up to me. He handed me a coin. “This is for good luck. And because, I always want you to remember me.” I took it, thanked him and turned away.
But I had only taken a few steps towards the cruise, when I turned. I stood under the stars, surrounded by the calm of the night and the secrets of the river. I looked at the coin in my hand. And wondered.
ZE HIGHER FORCES
Despite our rather grudgingly approved sabbaticals (by the higher forces of course) we have been awarded. An award. And we must pass it on.
But first, we wish to thank Mr. Lounger from the lounge of Imam Wapsoro. For his undying support and much looowe.
And we must pass on the cheer. Cheer that shall probably never be heard or seen. But cheer that will send ripples of positive energy that will affect somebody, something somewhere. Because you see, we believe in such things. The higher forces, of course. Cheering on then:
Jabberwock: We love him because he has good taste. And then there is nostalgia. And then there was none.
Szerelem, Szerelem: We love her for her passion. And her obsession.
High Heel Confidential: For teaching us big things. Expensive things. Oh-so-fun things.
Purely Narcotic: For being sensitive and flitsy-flootsy fantastic.
Imam Wapsoro: But of course. For trying. And triumphing.
But first, we wish to thank Mr. Lounger from the lounge of Imam Wapsoro. For his undying support and much looowe.
And we must pass on the cheer. Cheer that shall probably never be heard or seen. But cheer that will send ripples of positive energy that will affect somebody, something somewhere. Because you see, we believe in such things. The higher forces, of course. Cheering on then:
Jabberwock: We love him because he has good taste. And then there is nostalgia. And then there was none.
Szerelem, Szerelem: We love her for her passion. And her obsession.
High Heel Confidential: For teaching us big things. Expensive things. Oh-so-fun things.
Purely Narcotic: For being sensitive and flitsy-flootsy fantastic.
Imam Wapsoro: But of course. For trying. And triumphing.
Toodles then! Until next time :)
WELCOME ME
I shall call it a sabbatical. An unnecessary sabbatical. But here we are and back on the road.
Whatever prompted me back into the deliciously real world of blogging again? A class assignment. Yes you heard me right. If facts are to be believed then 80% of a 1 credit course dedicated to blogging shall contribute towards my final grade. And the first question is ‘Who am I?’ Easy? But, of course.
About as easy as back when I was preparing for my TOEFL examination, and the voice prompt egged me on to describe my room and dumped a 10 second timer on me for necessary preparation. And so I spluttered “My room is….erm…large. It is bright and colourful. I love my room. Uh…” Nervous laughter punctuated the monstrosity of a meaningless sentence. Describe my room? I can talk how digital technology is revolutionizing the microfinance sector, and how the Global North needs to stop monopolizing. Period. But describe my room? Splutter. And then some.
Since when did I become such a complicated creature that the details in my very own bedroom started escaping me? The deep magenta wall, flanked by light wooden wardrobes with inward ridges. The giant television set that still has cable, covered by frilly peach fabric. Just about worse than Nat Geo in Hindi. But just about. Because, really I watched MTV Splitsvilla all the time.
Therefore, ‘Who am I?’ will be answered. With much aplomb and symmetry. But it really isn’t as simple as I would imagine. For starters, am I a Grad student? A Post-Grad student? Did I just complete my under-graduation? Or those nights I spent away in a desultory daze courtesy copious alcohol, were they not really celebrating my graduation? Sigh. Welcome me to the United States of America.
Love.
'TWAS A GOOD PLAY
The light comes on to reveal a staid, wooden table. One of the legs, seemingly shorter, lulls the staid, wooden table into an inconvenient motion. Until suddenly it jerks her into conversation. She is sitting opposite him. And in their loose, daily attire they start talking about super-heroes.
She: Really?
He: Yes, I am serious. I posses actual superpowers.
She: Uh huh. And what might these superpowers be?
He: I cannot tell you. When I start telling people, they start...(emphatic pause, deliberate stare)...dying.
She: Err....
He: Yes, I kill people with my talk. That is indeed my superpower.
She: What do you mean? (darts a look here, darts another there.)
