Not this! I asked for a 'Life of Quiet Desperation'!

The Business of Theatre in the Attention Economy

2011-12-12T20:08:00.003+05:30

Last weekend I watched a Hindi play. Although I’m very interested in theatre activity, my work hours and time management prevent me from watching all the plays I would like to. But last weekend, I watched the same play, twice, Saturday and Sunday.

***

Several years ago, or what feels like it, I could contemplate the world for hours, drifting between incomprehension and acceptance. But it doesn't really bother me that I can hardly sit still without having to resort to using the internet, or a phone to constantly re-engage and connect with other living elements of my world.

***

Somewhere I read, a guy had correctly pointed out that we now live in the attention economy where human attention is a scarce commodity. Our reserves of attention and attention spans are getting shorter and shorter, the further we’re exposed to instant gratification and an assault of data and information every way we turn. So something that holds our attention for really long is what will be prosperous in this economy.

***

So when the internet is where-its-at, when your marriage is validated when you update your facebook status, and most of these public and data-rich activities are performed for the public eye, it behooves one to hold the precious and rare away from the scrutiny of jaded, cynical eyes roving through the cesspit these beholders believe the internet to be.

***

I have been living without a functioning computer at my flat for a few months now, and I find that while I’m sorely missing out on the music I want to listen to, I am getting so many other things done that I would never get the chance to do if I would be glued to my twitter timeline every night, or bouncing off the wikisphere or blogosphere drowning in a flurry of hyperlinks. Cooking, reading, talking to friends on the phone once in a while. Yeah, this is not a bad deal.

***

Perhaps at a time like this, an art form like theatre is the most relevant. For art to exist, for artists to survive and interest in art to sustain, it must adapt. But maybe the inability of an art form like theatre to adapt to this age of easy accessibility, unavailability in a virtual form like an e-book or a music album or a film turned into bits, keeps it real. And pure. Theatre remains something to be experienced, in the moment, and is no less visceral in its approach and execution than it was a thousand years ago on the ancient Grecian podiums.

Salt.

2011-09-09T11:07:00.000+05:30

Taste is a series of sensory information bits we interpret into an experience. By adding salt to activate our salt receptors, we increase the number of information bits considerably, and in so doing create a fuller tasting experience.

What's your Story?

2011-09-06T16:17:00.000+05:30

My friend, Sorjin*, is a guitar player. He loves to play the blues, and can seduce you with a few notes on the slide. He told me once that he decided to go the way of music because it is a free-flowing, real-time expression of you. Who you are, then. Not a distillation, a derivation or a rationalization of what you think your character is. That things like books and movies need a narrative - a beginning and an end. cause and effect. so if you start with one thing, you end up with another. music doesn't rely on that narrative formula, or any kind of rationalization. Take Merzbow. or Lustmorde. What they do is play subliminal 'noise' music, which cannot be brought down to a scale and moves (I think - I don't have it figured out) intuitively, like a mood changing through a landscape.

Music has the ability, as Huxley said, second best to silence, to express the inexpressible. You can never know who you really are, maybe because there is no you; maybe because it is beyond our perception; or an elusive combination of both. But you will find that music - whether listening and appreciating, or singing or playing - can talk to the you inside. In a way that books, paintings and movies never can. And he played me a song the other day, called 'Untitled', in an album that was untitled - maybe to ensure that nothing more than the music itself could be inferred from that piece.

#nowplaying Brian Eno - Taking Tiger Mountain

It's a good lesson for life. We've often thought about the OST for the 'movie of our life', that captures in glitzy cinematic detail the trials and travails of a day in our lives. Even autobiographies that don't tell you how the writer became who she became, are decried for lack of a gripping storyline.

But we don't live our lives like that. There will be days and days together when you don't understand what you're doing, but you know you're doing it because something is making you do it, guiding you in that direction. When/if it ends successfully, people call it motivation, a killer instinct. If it fails - well, it doesn't matter what you call it, nobody's listening.

So for days like that, I think we'd all do well to think about something like this. I'm reproducing a quote below.

You will find that people love their narratives. They need for your life to have meaning; it must provide them a teachable moment, whether cautionary or aspirational. But you will never be who they think you are.

The more you allow their expectations to dictate to you what you should be, the more unfamiliar you’ll become with your own reflection in a mirror.

I found this through my subscription to Andrew Sullivan's the daily beast, by the way. Whattay blog. It's a blessing in these days of mindless diversions.
*name changed. But it would be pretty cool to have a friend called Sorjin.

A Lesson in Star-gazing

2011-08-25T20:27:00.006+05:30

Mother:What do you mean... He's not coming back?

Jim: Oh, no, he'll come back. We all come back, Kate. These private little revolutions always die.

The compromise is always made. In a peculiar way. Frank is right... every man does have a star. The star of one's honesty. And you spend your life groping for it, but once it's out it never lights again.

I don't think he went very far. He probably just wanted to be alone to watch his star go out.

Mother: Just as long as he comes back.

Jim: I wish he wouldn't, Kate. One year I simply took off, went to New Orleans;for two months I lived on bananas and milk, and studied a certain disease. And then she came, and she cried.

And I went back home with her. And now I live in the usual darkness; I can't find myself; it's hard sometimes to remember the kind of man I wanted to be. I'm a good husband; Chris is a good son... He'll come back.

Arthur Miller had something very interesting to say of the pivot of drama. That it is not just a matter of creating the right characters and getting them to make up the story as they went along. The point is in knowing, as intimately as the character, not just why he would do something – but why he cannot abstain from doing it; why he cannot just walk away from it. In the creation of that motivation to act lies the reality of drama.

I keep coming back to this exchange. It’s a depressing play, All My Sons, by Arthur Miller. It doesn’t end very well, either. A man lives in guilt for many years, knowing whether he has actually caused the death of 21 fighter pilots in providing faulty fighter jets, knowing that his friend suffers in jail for it. His nerves are frayed by the guilt, his wit dulled and any joie de vivre diminishing in the ever-present doubt that eats away at him.

