Manducabulla

Moving day

2008-11-07T23:26:00.000+05:30

Hello to all! This blog has now moved. Please click here to visit.

My nemesis

2008-10-23T20:28:00.002+05:30

I deplore parents who treat their children unkindly. In addition to it being cruel, it also results in producing a man who is sadistic, bitter and deeply unhappy. This is a story of one such being. Perhaps if he hadn’t been as starved as he was as a child, he wouldn’t aim to cause so much pain and misery to the scores of innocents whom he claims to help.

This man practices an age old form of discrete torture. The sinister people of his kind meet and discuss various forms of causing the human body intense pain. They also arrived at the conclusion that Man, in general, is a pretty dumb species. The kind that can be tricked into believing that flab is bad, that sushi is fish, and that Yoga is good for you.

Perhaps I should take you through a daily routine to disenchant you from the belief that it makes you fit and flexible. It doesn’t. The term “a pain in the butt” was solely invented for this purpose. Speaking of soles, they can hurt too, by the time he is done with you.

To begin with, he insists that we should begin at an unearthly hour, when the cock is still snoring away. In some parts of the world, you could be beaten to death with a salmon for waking people up at that time of the day. I am currently applying for a visa to that part of the world. It is a mild disadvantage that they also occasionally eat you up, but that is a price I am willing to pay for an extra hour of sleep.

I’ve never been particularly flexible. Fit, yes, but if someone asked me to swing from a bar during the gym period at school, I’d just hang there and wait for someone to let me down again. I was also quite bad at biology since you had to remember complicated names that had too many k’s in them. It is a testimony to my terrible decision making ability that I managed to choose the one form of exercise that requires extreme levels of flexibility as well as a good memory. It takes about fifteen seconds to say the name of a position, and it takes thirty for me since I have to scratch my head and smile benignly till he says it for me.

He then proceeds to make you kick your legs and twist your hips so that you end up in a position that I am quite positive God never meant for you to achieve when he created you. He also smirks several times, and the smirk turns into an obvious grin when your face twitches in pain. Then he asks you to raise your legs and raise your arms and generally resemble such non living items such as a dining table, a chair, a pair of tweezers and the like. He enjoys demonstrating how hopelessly inflexible you are by tucking his legs beneath his arms and rolling around on the carpet, though why someone would consciously want to resemble a bowling ball is beyond me.

The classes are useful in a way. I have realized that even if the exercise isn’t helping me, the sheer threat of blinding pain keeps me away from that plate of fries and that extra helping of rice. Because trust me, nothing is worth the table position.

Terror

2008-09-16T21:19:00.000+05:30

The grenades soar over invisible borders
The arrows will strike, the heads will roll
They know not of the paradox they create
They weaken the limbs, they strengthen the soul

Their thoughts follow no thread of reason
They know not their cause, and neither do we
They charge ahead, burning with vengeance
Injustice, a vehicle for brutality

History, not learnt from but used instead
As seeds to sow irrepressible pain
In the young and restless minds that will
Repeat mankind’s mistakes once again

Of what use is religion, or the path of God
If they head in the opposite route, steadfast
In their belief that the world must be cleansed
His name on their lips, murder in their hearts

Seamstress

2008-06-06T20:24:00.000+05:30

I weave a web of fairy tales
The temptress paints a fantasy
Whims dance gaily like little nymphs
Beckoning reality

The nimble needle deftly moves
Seamlessly, through satin sheen
When within a fold, she stops
In or out or in between?

Two colours gently intertwine
Hues if a song are melody
Merrily they spiral around
Taut, in balanced harmony

They move through thick and thin by turns
A lilting echo in their wake
Enticing steps, a charming tune
I hope the thread will never break

Come hither

2008-04-30T19:32:00.002+05:30

Do come and watch the show!

18 until today

2008-04-03T20:44:00.001+05:30

I found it hard to believe that I became an adult, the whole of last year. Now I find it completely preposterous that this year is my last one as a teenager. I’m still seventeen in my head. I’m still not accountable. I’m still a child.

I still love a heart shaped black forest cake on my birthday. I’m not old enough to be embarrassed by the number of candles on the cake. I still have friends who think that spraying someone purple and dumping cake on their head, while making them wear a ridiculous(and secretly loved) blue party hat on the aforementioned head is an important birthday ritual. I still enjoy being fussed over, and being asked “Who is the birthday girrrrrl?” so that I can answer “ME” with a big grin on my face. And I still refer to people who are on the other side of 20 as “grown ups”.