He: It can be quite gruesome if I so wish. It takes the beginnings of forming my lips into ovals, moistening my lips, and expending the slightest whoooooosh of a word. I can feel the world around me spinning, Yes, I can feel it. There is a sudden energy that suddenly grips me. I feel like my brain is aware of a brand new consciousness. A world with my victims, and a world without. I have the power, the simple power of only talking about this power. And then the schism penetrating my consciouness, vanishes into thin air, taking with it the victims as I so desire. It is devastating my power, in execution and in style. Such ultimate power, all contained in a little, itchy ball dying to escape my throat...
She: (yawns)
He: (looks away, defeated) Well, looks like my superpower is to kill people with my talk.
She: Really?
He: Yes, I am serious. I posses actual superpowers.
She: Uh huh. And what might these superpowers be?
He: I cannot tell you. When I start telling people, they start...(emphatic pause, deliberate stare)...dying.
She: Err....
He: Yes, I kill people with my talk. That is indeed my superpower.
She: What do you mean? (darts a look here, darts another there.)
He: It can be quite gruesome if I so wish. It takes the beginnings of forming my lips into ovals, moistening my lips, and expending the slightest whoooooosh of a word. I can feel the world around me spinning, Yes, I can feel it. There is a sudden energy that suddenly grips me. I feel like my brain is aware of a brand new consciousness. A world with my victims, and a world without. I have the power, the simple power of only talking about this power. And then the schism penetrating my consciouness, vanishes into thin air, taking with it the victims as I so desire. It is devastating my power, in execution and in style. Such ultimate power, all contained in a little, itchy ball dying to escape my throat...
She: (yawns)
He: (looks away, defeated) Well, looks like my superpower is to kill people with my talk.
KITHS KINS AND THE SHINS
There is an airplane waiting to whisk me away to distant waters. No, the airplane is not a metaphor for my warty frog waiting to receive a double dose of my minty mouth (for I do brush with minty toothpaste that promises to kill my plaque as well. Revolutionary toothpaste! Such a breath of fresh air.) No, the distant waters are not the gingerbread house made of gingerbread in ginger flavour that is cosy and comfortable and homely and fairy taley (and edible!) all at the same time. 'Tisnt.
I am expected to board the flying contraption and cross borders to alien countries with contentious space-folk stories and elaborate millitary plans. Oh but the Cold War is past and we are in the grip of a whole new horror. Obesity! Wait. And....anorexia! Well, I am expected to land in the midst of a dichotomy anyway. Excellent.
And one is gripped with an all-too-familiar feeling of the throat constricting, struggling to force our affected greetings while blinking rapidly. Because the new compatriots will not always understand. And will probably not take too kindly to your love affair with Nutella, tequila and the dream back in wonderla. And when you ask them if they know your kith & kin because the chances of knowing them from a billion strong is not entirely negligible, they will rationalize. And sometimes laugh. And then this love affair will dwindle away as a one-night-can't-stand.
Which is why I love The Shins.
Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.
Only, i don't know how they got out, dear.
Turn me back into the pet that i was when we met.
I was happier then with no mind-set.
And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.
Wish me luck. Please.
I am expected to board the flying contraption and cross borders to alien countries with contentious space-folk stories and elaborate millitary plans. Oh but the Cold War is past and we are in the grip of a whole new horror. Obesity! Wait. And....anorexia! Well, I am expected to land in the midst of a dichotomy anyway. Excellent.
And one is gripped with an all-too-familiar feeling of the throat constricting, struggling to force our affected greetings while blinking rapidly. Because the new compatriots will not always understand. And will probably not take too kindly to your love affair with Nutella, tequila and the dream back in wonderla. And when you ask them if they know your kith & kin because the chances of knowing them from a billion strong is not entirely negligible, they will rationalize. And sometimes laugh. And then this love affair will dwindle away as a one-night-can't-stand.
Which is why I love The Shins.
Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.
Only, i don't know how they got out, dear.
Turn me back into the pet that i was when we met.
I was happier then with no mind-set.
And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.
Wish me luck. Please.