One of his sons went missing in the war; the same war for which he was commissioned to assemble 21 fighter jets. This son had a sweetheart, the son of his friend now in jail, and the sweetheart re-enters his life on the arm of our man’s younger son. The wife has been utterly shaken by the war and the loss of her son, although she never believes he is truly dead. The dialogue is hopeful and young – the lovers talk of the days to come, neighbours discuss astrology, husbands and sundry. Until the sweetheart’s brother demands that she break off her engagement with the younger son and return as our man put her father in jail. Drama, more of it, ensues. This particular exchange takes place between the wife (called Mother) and her scientist neighbour, Jim, while anxiously waiting for her younger son, Chris, who has just discovered the damning allegations against his father, to return.

Is it true that once our star goes out, it never comes back? Do we lose all the integrity we may possess, all the truth and purity we have lived by, in a passing moment of bad judgement? I may have, in a bid to preserve one of the longest and most beautiful friendships in my life, lied, wilfully, constantly and almost in disbelief that my eyes do not, in fact, speak the truth when all my tongue can do is roll off unconvincing, plastic words that taste bitter even to me.

Maybe my star went out a long time ago.

Yesterday's Thoughts

2011-07-27T15:11:00.001+05:30

Fuck the night joint. I'm way too sleepy and tired by the time I return home, and somehow defeated, to really let the drug stimulate my thoughts. The morning brings with it a wonderful wave of contemplation, so morning joint it is.

So while staring at the spirals of smoke, and in the many long-drawn minutes after, I was steeped in thought, of varied things.

*****

Going easy on myself has had disastrous results on my money management. I have completely eaten into the savings my grandma painstakingly built for me, and I'm left with 1/5 of a lakh now. It's pathetic. I can't live within my means :( I intend to bring it back to the original amount, if not bring it on par with where it would be if I had let the interest accumulate.

The Flatmate is currently the likeness of a saint. He is finding the strength to always do right by himself and is enduringly pure. He's a real inspiration, if you are looking for it.
The city noises on the cab to work are gratingly present, each and every day. Sometimes, you hear the voices behind the noises, the urgent alarm of the ambulance, the bored persistence of car horns, the buzz of the beautiful rains.

Being a non-vegetarian also changes your personality. The way food is attacked, and the defensive response that one evolves in response to allegations by vegetarians makes one develop a different attitude in life. In other news, Woodside's BeerNBurger festival is great, and Ireland's corned beef burger was amazing. It didn't even taste like meat. Just like a really well-cooked and flavoured patty, with smoked bacon. Mmmm.

I should not smoke so much if I want to sing. It's not good for my voice or my lung power but it won't even let me practice, because getting stoned makes me unable to approach music a little detachedly. But I get so restless just to think of being by myself sober.

Ze Stick will be coming over in a few weeks. I will have to sort out my room and get an internet connection and stuff by then. Where will she stay otherwise!

I can haz gourmand syndrome

2011-07-11T21:23:00.000+05:30

Rule 34 may have to be amended to throw in the word lolcat somewhere.

So I'm in maximum city. And every weekend has been a weekend of fun and frolic, some of it forced. But I've eaten at some fabulous places and have a lot to say of food, drink, ambience and service. In this post (since I don't have a food blog) I shall tell you all about interesting things I have been eating and also, cooking.

Went to this nice Italian place on sunday, called Quattro in Lower Parel. Now I'm not one of those underexposed comfort eaters who rely on potatoes and cheese to give them a global food experience. But I'd like to write about this place because the service was very good. Of course, I also went to Fenix last week and the service there was overwhelmingly good, yada yada, but you really pay through your nose for that kind of attention, y'know? The prices at Quattro are certainly reasonable by Bombay standards.

We ordered a cream of mushroom and leeks soup, siciliano pizza and gnocchi. I didn't have my camera with me, so no photos. The soup came with a few interesting breads and were very subtly and freshly flavoured. (I notice how I've been gravitating towards fresher flavours, even if tossed with stir fried something or a heavier sauce, as an alternative to heavy, spicy, overly rich food.)

So here's a list of the interesting things I've eaten over the last few weeks:

Gado gado salad (Busaba, Lower Parel)
Tuna carpaccio with orange, walnut and vinaigrette dressing. (the abovementioned Fenix, Oberoi)
BLT with cheddar and pesto (Salt Water Cafe, Bandra)
Beef Bulgagi Maki Roll (Busaba, Lower Parel)
Mediterannean Salad & Caesar Salad (Kala Ghoda Cafe)
Gooey Chocolate Cake (Cafe Churchill, Colaba)
Emmenthal and Pesto sandwich and Olive and basil tapenade sandwich (Moshe's Cafe, Colaba)

And oh, I fell in love with Mediterannean food in Himachal. Now, the list of interesting things I've made (I realise this is extremely tedious without pictures):

Quesadillas (spring onions, cheddar etc)
Risotto rice pudding (drenched in mangoes and nutella :-p)
Two varieties of salad with Greek Yoghurt dressing.
Mushrooms on toast.

And the gourmand syndrome? It's for real. I read a story about a snowboarder, Kevin Pearce, who had a near fatal accident, and re-emerged post severe trauma with an inexplicable craving for basil pesto. Now, I wouldn't generally attribute this to syndromes or afflictions, I can completely understand a craving for basil pesto, with its creamy cheese and fresh basil and quirky, crunchy pine nuts, but he was quite indifferent to the food before.

Pesto is, indeed, the best-o.

Within every extrovert, there's an introvert screaming to get out.

2011-07-06T20:18:00.000+05:30

I've been an extrovert for far too long. So long that I have little clue what to do when I do find myself alone. <cue jokes about jilling off> More often than not, I spend my time dilating my pupils and retreating into that passive wonder-world which also, apparently, obeys the economic dictum of the law of diminishing marginal utility.
It's getting difficult to shake off this state, where there are always things to do, but then you always have so many choices - and you know, YOU get to make the right choice for yourself, the overwhelming knowledge of the fact that your freedom is your responsibility - that I get stuck with what Stephen Fry called options paralysis. Truly, I need to spend more time just doing my own thing and getting the hang of it. Not that I didn't, in the past, but really developing it, honing it and making it my own. Even 'doing my thing' feels like a borrowed pastime.

But really, the way to get unstuck from options paralysis is to reject everything. The most peaceful place in your mind is where there is nothing. Try as you might, 'nothing' is an exceedingly difficult state of mind to achieve. So, the next best thing follows, one thing. But to really do that one thing right, and do justice to it, you have to die first. Die completely. Leave your half-hopeful ambitions, your distant dreams and your exotic-for-the-sake-of-it choices. Let go over the cliff, as the zen monk says. And then your own fears and lethargy and false hopes will never deceive you. Maybe I should give it a shot.