I wish Peter Pan would appear right about now at my windowsill and offer to take me away to Neverland. I wonder if I’m going to still retain that part of me that loves calling people “a monkeys’ backside” five years from now. I think I will, I think I will.

Here is to everyone who wished me, and everyone who didn’t (hint), and everyone who made my day so special. It was the best birthday ever!

Men are from...who the hell knows?!

2007-12-19T22:19:00.000+05:30

He: So, I cut my hair!
Me: Aaaaargh! Why? Why?! It isn't even summer!
He: Whats your problem? You were the one running around a month back hollering "I want to cut my hair!"

Men. They trudge around with crew cuts and baggy jeans, shirts that should be worn by someone half their size, or double, wearing enough perfume for eight horses and three cows, or smelling like eight horses and three cows.

They either know something about fashion but just can't remember what the capital of India is, or they're incredibly smart and wear pants that show off their underwear.

Why am i allowed to cut my hair and you're not? Let me tell you.

1. Women hardly cut their hair so that it is above their ears.

2. Our haircuts normally cost more that fifty rupees(including the head massage).

3. The person who cuts our hair is not a fifty five year old man who has just been yelled at by his perpetually nagging wife for forgetting to buy the groceries, and has a gigantic pair of scissors in his hand.

4. We never fall asleep in the beauty parlour.

5. We don't think brylcream is the solution to all our problems.

6. We don't try looking like prison inmates.

7. We dont think bald is cool.

8. We wash our hair more than once a month.

Of course, there our some exceptions to that last rule in the race of men. The ones who love green apple shampoo and loreal conditioner. But then, you, my friend, have much more to worry about than just fashion.

I thought, therefore...

2007-12-02T22:00:00.000+05:30

Not just black and white. So many shades of grey.

I was talking to someone who I spent most of my childhood with. We drifted apart in what were probably our most defining years, and when I look at us now, it seems almost impossible that we started out from the same place.

I’ve been through a constant process of assimilation, discarding, defending. I know she has too. It is simply that we took different turns. At a lot of points apparently.

That’s not a bad thing. Or good. It is just different. Just that.

It is difficult to walk away from something without classifying it as right or wrong. Good or bad. Black or white. I have a tough time doing that.

And yet, those movies with the good cops, the bad thugs, and that damsel in distress don’t work for us anymore do they? Whatever happened to the traitor? The damsel learning kung fu? The villain winning because he was smarter?

Isn’t that what makes it so much more interesting?

And that is what I want. Plenty of shades of grey in between. And perhaps that streak of red running right through it all. I’m not talking about throwing caution to the wind. But allowing the wind to turn me in different directions, so that I can see all around.

I hope to never come out of that process. I hope to constantly meet people who will shatter my convictions, or turn me in new directions, or strengthen my belief in my own. I don’t ever want to be so blinded by enlightenment, that I lose my ability to grasp any other idea.

Popping out to say cuckoo

2007-11-17T22:42:00.000+05:30

Its easier to write
In verse I realise
The poetic license helps

A black poodle yelps

Like the nude emperor
You o foolish courtier
Will think this makes sense

A white picket fence

And now because I’ve stated
So blatantly, you shall rate it
Ridiculous beyond compare

Is a unicorn a mare?

Your hope for my redemption
Depends on the assumption
Marbles are still inside

A merry yuletide!

So shake your head and walk
Or perhaps stay and mock
While I dance my little jig

Oh and figue is french for fig!

To a faded friend

2007-11-10T19:29:00.000+05:30

Did you know we would look at each other one day, and not be able to recognise what was important about the other? Or perhaps remember, but not care so much anymore?

I care. For one thing, because I hate change. I hated it when my mother changed her spectacles when I was in the eighth, I hated moving to a new house even though I was getting my own room, and I hate this.

But more than change, you meant a lot to me, at some point in my life. Id rather you disappeared after that, if things werent going to be the same. Atleast then, I neednt watch the steady deterioration. Of you in my mind, and perhaps of me in yours.

I don’t wear rose coloured glasses, and I don’t live in a world of perpetual sunshine. But I know this. If someone is important to you, and their position in your life is important too, you don’t let go so easily.

I don’t care anymore. But that is because I didn’t have any other choice.