NOSTALGIMMICKS
I know I haven't told you, but I have had rather intimate ties with theatre. While co-directing a play two years ago for the theatre group Dramanon (which incidentally has its reach in Manipal, Bangalore and Hyderabad if you are interested) I had written a heartfelt Director's note. I suddenly found it and am reproducing it here to gain your acceptance a tad bit more. I am kidding.
Here in it's original and undiluted form:
Sigh. Good ol' days.
Here in it's original and undiluted form:
It all began that bright, sunny afternoon when Dramanon converged at our revered rendezvous point; the script was decided upon, some dates finalized, designations nominated…and we were rolling again! And thus, ensued a recycled reaction of regular entertainment, daily jokes, frequent bouts of stress and screaming sessions, intermittent paranoia and the eleventh-hour chaos…
The script impressed me from the start. It was simple, warm and celebrated a wonderful intimacy between characters so real and so exaggerated. The humour catered to every genre-slapstick, cinematic, situational and even the pun patronizing types! The moral was not preaching, yet explained so much. And we had the pleasure of working with some very intelligent actors, who could interpret their characters beautifully and slide into their skins with the utmost ease. Even when we made them repeat their dialogues again and AGAIN, they flitted through with a smile on their faces. And when we would get down and dirty with the tiresome psyche of the characters they would listen patiently and improve tremendously. A truly talented bunch…my heartfelt gratitude.
The production team leaves EVERYTHING for the last minute, and in those last hours ticking away mercilessly, works day and night sacrificing sleep, food and mental sanity to leave no stone unturned. They are the real heroes behind the scenes…my heartfelt gratitude with whipped cream.
And finally my co-director. Dramanon had a bipolar-director-disorder going with Dhruv and me arguing over few things, and agreeing over fewer! But this guy is something! Immensely capable and definitely cooperative…my heartfelt gratitude with whipped cream and cherry on top.
And now presenting to you my swan song…
Sigh. Good ol' days.
LA BELLE ÉPOQUE AND OUR CHRISTA KIEFFER
Came across this. Actually long, long ago but decided quite suddenly to let you know. Stunning and sublime really, Christa Kieffer's oil on canvas captures a world of rich, glittering colours and a golden glow of the quaint streetlights in the pinkish hue the retreating sun leaves behind. She does it deliberately too, 'To me, the transition of light is espeically appealing.' Christa Kieffer does it with a rare finesse. Even to my untrained eye, her work assaults with such a stark longing, that I immediately want to click my golden shoes together and find myself back in 'The Beautiful Era'.
The beautiful era - La Belle Époque. An era before the world was ravaged by the great wars and went on to achieve the distant dream of Socialism to kill all traces of privilege by birth. The more profound reflections apart, I think what suffered the most was the style of dressing.
Edwardian wide-brimmed hats and Victorian waist-squeezing corsets, donned with Etonian jackets to complement that hour glass figure - a thing of the past. Kieffer's work although captures the earlier dressing styles of this era. The mega sleeves, the rich gowns - a true indicator of your social standing and pedigree. And now pedigree determines only the price of the next dog I wish to own. And righ gowns are donned by anyone and everyone on their wedding day. Socialism retaliates with free and fair personal identity.
Not much of a post, but some of vicarious nostalgia.
Edwardian wide-brimmed hats and Victorian waist-squeezing corsets, donned with Etonian jackets to complement that hour glass figure - a thing of the past. Kieffer's work although captures the earlier dressing styles of this era. The mega sleeves, the rich gowns - a true indicator of your social standing and pedigree. And now pedigree determines only the price of the next dog I wish to own. And righ gowns are donned by anyone and everyone on their wedding day. Socialism retaliates with free and fair personal identity.
Not much of a post, but some of vicarious nostalgia.
I LOVE GIVING GRE...
...especially when I click on that fear-inducing, minatory monster of a button ['Click this and you CANNOT cancel your score'], inhale-exhale in quick, efficient burts and peer through my narrowed eyes trying desperately NOT to see...