Oh, and hat-tip to ol' Prufrock for that line in the title. It's true.

2011-07-01T18:25:00.002+05:30

It's been a bloody long time since I blogged, but I'm not going to dwell on that.

I'm not going to dwell on much, actually. Except to say that I have come back here, because it reminds me of a time when I looked into myself to understand my thoughts and to find sense in what I did, and so, who I was.

Even if I am not that same person any more, as would be the case with anyone after 5 years living an unchronicled, pretty much unhinged existence - I want to reconnect with this dear old identity I had. One I may not entirely recognize, or appreciate all the time, but certainly, this is still me. Somewhen.

And, I have been gripped with a fear that I will slowly, but surely, start losing my voice. Literally and metaphorically. I intend to seek out a music teacher over the weekend, (does anyone in Bombay know who's a good hindustani vocals teacher anywhere in central or south bombay?) and to find what I want, and say it the way I want to, with the words I used to covet as mine. If it is my opinion, and an interesting one, it won't just go on chat windows or into a ear and out the other.

And hopefully my writing will improve as well. It will feel good once I hit publish. But then, I should get down to changing the template and all that shizz. You'll be seeing more of me. :)

Yahweh

2008-01-14T04:04:00.000+05:30

Let it be the most obvious of faux pas and the simplest of jokes. To be in that situation, when you're nicely unconcerned with the world because of some WWW, is bloody hilarious.

So we were on the beach yesterday, at Udaipur, which is a fishing village along the coast of Digha. It's in Orissa, and yes, the other one is in Rajasthan. So well, we were on the beach and indulging in a bit of debauchery. Primate and I joined these guys a little late, and found them having a brilliant time with some chilled beer - they'd bought a whole crate. The beer tasted unbelievably good with the sun and the sea, and we downed it like hungry little babies. (Woody, by the way, has excellent bottle-opening skills. Just cracks them open with his canines. Maybe a little scary too.) Then, Primate proceeded to get buried under the sand, with a bit of beer being poured down his throat occasionally, courtesy me. And he drifted into glorious, undisturbed sleep. Sure, right after that, the LAN guy and I got ourselves buried as well. It's the most relaxing feeling, with so much soft, warm weight over you, I'm surprised they haven't turned this into a money-making venture. A little while after, the other guys moved to the really shady woods right next to where we were camped. And funnily, a few local urchins had started gathering around us like we were a sight to watch. Maybe we were, but they stood there and stared for more than 5-10 minutes.

So we decided we'd need to take turns watching over our stuff and Primate just so nothing happens to either. When I got to my shift, these boys had gotten bolder and started to release this little crab that they had on a leash near us. I kept telling them to go away and not bother us. But they must have sensed that I was a little disoriented and could have some fun when I wasn't looking or something, and released the crab near Primate. I shouted at them that time, and got the rest of the onlookers to leave, except for the boy with the crab and a couple of his friends who hung about a little away from where we were.

LAN guy came back for his shift and I explained the situation to him. By this time the rest of the guys came back from the woods, and we decided to wake Primate up since he seemed to be the centre of attraction. By this time, the boys had alerted half the beach's attention to us and fishermen and random rickshaw drivers flocked towards base camp and stared down at Primate. We woke him up, and a man in the gathering confessed that they thought he was dead. Skinny Legs was really pissed off and commented on the villagers' daftness to them, said "does he look like a ghost to you?" - the guy said "yes". In five minutes, we packed up and left.

There's so much you can do with a Kurkure!

2007-09-27T15:46:00.000+05:30

We are a trendy Punjabi family who love the good life and do everything to make it fun. My brother B.K. has the most colourful collection of shirts, we fondly call him rainbow man. My sister-in-law Anupama is so beautiful, she’d give Hema Malini a complex. My husband Amit loves to wear his pair of baggy jeans and starter cap and looks hilarious trying to imitate his favourite rap star. And I, Monika, used to look like the gorgeous Nargis in my youth, some people still think I do.

In the spirit of everything cool and funky, we always experiment with new & exotic cuisines. We had bought ourselves matching ponchos and decided to make something Mexican for tea. While making burritos, we added our favourite Kurkure to the recipe. Even real Mexicans couldn’t have made something this mast!

An Advertisement on the Twitter website

About using Twitter on your phone

Twitter really shines when you're away from your computer.

By hooking up your mobile phone, you can receive updates from those you're following (or just some people) when you're waiting in boring lines. And you can send updates, like "OMG, there's a monkey walking down the street!"—which, lets face it, you're unlikely to see while you're indoors. It's all done through text messages (aka "sms"), which you probably use all the time anyway, so there's not much to learn. Twitter doesn't charge anything for this, but be sure to know what your text plan looks like with your wireless carrier. Also know that you can shut text messages from Twitter off at anytime by replying with "off" (and back on by sending "on"). And you can even specify that it turn off automatically at night over here.

see it for yourself

Hyper-linker

2007-09-09T15:36:00.000+05:30

I've been listening to Cake as I write this. Cake is an indie-rock band, and they're so-so.
I found a quiz on the India Uncut website. (And what a website it is! Super stuff; congratulations Amit Verma, for writing and managing so well)
The quiz led me to this page. It doesn't make a very great read, but did you ever know the line was so bluddy long?
This is a good online newspaper. Better read, I find, than a lot of American ones. (While you're at that, if you wanna know where some of the flashy, dripping-in-your-face-with-colours-and-eye-straining-graphics Indian websites get their ideas, check this out.) It has been around for a while, and is a regularly updated, often used website. I found it when I read an article that talked of legislating against the underwear-baring, lower than low baggy pants that are worn almost everywhere around USA now. I also happened to read about the zoot suit riots. Good stuff.
I used to regularly read the curious gawker, but I had not once visited the other, casual, more personal blog of his. It is SO good. I enjoy his style a lot. Check it out here.
And because I may have told you to read my blog and you come and see this bulleted list of links instead, and that irks you, you may want to read Kaushik's blog. I disclaim any responsibility of your well-being for after you read the blog, and also, don't hold anything against me :)
You may want to leave a comment. Just so.

