Ud ja re kaga

This is a song on Lata Mangeshkar's Meera Bhajans album - Chala Vahi Des. The only song I must have listened to more than a couple thousand times.
It's so heartrendingly beautiful.

Why I don't write anymore.

Well, I just don't.

It had been ages that I had even come by here. And then, I realized I have exams in a few days. So, I needed a silly adventure I can indulge myself in so that I can later on blame this exercise for the debacle that will surely be the exams. Like, in my tenth standard prelims, I wished I wished I would get a mysterious illness so I would be pardoned even if I did not top. Talk of magic realism, I did get the illness. Bad rashes all over the body. But what I had not thought of earlier was the possibility of being poked on both buttocks continuously for three days. Pain in the ass, bleddy.

During the prelims in first PUC, I did the same thing. Wished for an illness. I hated I PUC. It was probably the most depressing thing I have ever put myself through. What classmates I had, what a positively horrible college that was! I made no friends there, bar a couple really awesome ones. But then, that's not the point. During that time, I had been to Delhi to perform at a show (which by the way, was most disastrous. I took the wrong pitch, forgot the lyrics, misled the actors, monster's headgear fell off, he was small boy, everybody laughed, sword of foam snapped in two, the other's sword was mysteriously lost, everybody laughed, big story, not relevant) after which I had to give my prelims. On my way back in the train, I had the Kunti urge to wish for things again. It was probably the Sun god again that heard me. Traveling second class in Karnataka Express is a pain in the ass beyond all pains in the ass I know of. (Including the one I mentioned above.) Shining down on us as he was, making barbecue of us, he heard me, after all. Voila. Bad rashes all over the body. But no pain in the ass this time! Thus, those exams were escaped.

Now another exam beckons. And my explanation is that this blog, piece of my heart, apple of my eye, essence of my existence was wilting, and that I had resuscitate it with Wilt Whatman-esque flair. Wait, was he Walt Whitman? Whatever.

So here I am, writing without thinking. Setting myself a target of nonsensical writing. Filling it with whatever happens around me right now. The computer hums. Te modem shines orange. The ACT button on it flickers indicating something is downloading. Oh yes, that is true. Fuck you, Adobe updater. It pisses me off this thing. Nonsensical downloading. I don't need no updates, no. All I need is for some state head to die. How I wish Rajkumar was alive. Another abduction. Another two weeks of bliss. I liked Rajkumar. Kannada Rakshana Vedike zindabad! Sa Ra Govindu, you are superhero! I even watched your film, promise. You were awesome. But one thing though, why were you romancing your daughter throughout the film. Okay, don't kill me. Vataal, you are of course my superhero. The vigor with which you shake the house is something I would pay to watch. Khunnada Thhaayiya mukkhhalu nhaavu. Ooh.

Among other things, Solzhenitsyn is completely cool dude. Going by the name, that is. Also, Sholokhov. Who reads them all? The hair on the back of my hands has not grown in a while. I like Phoebe Buffay. In fact, I love her. You know, these rotating chairs are tricky. I once sat on my bed with my legs propped on this rotating chair. It rotated and rotated away, taking my feet with it, and then dragged me off my bed, and I landed with a thud on the floor. My right bum is sore, which is why I sit and type like a dog pees on a pole. Lopsided. Anyways.

There were some PJ's I read. I like them. Do you? So, here is a sample. The mail doing the rounds is called PJ World. It would be fun to live in.

Kalidas ka ek bhai joote banaata hain, uska naam kya hain?
Adidas! Harr harr harr.

What is the plural of Shah Rukh Khan?
ICICI. Main hoon na, hum hain na. Wow! So much coolness. Bleddy I was this close to cracking, when my eyes by mistake saw the answer. So I will snap them shut. And type.
egg ggjL Hooki .
Okay, doesn't work.

I like funny people. Do you?
I like Borat. He is coolness itself, or himself. Or whatever. Whoever.

I think my blog is resuscitated. Now I will go and study why the dude with a leukemia can't survive for too long, and how the bloody cells fuck the body up. Oh, the pun on the bloody was way too unintentional.
(Or so I will have you believe)
(Ha Ha, I am so cool)
(I remember I once wrote a poem-
The hazards of being a genius,
everything you say is believed to be serious)
(Call me cool and intelligent okay. Bye)

Bye.
Blog resuscitated.

Now I can go and pee.

Of cavernous spaces and sweet nothings

Oh well.