But, wait...hang on...noooo...I did well?? Eeeep. [My latest Calvin inspired ejaculation]
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And its true. I managed to whip some pretty ass. And I tell you this, it feels mighty good :)
Life looks good. Beloved friend is flying up north to induce some frolic into my post-GRE life. And beloved parents are flying me up norther [and mostly wester] to lovely, lovely exotic lands. Beloved hair from the hirsute-y body has been removed amidst much cringing. And beloved dresses can be donned again!
And the Osian film festival comes to Delhi on the 20th! Last year I sat beside pretty-miss-perfect Raima Sen and watched The Bong Connection [yes! An entire year before it was commercially released]. It was great fun, as I sat there in the dim auditorium ensconsed most comfortably in a palpable environment of bongness. Not as much from the movie [no, it was not as bong as expected...what a pity], as from the excited Bongs all around me. Talkative maashis (aunties), somber kakus (uncles) and big-eyed baccha log (youth junta). I remember myself smiling a lot.
I have been a regular at the Osian film festival for the past two years. I have watched all kinds of movies; Iranian, Chinese, Indian; silent, colourful, vulgar; and I am so glad it comes now into my wonderfully free life. There is a God.
So I shall be posting my reviews soon. But never judge a book by its cover, or a movie by missquoted's blog entry. Maybe I will see you at the film festival then :)
But, wait...hang on...noooo...I did well?? Eeeep. [My latest Calvin inspired ejaculation]
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And its true. I managed to whip some pretty ass. And I tell you this, it feels mighty good :)
Life looks good. Beloved friend is flying up north to induce some frolic into my post-GRE life. And beloved parents are flying me up norther [and mostly wester] to lovely, lovely exotic lands. Beloved hair from the hirsute-y body has been removed amidst much cringing. And beloved dresses can be donned again!
And the Osian film festival comes to Delhi on the 20th! Last year I sat beside pretty-miss-perfect Raima Sen and watched The Bong Connection [yes! An entire year before it was commercially released]. It was great fun, as I sat there in the dim auditorium ensconsed most comfortably in a palpable environment of bongness. Not as much from the movie [no, it was not as bong as expected...what a pity], as from the excited Bongs all around me. Talkative maashis (aunties), somber kakus (uncles) and big-eyed baccha log (youth junta). I remember myself smiling a lot.
I have been a regular at the Osian film festival for the past two years. I have watched all kinds of movies; Iranian, Chinese, Indian; silent, colourful, vulgar; and I am so glad it comes now into my wonderfully free life. There is a God.
So I shall be posting my reviews soon. But never judge a book by its cover, or a movie by missquoted's blog entry. Maybe I will see you at the film festival then :)
WATERS WATERS BABY
He began with shine on you crazy diamond [and that has to be my favourite, after high hopes maybe]. And some of the other songs I recongnised were wish you were here, the final cut, comfortably numb, the dark side of the moon...songs pretty much anyone would recognise...
And everyone was swaying from side to side in the floyd-bubble which began from where Mister Waters was sitting and cooing [a trifle far from us...ahem...but well worth it!], and its periphery stretched to include us lesser mortals [minus the Oxford Phds in architecture is it??].
And those Phds certainly made their presence felt. We were in a floyd concert and a graphic novel. Especially this song called leaving Beirut, where Mister Waters made his apparent hate for Bush and his kin very obvious, with super animations on the screen behind. To quote a certain Mister Mittal [incidentally our free-pass provider, mentioned in an earlier post] 'feel aa gayeee!'
It was a brilliant concert, there was no sound distinction in any of the ticket denomination demarcations, the graphics were impressive, and although I have been off Floyd lately [have been listening to a lot of Gilmour though] I enjoyed every bit of it.
I was hoping fervently though that he would play the great gig in the sky. It just seemed like that song would fit the occasion...
And the pink, flying pig [trademark Waters apparently] with its loud calligraphy of Kafka rules!, Habeas Corpus, Free at last et al was soooo intentional. I am thinking Animal Farm. More than Animals. Forgive.
And that was that. Super.