The pursuit of philosophi (Will Smith took my y)

2007-09-02T10:34:00.000+05:30

I enjoy writing. It's one of the few things I truly enjoy engaging in, and when that doesn't work out well, like it didn't - so many times over the past year, when I'm at a loss to find words to string together to explain what it is that I'm feeling, I would be so terribly bothered by it. Because, well, it's not just about a pastime here. It was more like sustenance, I used to blog a lot more from home and after that, everything just got so disconnected and, um, random.

So I decided to do a blog post about that today. About the story when things started to go downhill for me, when I wasn't aware that I was indeed on top of a hill, when I had so much that I never knew I'd bargained for, and how...uh I'll save the punchline for later.

(Isn't there a justify on this thing?)

Yesterday I decided that there was a significance to the address of my blog - blackframedspectacles, although until now, I myself deemed it to be a random, get-people-to-wonder-bout-it sorta name. Yesterday, I decided upon its significance. It's a nice story, even if you don't know me personally. In fact, all the better for that.

Mom bought me those frames, I think the rage was Sania Mirza coupled with Kal Ho Naa Ho, that made mom acknowledge those hideous frames and bring them home because I was too lazy to go out to the shop and select some for myself. Let me say this for myself, or at least how it was then, that I was no great judge of appearances, accessorizing or the other appalling a's. I just went with the flow (of course, I did have judgments to pass on certain others, but they were none too scathing, and none had any effect on my general attitude) and didn't really find them much too bad.
But they were bad. In fact, the colour of my skin made it worse because of the contrast it created - thick black frames and sometimes alabaster-white skin. (I have tanned excessively now, but ANYway...)
I got through NUJS, came to Kol...blah blah, we know the story, and one night when I went down for dinner, I revealed them to the world. Everyone, as a rule, detested them. They didn't say it to my face, of course. People are polite when around I years. But that made it worse for me, because I tend to imagine, and speculate and ruminate and brood and just run myself to ruin solely with my thoughts. It's amazing how I can actually manage it, but I have created situations, problems within situations, the loss of a solution to that problem due to a turn of events within that imaginary situation and spewed the anger resulting from that on people. My alcove-mate was witness to one such hysterical outburst, and I asked her, very uncharitably, to leave my room. But I digress...

The spectacles, of course. I did have a different pair of spectacles, decent, thin ones but I lost them very soon, while I moved to my assigned room. So I realized I was stuck with this for a long time, and I didn't mind it much. Or so I thought.

---------------------------------------

Day by day, there was a growing alienation between myself and my peers because of that introspection that I got lost in much so often, and it wasn't even that much fun. I would want to go out and have fun without a thought and yet something really strong would pull me back to my chair and keep me there.
And then a day came when everyone decided to tell me how much they hated me and those ugly blackframedspectacles. How they even hated my blog because of it, and they spat on my presence in cyberspace. They told me how they wished I was never born, and why I should get away from there as soon as possible.

----------------------------------------

Now, this situation reminded me a lot of my time in kindergarten (not the paragraph directly above this, that's just bull) when I was mostly observant, very quiet and sometimes given to being bullied.
That kinda happened. And this year, I came back with new spectacles, and man, have things changed.
Life is very different now, here. I suppose my blog was just meant to stand as testimony to the role those spectacles have played in my life. The past they brought to life, the present that they made me value, and the future because I will turn them into a laser gun and burn anyone I look at through them.

2007-04-11T18:52:00.001+05:30

Please take your seats. We will begin, now.

Harold Pinter's wife's name is Antonia Fraser. They are, legally, married. She just didn't take his name. (Of course, wiki says she has a 'married name'. But wiki's just bullshitting, we all know that) As didn't Anne Hathaway. Is there a connection?
Who knows? Is there any way to find out? Ol' Bill lives no longer at Stratford Upon Avon, it got too crowded with tourists and visitors after an "immortal bard" made the little place famous. Woody Allen was right in mentioning that one must always notify the post office if one is moving, unless one doesn't care about posterity. While on the subject (Woody, P.O., etc.) Kommie's a lucky man.
He will be receiving his very own copy of W.A.'s complete prose. Soon after I finish reading it.

I have been reading a lot of plays lately. It began with Edward Albee's 'Who is Sylvia?'. A brilliantly scripted play (which Plabs' [as Flavia Agnes puts it:] hypocritical morality couldn't stand) that deals with some of the lesser discussed issues, for want of diverse practical examples, academic thoughts and practical influence. At the bottom of it, it's just a spousal spate of bickering. The entire tension that the play runs on is because of its controversial theme - which is the fact that ultimately throttles us. That something that can be looked upon so "sanely" takes up a lot of space in our taboo lists.
Do you have taboo lists? I guess I do. And in my endeavour to run away from run-of-the-mill taboo lists, I have quite a unique one, the desire to post which may hopefully lead me to blog the next time around.
The thing with me and blogging is that I wish to maintain my habit of writing. It is so long since I've used 'I' and not in short messages or IM conversations.
It's almost taken over me. My time in the day is consumed so much part of it, by intermediary things like travelling, speaking on the phone, 'making arrangements' and replying to messages.
I digress.
I was talking about plays. There's a play 'Exit the King' happening at Rangashankara, and I'm not even being paid to advertise. But an interesting "uncle" at a relative's place who works with TFA has been helping out with the backstage part of the production. And I'm gonna watch it tomorrow. That's Thursday for the Calendar-ily challenged.
And then I picked up a book of three plays by Henrik Ibsen which I still haven't read.
I did read some more by Albee, such as 'The American Dream' - a work which lies almost wasted, as in the middle, the orientation is slowly lost (maybe on me, maybe on the author. Who knows? Tch, woody's right) and it looks like it would turn into a shouting match.
One play I would not want to watch.
And I read Lolita - as an adaptation by Albee, (which is incidentally pronounced, Ol-bee, like the a in all. You would've guesssed right?) and not the original by Nabokov. Which I want to read, since I would sincerely like to use words like Nabokovian. I haven't had ocassion to use Kafkaesque yet, although I have read a little bit of Kafka.
He didn't write plays though, to the best of my knowledge. Or I haven't read them. (Amazon reveals that he wrote two plays: 'Kafka's Dick' and 'The insurance man")

And then I read some Shaw. I had borrowed a book from Jhelum, which I've hopefully returned. Man and Superman, Candida...