Rant (or, Why)

Why is it that we expect acknowledgement from even those that do not matter to us; the people that do not feature prominently and more often than not, not at all, on our radar?
Is it innate insecurity?
Is it a sense of low self-worth?
Or, are we just conditioned to be attention seeking?

I do not play cricket; but i would rather have my name picked out during team selection than not at all.
I cannot sing; but i would rather be considered for a place in the last line of the choir than not at all.

Do we really need someone else, how much ever insignificant(to us), to show us our place on the ladder? And should we work ourselves up when placed at a rung far lower than we thought fit for ourselves; alternately, should we consider it vindication if that someone else mirrored our own idea of ourselves?

Sultry afternoons are not for me.

Kill.

Exams is evil.
(Not necessarily necessary)

Exams wears black.
And has a hood.
A sick-le too, most times.

Its friends are evil. Too.
They have excellent distant vision.
1/6.
(Or somesuch)

I want to kill Exams.
With Murphy.
No, no. We dont collaborate on morbid adventures,
I want to kill Exams.
And, i want to kill Murphy.

Thats all.
Okay.
Bye.

Blank.

He stared.
Stared at the whiteness that was his vision.
As if his surroundings understood him and responded to him their own way, the speakers blared a song that suited his mood.
Mera jeevan kora kaagaz,
kora hi rah gaya

He sniggered at how diaphanous his routine, his lines, his mannerisms had become.
Living in Bombay could do that.
Living and loving Bombay; long enough and strong enough.

Now every time he saw a real life situation unfold in the most normal RKN-esque way, he correlated it with a movie situation and imagined background music.(Violins, prominently)
When he was in Bangalore, a place he still called home, he would think of a book that presented a situation such as it. He liked to believe he was a displaced bhadralok.

He believed himself to be too many things.
He believed it was possible to stand out.
He believed newer cities meant newer possibilities.
He believed possibilities meant no roadblocks.
He believed.
Not so anymore.

Hours had passed since he was staring out the window. He loved windows, metaphorical and otherwise. The horizon that looked all white was now glimmering.
A faint orange.
The clouds seemed to take in the hue too.
The sun was almost to set, but left indelible faint orange tint where he was to dip.
A light, soothing orange.
Tangerine, that was the colour.

The horizon that had since remained blank ushered in a catamaran, swaying but holding strong.
Netting many fish, and possibly not.
Possibilities.

It looked a pretty picture.

No Gloomy Sunday this.

Started as it did with bouts of phlegm-evacuating exercises, one would have expected the rest of the day to be as phlegmatic. Life, Calvin says, is full of surprises, but never when you need one. Prophetic. For, i did not WISH for a surprise and voila, there it was in store, gift wrapped in pretty red.

Sorority of sorts organised a programme that proved to be more than rewarding; progenitors paid a surprise visit. Man, woman and child enjoyed quiet day out, cut off from the heat and tension, quite literally so, for nestled we were, under long, accomodating bamboo shoots. Unplanned picnic in a park that had not seen our shadows for an exact dozen years. Very nice. Very nostalgic.

The walk from Minsk square to Chinnaswamy is a most delightful one. Gentle autumn breeze knocks at your chest, enough to make you snuggle up to yourself. As you walk, the brick colored steeples of St Andrew's lie in stark contrast against a lone flowering tree on the road. Like Buson once said,

Spring is nearly gone
So now this old cherry tree
decides to bloom.

Bangalore, i tell you, is for the romantics.(which perhaps explains, why the above lines read very insipid)

Now, on to Strand book fair which, i reiterate is a farce. The upto 80% off tag holds good for books depicting earthworm cooking, Vietnamese tribe style. In other words, don't go. Unless of course, you have a deadline to spend a certain amount of money and the world's all destroyed, save Chinnaswamy stadium. Then, run.
Lizard-self could not help but peer down others' bookbaskets, only to be thoroughly disappointed with the piling Coelhos, Sheldons and Archers. No judgement; but why?

People with money,
lots of it, buy ugly books.
Lament of the day.

Visit to another bookshop blossomed into four more books. So, yay! A quickbite at the quintessential grab-a-bite place (literally so, for the waiting customers glare down, grab and bite you if you took any longer nibbling) later, the ideal post-apertif!

Paan, Banarasi shtyle!

Bhaat do they say?
Purrfektt.

All it takes for a
good day to end well is, but,
a better night's sleep.