And everyone was swaying from side to side in the floyd-bubble which began from where Mister Waters was sitting and cooing [a trifle far from us...ahem...but well worth it!], and its periphery stretched to include us lesser mortals [minus the Oxford Phds in architecture is it??].
And those Phds certainly made their presence felt. We were in a floyd concert and a graphic novel. Especially this song called leaving Beirut, where Mister Waters made his apparent hate for Bush and his kin very obvious, with super animations on the screen behind. To quote a certain Mister Mittal [incidentally our free-pass provider, mentioned in an earlier post] 'feel aa gayeee!'
It was a brilliant concert, there was no sound distinction in any of the ticket denomination demarcations, the graphics were impressive, and although I have been off Floyd lately [have been listening to a lot of Gilmour though] I enjoyed every bit of it.
I was hoping fervently though that he would play the great gig in the sky. It just seemed like that song would fit the occasion...
And the pink, flying pig [trademark Waters apparently] with its loud calligraphy of Kafka rules!, Habeas Corpus, Free at last et al was soooo intentional. I am thinking Animal Farm. More than Animals. Forgive.
And that was that. Super.
FROGGONE IT!
16 hours of 24 have been borne with fortitude and fortune. And things are happening. I have started listening to CCR while being attacked by a green, gay frog. Right now it is hiding behind the mirror and I am hiding behind the computer. I would return the poor, frightened thing back to the home it comes from, I really would. But you see strong-legged amphibians are really not the easiest to negotiate with.
I was reading this article today about how ‘tinkering with nature is a bad idea’. More than fifty years ago around a hundred cane toads from Central and South America were released in Australia to check cane crop pests. The toads quickly proliferated to reach mammoth numbers (around 200 million) and is deemed today as one of Australia’s worst environmental debacles, having become unpleasant pests themselves. This ‘assisted migration’ has far-reaching effects on territorial integrity and the food chain argued the author, while the counter view stressed strongly upon massive environmental changes, due to deforestation and global warming, that render species shelter-less and without adequate nutritional sources.
I personally feel no problem can be solved completely unless it is nipped in the bud. And the solution here seems to be to concentrate on reversing, else preventing the damaging after-effects of global warming. And deforestation can easily be checked. Or maybe I am talking out of my hat. Whatever it is, the thousands of species on the endangered list need fast theoretical and faster practical attention.
And right now that tiny frog crouching behind the mirror needs to be helped back before it starves (or attacks me again! Whichever comes first…*praying praying*).
Here froggie, froggie….here froggie…
I was reading this article today about how ‘tinkering with nature is a bad idea’. More than fifty years ago around a hundred cane toads from Central and South America were released in Australia to check cane crop pests. The toads quickly proliferated to reach mammoth numbers (around 200 million) and is deemed today as one of Australia’s worst environmental debacles, having become unpleasant pests themselves. This ‘assisted migration’ has far-reaching effects on territorial integrity and the food chain argued the author, while the counter view stressed strongly upon massive environmental changes, due to deforestation and global warming, that render species shelter-less and without adequate nutritional sources.
I personally feel no problem can be solved completely unless it is nipped in the bud. And the solution here seems to be to concentrate on reversing, else preventing the damaging after-effects of global warming. And deforestation can easily be checked. Or maybe I am talking out of my hat. Whatever it is, the thousands of species on the endangered list need fast theoretical and faster practical attention.
And right now that tiny frog crouching behind the mirror needs to be helped back before it starves (or attacks me again! Whichever comes first…*praying praying*).
Here froggie, froggie….here froggie…
GOODBYES AND BADBYES
'and has it ever been that love has known its own depth until the hour of separation.'
- Khalil Gibran
Truer words were seldom spoken.
So much is taken for granted. Sharing cheery banter, toothy smiles. Sharing toothpaste. Exchanging ideas and colours. Chasing beautiful dreams and beautiful men. Ruffling each others feathers. Ruffling bed sheets. Imposing opinions. And imposing ‘funereal music’.
And perhaps the moment of clarity is truly a timeline of bygone moments, some so real and overwhelming. Others so banal. And so overwhelming.