I thought I'd read some more. I did read a super play by Tom Stoppard which had a lot to do with Marxism and music and it was interesting, until I lost the thread somewhere.
Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead is nowhere available. Not on the net, at least. Treat if the reader can find me a copy, anywhere.

Will be updated later.

Not so tragic, then

2007-02-08T03:11:00.000+05:30

I was, as I'm afforded the rare privelege of sometimes, surfing the net and reading some blogs that I hopped along on with links and such. There were jounal entries there, heart-wrenching tragedy stories and people piping up with acknowledgments, and what's more, claims that 'their' story is exactly the same.

I've led a happy life, everyone. Yes, I've had tales of domestic violence - but somehow, I feel not quite in the usual direction. There were taunts and tirades, but the final blow-up would even things out, where might was right and mother's not particularly weak. Something happened to me these past months to block out the impact of any pain of those fights I've witnessed and incidents in the back of my mind as a painful reminder of reality and things like that. But I don't feel the pain I used to, anymore. I remember having talked about it with four different, and close people in my life and it all resulted in my exaltation as the bearer of pain - but after a year here, heck the memories aren't there almost.
I thought extensively today about the rigidity in my jaw. How characteristically it's taken its place in my face after all those years. I used to be really quiet and observant back in kindergarten and a few years after. I remember because the people I used to travel in the auto to school with would treat me like a statue, call me stone and make jokes about the silence and rigidity.
I've chubby cheeks and victorian features (fair-skinned, full lipped and curly brunetted) and I've noticed that my attitude couldn't be said to suit my face. But yeah, I do have bigger problems than that, thankyouverymuch. It just feels a nice mix, and an odd botch-up of things like values, perspective and my life; to have to treat a face-attitude anomaly like some "real" problems people have.
It's absurd. And that's my flavour for the season.

Thanks to TC (couldn't find anything closer) , for the dramatic introduction to the concept.

P.S.

2006-11-29T13:44:00.000+05:30

Serenity. With Lisa Gerrard on the speakers croning the Gladiator soundtrack.

I see I've become dictated by noms. Things are worth anything only if their name is recognizable, only if its title is catchy and it has an intelligent ring to it.

How mournful I always seem. That has been a recurring theme on this blog hasn't it? Something that talks of old memories, lost days, lost loves, things that make me feel a sort of voidlike feeling that I express in my stunted vocabulary. Memories are great to blog about. It starts off with the fact that one would have to compress days, months and years of feeling and thought into little boxes of memory back in your head that you can't even swim in for a long time. Memories are punished, relegated and put away.
One must 'move on'. Into the same everyday; into the same people - for most part, into the same places - for most part, into the same you - always.
Into the same mourning, the same black veils that don't change their texture or film-like transluscence. Into the same bright, open sky, with the same 'buildings in the distance', the same people you sit next to on a lone bench and look at with a lost gaze in your eyes - speaking of another day dead and gone.
Does a day die when it's over? One can't stop time even if they stand in much the same way, with the same person and hope with all their might that the moment will not pass them by. That a cell-phone will not ring. Afraid that a teasing voice will call. That the sky will suddenly swallow up the sun. And the day will be over. And what will remain is something that you can tamper with, if you dare to, if you need to.

I think I blog (or used to) because I wanted it to remain somewhere else besides my head. I wanted to surrender the power that I had to alter my memories and at the same time evened out the high of reliving the moment by transferring it, converting it into a bunch of words and pushing it down on virtual paper.

I guess I also blog because Bhavin kept persuading me to. Thought it was only fair.
After Tia Maria.

Mysore's an eyesore.

2006-10-04T19:20:00.000+05:30

Alright,
not quite.

Eyesore's for
the bored.
Else it's a city
of lore.

My city, of all cities.
That will remain my own
for few will claim it.

Shuttling between various
towns, in trains that carry us,
these vacations keep me
actually hoping to see my city.

Chennai, it was first, where I met
dear Kommie. Was a day, so didn't fret.
Bangalore, next. And fulfilled some duty.
But came back home with a grin all toothy.

Goa, the holiday spot - the bitch was
at the beach. And two days did pass.
Karwar, next. Memories were made.
Stopping at B'lore now. "Home!", I cry, all said,
and done.

But why and what I do there, I have not explained.

Traverse forgotten public parks and play on the swings and the see-saw and slide.
Dig up random numbers on the phone and meet with so many homies who're still home. And get them to buy me lunch or coffee. Oft unsuccessful, but trying's always good, nevertheless.
Sit in the darkness of my house all day and either listen to blaring music on those distortive, old speakers and gallop across random sites on the Internet with dear old StumbleUpon, or, in our huge hall on the couch, read the newspaper, get a friend to come and sit with me while we munch away the snacks in the big red box and watch TeeVee (I still say that) and complain about moronic politicians and stinking filmstars.
Go to Planet X, drink beer, play air hockey. Does one need more to life?
When parents are around, moolah ain't much of an issue. That's one thing I love about Mysore. No budgetary worries. Width worries are due, though. At the hip ain't hip.

Addendum: I need to find topics I can work on for an Economics project that must have
to do with a legal perspective upon it. Any websites or links or any such help
of the kind will be so appreciated you'll be sorry you're just an Internet friend
of mine who cannot actually get the better of the me in flesh-and-blood and
receive an embrace in gratitude and more.

Bawd's Bawls

2006-09-22T01:00:00.000+05:30

I was tagged, as I usually am this time of the year. When people get off work for longer stretches of time, and they find more and more engrossing uses of the Internet - and check their address books - it's time to tag!
So I was supposed to write about 5 things that I love doing in a city that I love.
Now this will require some thinking, because up until a while ago, I did like Mysore - but besides the fact that the place bugs me at the moment, I probably wouldn't be able to think of 5 things I pursue that are very different from each other.
And I wouldn't write about Calcutta (although that has been home for almost 4 months now - because a majority of my activities happen within campus and it just wouldn't be fair on the reader to indulge in stories of activities therein. Also, Bhavin wrote of Cal, I will be slightly different.)
Baud, do I have to write about 5 things I love doing only in one city? Since I don't seem to have cherished memories of even 5 things in a single place, I'll do a random 'things I like doing in places I've been' thing, shall I? I should actually be let off even without reprimand since I revived this blog that had received the dementor's kiss a hundred and more days ago.
But y'know what? I'll do the tag in the next entry. I'm home for the holidays right now; after a hardly gruelling semester at college - and am perpetually on the net. For days, sometimes. I have to find something to do too, like those intellectuals with their keyboards and their address books. Next blog entry will be more interesting. Stck with me, kay?