Because it will never be the same again. ‘My life as I knew it, is gone.’
Yes, we will meet sometimes to grab at the diminishing moments to relive a different age and culture. And we will indulge in colourful nostalgia, rife with exaggeration to make the outsider believe in our colourful lives. Then you or I will extend a dismissive wave and a flippant ‘you should have been there.’
You really should have been there.
Here is to looking ahead. And glancing behind.
OF LOVE, LIFE AND LITTLE ONES.
1. An overworked Xerox machine.
2. Scattered paper, rough notebooks, blue pens, mismatched stapler and pin sizes.
3. Cigarettes.
4. Coffee.
5. Cigarette ash in coffee cups.
6. A filthy room *gasp! shudderrrr....DIE*
7. Inflicted Insomnia.
8. Expected Inflections *winkie winkie*
9. Unsolicited advice on love, life and little ones.
EXAMINATION SCHEXAMINTAION.
See you after the 6th of December.
Au-revoir!
2. Scattered paper, rough notebooks, blue pens, mismatched stapler and pin sizes.
3. Cigarettes.
4. Coffee.
5. Cigarette ash in coffee cups.
6. A filthy room *gasp! shudderrrr....DIE*
7. Inflicted Insomnia.
8. Expected Inflections *winkie winkie*
9. Unsolicited advice on love, life and little ones.
EXAMINATION SCHEXAMINTAION.
See you after the 6th of December.
Au-revoir!
....................................
I went to collect my original documents from college day before yesterday.
It was a five minute affair and culminated in generous spells of uproarious laughter, after a thorough examination of an old snap of mine and a discourse on how much I had changed since my first year. The perpetrator was this mostly amiable and harmless man whose neck I wanted to snap in two [I grew my hair…DUH!!]
My mood was poetically distant and withdrawn. Mingled with a weighty awareness of nostalgia.
And so it begins…
Sigh…
Meanwhile enjoy the new and look feel of my blog.
Yours warmly.
It was a five minute affair and culminated in generous spells of uproarious laughter, after a thorough examination of an old snap of mine and a discourse on how much I had changed since my first year. The perpetrator was this mostly amiable and harmless man whose neck I wanted to snap in two [I grew my hair…DUH!!]
My mood was poetically distant and withdrawn. Mingled with a weighty awareness of nostalgia.
And so it begins…
Sigh…
Meanwhile enjoy the new and look feel of my blog.
Yours warmly.
PIXIE DUST
Because when you are walking down the road lined with trees and their rich, green foliage promises a world of opulence…
And then the seasons change and the birds migrate and the clouds shed…
And you are walking down the road lined with trees, naked and stripped, and suddenly a virulent emptiness assaults you…
Why are people cynical anyway??
Why do they fail to notice the snow-white flakes descending languidly and settling on the bare branches with a meditated intention?
Or the carpet of white that invites you to dance on it with a rare abandon?
Or the sun shining lightly but gallantly, trying to spread some warmth and cheer?
Because ‘all you need is faith and trust, and a little bit of pixie dust…’
Peter sure as hell knew what he was talking about.
And then the seasons change and the birds migrate and the clouds shed…
And you are walking down the road lined with trees, naked and stripped, and suddenly a virulent emptiness assaults you…
Why are people cynical anyway??
Why do they fail to notice the snow-white flakes descending languidly and settling on the bare branches with a meditated intention?
Or the carpet of white that invites you to dance on it with a rare abandon?
Or the sun shining lightly but gallantly, trying to spread some warmth and cheer?
Because ‘all you need is faith and trust, and a little bit of pixie dust…’
Peter sure as hell knew what he was talking about.
THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY
I read The importance of being Earnest and made the fatal mistake of succumbing to stereotypes. Therefore when I picked up The picture of Dorian Gray, I was: a) not expecting a novel. b) not expecting a morbid novel. and c) not expecting to be blown away...so after I read the book, I got thinking...
Imagine a portrait which bears your conscience...which bears the consequences of every deed that warrants a judgment in your life. As long as it is relegated to the recesses of your soul, one can sleep relatively easy knowing that one does have another day to purge his soul...a temporary amnesia or abstinence even...