Girl, you'll be a woman soon...

2006-07-27T18:17:00.000+05:30

It's been...whoa, 88 days since I blogged. And even now this is all I got.

Wow.

'tis sad.

A wave out to my blog readers, if you still visit and all.

Ah well.

It took 6 hamburgers, scotch all night, nicotine for breakfast just to put me right...

2006-04-29T12:26:00.000+05:30

**How Kaavya Vishwanathan borrowed, published, made $500,000 and then was publicly humiliated.

Sheesh, she really thinks plagiarism is that easy?

“I must have internalised the books (Sloppy Firsts and Second Helpings by Megan McCafferty ) and used concepts, manners of speaking to fuel my own book”

Ha!

Now the skank got her due. I still have a chance to be the ‘first one’ then. Yay!

**My first day completely alone in Bangalore.

Zilch. Nil.

Kay, lemme start again in an effort to pen a few words of truth and experience on a day that I felt myself overawed with the sights and sounds in my surroundings, on a day when I felt myself overabundant with literary potency, and I rootle for words, I do.

My favourite memory in B’lore has always been the Planet M in the busier part of Brigade Road, where you put on your headphones to listen to the latest in the pop/rock section and you gaze out the glass screen to witness and absorb throngs of people, all moving, not going anywhere in particular, colourful, loud things, creatures, shiny happy people. (That one phrase is so apt for what I wanna describe, thank you REM)

I sit on a bench overlooking M.G Road as I write this directly opposite the erstwhile Plaza theatre, now stripped of every trace of a bubbling hangout.

Just a while ago, sipping on some lemon ‘n’ iced tea (again at Brigade’s, the CD that’s in the interior somewhere) I read a bit of Papillon and felt so blissful as I hadn’t in a long time, or maybe hadn’t allowed myself to feel in a long time. Here the ambience was good, I sat there, alone for almost a good two hours; the only thing repeatedly interfering in this event of a fantasy being the most godawful hip-hop that they were playing on channel 204 of worldspace. (Although, the title of a song being ‘brother from another mother’ totally cracked me up)

Before CCD, I’d spent some time alone in Blossoms. I always spend time in either blossoms or Crossword whenever I come to B’lore. Delightful, wonderful way to spend the load of time on your hands. Bought ‘Half asleep in Frog Pyjamas’ by Tom Robbins, after having heard raves ‘bout it on the literature forum.

Also bought ‘The Tao of Physics’ by Fritjof Capra off the road. Promises to be a good read. I asked for Cuckold, but they were understandably sold out of them.

It’s 4:24 P.M on Tuesday the 25^th day of April, and my legs ache so, as I try to ward off lecherous glances from some not so innocuous looking men, and there I was thinking I could write about life.

About life. H’m.

If only one’s thoughts could filter as well, if only one’s sponge like mind would not understand and absorb everything there is to be listened to and most that people say.

(Addendum: I scout around for any sign of Boy, or at least Boy-like looking people. Lots of Boy-like looking people)

Life is too much to be expressed in a sentence. However clever the catchphrase may be. It is very inconsistent, to give one complete meaning and derive satisfaction from it.

It is gigantic enough to accommodate every single fucking one of our minds and mouths and bodies. No, wait, that’s the world.

As I absorb, (see aforementioned ‘absorb’) I notice how I have changed, how I have been changing, how I remain long convinced that there is no meaning, and yet invariably, instinctively ask, question and wonder enough to make a laudable effort at dredging up an answer/meaning.

I realize how I have grown more mature, more silent, intense over the past few weeks, a few laughs (and worthy ones they were) – and fewer smiles. I feel like I’ve deposited my sexual energy in deeper, darker places within myself.

Ah, now, Its begun to rain. Will have to stop.

Oh, how I wish my life would chronicle itself, a pen would just keep on writing on the who and what and why I am.

*Sigh*

A burst of creativity, and then some.

2006-04-17T12:43:00.001+05:30

Unto greater Gods

Amid the teeming crowds,

I look not, for a face, a sign

I have gathered in mind’s eye

A semblance of what may never be.

The balance will always vacillate

Neither willing, nor caring enough

But when he comes dangerously close

I‘ll eject myself toward the luring void.

Beset by hope, assaulted by the ego,

Having no choice but to stand it all,

Be able to reverse the path of the word,

I will not weep, for in truth, I will not have seen.

Rewind , Play.

So that,

When I do muster the courage to leave

It won’t kill you.

So that,

When we realize forever is not forever,

You can be at peace.

So that,

When you or I bicker, cheaply,

We can laugh a while later.

And I want what I can have now,

What I can feel, touch and caress now.

If this moment, this very one,

Can be captured and pasted in all of my worlds

This is how I’m happy,

This. And no past, or present or future beckons.

A fleeting moment is my life’s preparation,

Pitch and toss is my game of choice

Stall my breath for more than an instant

And I shall be at your feet gasping;

Why then, would it interest you, what ‘morrow brings?

Tomorrow will be another today.

Hold my hand, now. Kiss my breath, now.

Give me my time, my time is now.

And outside this force-field, oblivion.

Things I can't resist making fun of: Sharad Pawar makes a public statement as the head of JD(S) saying "People may say anything, I still thing Deve Gowda was the best PM of India."

Female friends of mine who have boyfriends. They're a riot. All giggly all the time, and hooked to the slightest vibration of their cellphones.

Once upon a time there was a tavern....

2006-04-17T12:43:00.000+05:30

I must get around to doing a full reading of the Bhagwad Gita sometime. I read sections; and the one time I read it without stopping was from the Amar Chitra Katha. From a blue Krishna’s speech bubbles. Oh well, I was 12 then.

The reason I wanted to read the BG was this revelation (I wouldn’t call it revelation actually, reminder more like) that came to me the other day when Mysore witnessed a huge downpour. Torrential rain, and beautiful, beautiful, and as Koze would say, Byoodafool.

I had to keep my moped inside which was parked beneath a tree opposite my house; so I went out to bring it in; but I got hesitant. Here I must give you a bit of trivia, I have never been one who is scared of the rain. I love the rain, penned poetry about it too – so there I was, rain lover, hesitant.