But a visual conscience?? When every action's reaction adds that extra wrinkle to your face, that superfluous tell-tale meandering line on your visage that screams of stolen money, or a nasty remark. I believe the impact on a person's character would be tremendous which is why the book is powerful. We feel a 'prick' in our conscience when we mentally analyse the morality of an unjust action, an unfair thought, a heretic idea. But maybe it is just that, a 'prick'. To physically feel the impact of our actions perhaps our conscience has to be removed from our self, and scrutinised with our own two eyes. In conclusion however, I do believe that very few of us actually have the strength to withstand the decay of our moral beings unfolding painfully before ourselves. which is why unfortunately, or fortunately, the book will, or should, always remain fiction.
MR. EX -> TAKE 1
When Mr. Ex first strolled by in his sedentary style into my life, I observed with mild fascination. He was tall, lean, had long, luscious locks, dimples with a sensuous depth…and pixie ears. Pixie ears that screamed for Blyton’s rightful royalty. He held a cigarette with the tips of his fingers and attacked his lungs with a deliciously slow drag that left a gaping crater at the base of his neck.
It was an exciting addiction…
I would watch his limbs flow in a graceful rhythm. His gait excited me, I would almost compensate for his lack of urgency with my pacing heartbeat. ‘The only problem with life is that it has no background music.’ And he would smile dangerously every time he caught me reading that on his T-shirt.
The day I confessed was the day Mr. Ex did 12 shots. “Can’t you see he is a bad guy!” I smiled knowingly and looked across. His long, slender fingers ran through his hair and he exhaled with some satisfaction. Our gazes locked for a second and then, he winked. “Inebriation becomes him, he disregards sobriety with such disdain!”
He was walking over, my heart was making a racket. The silver in his pixie ear caught my eye and our gazes broke for a second. By now he was standing beside my table and grinning mischievously.
“The neighbour’s daughter refuses to elope with the Nepali chauffeur. Boring girl.” Here he shook his head. “And moral discretion is exhausting. Care to join me for a session of ‘who can spot the constellation’?”
I shut my eyes, and his voice became deeper.
“It is a clear sky.”
“I am not very good with constellations.”
“You don’t have to be.”
He broke into a smile and suddenly in the dark all I could see was his personal Cheshire cat in the dazzling 32. I let him take my hand and felt his warmth seeping through my clammy palm. But in the clamour in my head I heard the genius of Wilde strike a crippling blow to morality, ‘People are not good or bad, just charming or tedious.’
Oh Mr. Ex was charming all right ;-)
It was an exciting addiction…
I would watch his limbs flow in a graceful rhythm. His gait excited me, I would almost compensate for his lack of urgency with my pacing heartbeat. ‘The only problem with life is that it has no background music.’ And he would smile dangerously every time he caught me reading that on his T-shirt.
The day I confessed was the day Mr. Ex did 12 shots. “Can’t you see he is a bad guy!” I smiled knowingly and looked across. His long, slender fingers ran through his hair and he exhaled with some satisfaction. Our gazes locked for a second and then, he winked. “Inebriation becomes him, he disregards sobriety with such disdain!”
He was walking over, my heart was making a racket. The silver in his pixie ear caught my eye and our gazes broke for a second. By now he was standing beside my table and grinning mischievously.
“The neighbour’s daughter refuses to elope with the Nepali chauffeur. Boring girl.” Here he shook his head. “And moral discretion is exhausting. Care to join me for a session of ‘who can spot the constellation’?”
I shut my eyes, and his voice became deeper.
“It is a clear sky.”
“I am not very good with constellations.”
“You don’t have to be.”
He broke into a smile and suddenly in the dark all I could see was his personal Cheshire cat in the dazzling 32. I let him take my hand and felt his warmth seeping through my clammy palm. But in the clamour in my head I heard the genius of Wilde strike a crippling blow to morality, ‘People are not good or bad, just charming or tedious.’
Oh Mr. Ex was charming all right ;-)
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