That hit me like a brick in between two eyes. Why on earth was I scared of going out into the rain? That I would dirty myself? Shame for one who used to jump in the puddles and play in the mud.

That I would slip and hurt myself? Pity for one who is so accident prone it could happen even as I’m on this chair. Point being, when it can happen anytime, there’s no point fretting or worrying about it.

That I would be struck by lightning? (I really thought about this too) Dumb. Not because it’s not possible; it is by all means. But because there’s a slim chance of it happening, and it isn’t predictable – so again, no point at all worrying about it.

I have become too careful. I watch my words, cautious enough to use the righteous and diplomatic terms. Not with my friends, acquaintances.

I have become sort of a sell-out. When and why do we start saying things we don’t mean to please other people? When was the last time I knew that what I was saying was exactly what I meant? ( I have the answer to that, actually. Last night with Ze Stick when I told her she wouldn’t score well in CET at this rate)

Ah yes; the revelation/reminder.

A while ago – I was quite a different person. I was dreamy, slow in some of my reflexes, and quite innocent. Most times I like that person more. Sure, now I deal with people better, now I’m more capable in terms of delivering, working. Now I’m more of everyone else. Then, I liked me. Not many people did, not many people understood it (not sure I did either) – but it was nice being muddled up, brunt of ‘fatso’ jokes, better than most at Math, trying to be good and failing miserably at it. Heh.

Then, I was more connected with nature. Now, I’m more connected with people. I think you can tell which alliance was more appreciated. Once I aggrandized my materialistic wants, my spiritual side, whatever there was of it, was piqued. (I checked – pique is to offend) And all the while, I felt I was doing right, humankind is superiormost I believed. And we cower, we hide, we fear nature.

That’s why I wanted to read the BG; it has something about relinquishing your exterior, and transcending this world and attaining a state of spiritual harmony, which I believe strengthens your connection with nature. No, I’m not talking about moksha, I’m not talking penance, renunciation. I mean, going back to then, when we knew ourselves, and we were afraid of limiting ourselves, selling ourselves out for gain.

Then I would dance in the rain, I would play with the neighbourhood dog and bother about cooties only just before dinner.

Then, I didn’t want love, of course, I knew I’d be happy if and when I got it.

Then, I cried more easily.

Now, people that know me; know me. It’s not too hard, I ain’t good at hiding.
Now, I worry about being struck by lightning and other arbit shit.
I worry, like it’s a pastime.

I want, nay, I have asked for love sometime in the past.

I cringe when I cry.

Oh well, I was 12 then.

We ruin everything by growing up, don’t we?

What makes luna tick?

2006-03-29T15:43:00.000+05:30

# This thing I saw on TeeVee,
Rani Mukherjee, in her attempt to kick off a bollywood dictionary - thinks Chevrolet is 'mindblasting'.
I thought self righteous suicide was restricted to Chop Suey.

# A tryst with the Law.
Not the law school kind. A different kind. Would like to go into the nuances, but as soon as I put my mind to typing, my fingers get cramps and simply refuse to do so.
So the gist. Sister and I, wild mood, Dad is at granny's place - we leave mom alone at home and take the car out at 1:45 A.M, pick up her friend even, and go around ring road until about 2:30 and then stop at a place. Put on some music and chit-chat. Battery gets low, beat gurkhas come by - enquire. We try starting the car, but it won't. They find it suspicious - notify the police, who come by as well. They talk to us, freak us out completely, and raise thick, bushy eyebrows at two attractive (a-hem!) (I assure you, even in person, you would not disagree) girls with guy. To top it all, friend of sister's gets brilliant idea of not sticking to truth but making up obscure story. So we do. And get caught in our own web. Tension is cuttable with knife. Time: 3:00 A.M. Finally, after a whole lotta pleading, and of course, the truth (which I was resolute on telling from the start, but somewhere around that time, the cat got my tongue) big burly police guy gets our car starting and escorts us home.
Major and heavy emotion abound at home. I feel rather stupid about myself.
Good memory to talk about on lonely fridays with old friends over a cuppa joe.

#Three movies over two days during twelfth boards
Rumor has it - Three words. No not 'Rumor has it', 'Don't watch it'.
Don't ever. In fact, i'll even spoil it for you. Girl suspicious of her roots, goes in hunt of her real father, who, turns out has slept with her mother and gramma. She sleeps with him too.
Yecch.
Oh, by the by, thankfully, he's not her real father. He can't have kids.
15 Park Avenue - Made me wonder when movies began being thought-provoking again. A refreshing change from the candy-floss crap populating the silver screen. A depressing feel of course. But poignant, and I find Konkona Sensharma's acting particularly commendable. Real movie. Very, very real. Which is why the closing is suspended abruptly. From what I made of it, the end was brilliant. But you go watch it, if you haven't.
By the way, little geography tid-bits from the movie - Park Avenue's in NY city, Palm Avenue's in Kol, Park Road is in Kol.
The Accused - Jodie Foster, good actress. Caught eye while surfing because of court scene. Good one again. About gang rape and stuff.

# Blogging during Boards!

eugh. So, I was tagged

2006-03-10T00:15:00.001+05:30

aargh. i've been tagged. aargh. Pika, one day, one day i'll get you.

here goes my list:
oh btw, i won't be able to tag 8 people. the number of people that visit my blog is usually >1 but <2.>
1: It's a HE. In moments of drunken stupor, it could also be a she. But those are just some moments.
2: He should be very intelligent. Someone that knows, is aware, and can knock the socks off stupid jerks with just his words.
3: He should be passionate. His choice of work, even his hobbies. Passion invokes a kind of caring. Plus, goes without saying, he should be passionate about me.
4: Should love me for who I am (yada, yada) what I do, I should be very, very, very comfortable in my skin around him. We should be great, if not best, buddies.
5: Wear spectacles. (That is such an amazing turn-on for me) Must smell good. And have this awwwwesome voice. (That's turn-on no.2)
6: Loves travelling, music, must be a voracious reader, an excellent debator, someone that can defeat me, but please oh please not too easily. (Don't be surprised if i end up with someone in Law School on these very accounts)
Good dancer, interest in drama and playing a music instrument is a huuuge plus point.
7: Should keep me in splits. That's the only way to deal with a sourpuss like me. Just the right amount of humour, and cocky silliness is an adorable mix.
8: Freedom. That's what we both should hopelessly believe in. And trust, care, love, beauty follows.

Did i miss anything? Doubt it.
Oh, this wouldn't be a criterion, but no harm asking for a good kisser, non?

Rules:
Rules of the game are …
1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. Need to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on their comments saying they’ve been tagged
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there’s no need to post again.

wokay, monk, if you're reading this, do it.
Pika, you've already done it.
arka, you're not reading this are you?
B'lore guy: not too interested? I won't force you.
Ooh, yes Vikas and Starrgazerr - do take the time.

and february made me shiver...

2006-03-06T21:43:00.000+05:30

That's a picture of my first ciggie. I tried it on my birthday, b'day post can be traced back to February 12th.
It was stupid, and fuzzy and horrible. I don't wanna do it again. At least for a long time.
Today, went out with Nick and got drunk, on a beer.
It was nice, I let go for once, y'know? Nick is one person I can trust totally. We actually came close to doing something couply twice. Once near the golf course, and once on the way back, on a deserted road where he (a-hem) got down to pee.
Not that we're attracted to each other or anything. Just that we were both being silly, and silly felt like the way to go. OH, btw, the reason I went out and got drunk was to celebrate my entry into NUJS!!!
I got the 23rd rank, but not officially, 28th serial number on the list. I got the eleventh highest score, 125 on 180.
The Boy called and told me. Oh, if i haven't notified my blogpals yet, boy and I are talking. Like things are hunky-dory. Not relationship hunky-dory, but friend hunky-dory.
So, today's happy day for me.
I'm feeling all light and breezy. So don't expect feeling or sense from me.
I'm just soooo ummm...
had Tropicana's guava juice, and even cheese chilly toast at P-X.
Getting fat. But still so light.
Blithe spirit.
Fly forever, bad girl.

Diary of a young girl

2006-02-21T22:42:00.000+05:30

My preps were alright, although, I had started at 5:00 P.M and had stretched it upto 12:00 A.M in the night, (obviously which enormously leisurely breaks in the middle) which was when I decided 7 hours is too long for about 14 experiments. But even then I hadn’t got it firmly in my head, I couldn’t relate to the picture of the apparatus in my head the stuff I was reading about.
I stayed up till 2:00 A.M. doing this and that, and then went on the net (again). I’m telling you, this is addiction, if anything is.
I languished for about 40 mins, eM’d got a tattoo, inkblot’d written many love songs – some of which are so, so poignant; if I was still bitter about the past, I’d be crying buckets now.
Anyway, I finally got around to sleeping at 3:00 A.M, and I wasn’t anxious about waking up, for I’d had a pretty relaxed day and was well fed and rested. I had my physics final laboratory exam at 9:00 A.M, which gave me about 3-4 hours of sleep.
I asked my sister to wake me up, and blissfully dreamt away.

7:03 A.M
Dad: You’re supposed to have an exam today aren’t you? What’re you still doing in bed?
Me: (wrapping the sheets a little closer round myself) yeah, Aisha said she’ll wake me up. Leave me alone

***Blurry dreams***

8:35 A.M
Mom: What time is your exam Nia? (Nia: her nick for me)
Me: It’s at 9, lemme be. I didn’t sleep well last night.
Mom: (sharp gasp) What? Its 8:40!
Me: What the..? (And I could just stop myself from saying the f--- word)

***Blurry reality***

8:55 A.M

I got sis to drop me, I was a bloody wreck by the time I got to college.
I did a bit of pretentious, shoddy revision, y’know, the kind where nothing really goes into your head, but it seems to calm your psyche a little?

9:15 A.M
Teacher: You picked the tangent galvanometer, go over to table 3.

9:45 A.M
Thankfully, this was one experiment I’d actually enjoyed working, so I knew it pretty well. I had the formulae, the procedure, the circuit diagram and the tabular columns all drawn up and ready.
I got it checked by the external examiner who gave me a glance and asked me to write neatly.
I trudged back to my table to make the circuit connections and perform the experiment, and in five minutes I began to black out, and come back.
My white knuckles held on to the bar below the table for dear support; I was shaking, sweating, inexplicable things were happening to me. I shut my eyes for one long minute, and held the coil of the T.G in my hands to align the pointer needle.
And I fell on it. No typo. I fell on the coil.

The EE was standing nearby, and he got the lab attendant to sit me down, and give me some water. I actually thought the bottle of water was heavy! By this time I was sweating profusely, and getting the faintly feeling. It’s this thing when you feel sleep is so overpowering you just cannot care about anything else. I just wanted to curl up and snore right there.
The EE told me to take my time and be calm, he told me not to worry or get too tensed. I yawned at him.
In my head, I was teetering between telling the teacher I just wanted to go home, or doing the experiment and heroically triumphing at it. The egotist in me finally took the latter option.
So after about 10 minutes of sitting, drinking water, and watching other people do their experiments and look over their shoulders at me from time to time, I stood up to turn on the switch and record the ammeter readings.
I felt the barf rise up from my stomach. I desperately looked around for a sink, found one, ran to it, and threw up massively. I threw up for 2 minutes straight. The lone chocolate I’d had the night before seemed to have made its exeunt. I hadn’t eaten anything since 2:00 the previous night.
But puking made all the difference. I felt much better, cleaner (don’t ask how), and fitter. Less faintly. I got the logarithm table, did my experiment, recorded the values, and got some fuckall value I didn’t even care to verify.
I submitted my paper, barely had the energy to walk down the stairs even. I met this girl I’d once bought lunch for. I went up to her and asked her to take me home, no questions nothing. Not even a hi.
She did take me home (Bless her!)
And I dragged my feet to my room, flopped down on the bed, and slept for an hour.

Since then, I’ve been doing nothing but talk about it; right now I’m typing it. And I’m getting people to do stuff for me for pauvre moi is sick.
Me (with bambi eyes): I wanted the Appy fizz if you’re going toward the supermarket…

Bam! A bottle of Appy fizz in the fridge!

Me: Can you get me some ice-cream? I’ve been feeling a little woozy, I think I need to cool my system (whatever that means!)

(Well, that’s pending. Sis isn’t back home yet. But I’m so gonna get it)

Parting shot: Turns out the value I got was right. So I rock! But not so much, my habits suck.