My kingdom for inspiration

2007-10-01T19:03:00.000+05:30

I find myself unable
To pen a decent line
The words they come
But disappear
Before I make them mine

Unfinished beginnings
Are now quite abundant
A phrase I choose
Will soon become
Invariably redundant

The rhyming scheme I follow
Does not stick to my norm
I would prefer
A b c b, but now
That aint the form

And so a traitor to the art
Bows her head in shame
And writes instead
Of lost talent
That she once used to claim

Betty bought some butter

2007-08-27T21:57:00.000+05:30

It was the morning after my night of resolutions. Every two months or so, I introspect, find my life devoid of meaning, and realise that the secret to a healthy existence, is learning to make candlesticks, or ravioli.

Amma always has her fight face on everytime I enter the kitchen with a determined look on my face. She’s the kind of person who has this little black book where she jots down all your previous misdeeds so she’ll never forget. And there aren’t so many really. There was the time I blew up the mixie, but that was my sisters’ fault for not supervising a kid. And then there was the time we melted chocolate on the stove and it had to be professionally cleaned...ok, so its not exactly a little black book.

My skills in the kitchen are limited to an excellent malai kofta curry, and a delicious chocolate sponge cake. But that, I maintain, is only because I haven’t tried making anything else. And like any other obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, I am confident that anything I want to do, will be a piece of cake. Or in todays case, an omelette.

Being the obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, it is obviously highly frustrating when people try telling me what to do. Whatever happened to creativity and experimentation? And why should I follow kitchen rules, when noone listens to mine? I have quite a few actually. Like cookie dough must be sampled by dipping fingers into the bowl before baking, pretty aprons must be worn, and under no circumstances is the cook supposed to clean up once the dish is done.

Amma is sort of unreasonable that way. She doesn’t respect artistic temperament at all. Creative minds can’t focus on one thing for too long, there are statistics somewhere on wikipedia to prove that. And even if you aren’t remotely imaginative, how are you supposed to remain interested in an egg for more than 15 minutes?

This was no ordinary egg I was dealing with though. If I lived in a cartoon, this would be the egg with the closely knit eyebrows and the red slits for eyes.

Needless to say, my efforts resulted in something which did taste like an omelette, even if it didn’t look like it. Perhaps with a little less salt that usual.

I think the capsicum pieces were supposed to be in the omelette too.

Amma said she wasn’t feeling too hungry.

Abstractness

2007-08-26T19:03:00.000+05:30

Forgiving and forgetting, that was all she was doing lately. Inking in stubs of memories into her existence, mulling over what ifs that would at times overwhelm her. She looked at her reflection, running her fingers through her freshly washed hair, as memories danced in and out of her eyes.

Dwelling on the past was dangerous. Weren't there enough poems written by the sad and wise? Enough cliched quotes she had read in her lifetime?

Perfection had seemed such an amiable concept when she was younger. The blind confidence that everything would fall into place, that she would get exactly what she wanted one day, perhaps with a bit of a struggle in between.

But that would be too simple, wouldn't it?

Thoughts were getting entangled, yet she knew there was just one thread she needed to find that would smoothen it out. It was all about will power in the end. And that was something she needed to depend only on herself for.

She smiled as she penned it down.

"The secret to happiness was discovered on a warm Tuesday afternoon, in a room filled with old sports equipment and posters of classic rock artists."

Entirely fictional

Blur

2007-08-17T19:34:00.000+05:30

I’m in the midst of confusion, but there is this profound sense of calm. Like I am watching as an outsider while I’m sitting right in the middle.

The thing that gets to me about people is that what we say and what we mean are almost always completely different. And sometimes, I get so tired. Because most of the time, I can figure out what people really want to say, and once in a while, you’d rather immerse yourself in blissful ignorance.

Familiar routines

2007-07-28T11:06:00.000+05:30

College started a month back, and I still haven't attended a full week yet. I am eternally grateful to Anna University for their new "85% attendance is good enough" rule.

It feels funny to be in the second year, I've become so used to avoiding places where groups of seniors congregate, and now suddenly it doesn't matter. Cannot believe it has been a year, that in less than a month we're not gonna be the "juniors" anymore.

Have suddenly been challenged to a series of tt matches, after an innocent game when the apparent champion lost *shudder* to a girl.

Results came out last week, and I'm happy with the 86.3. It doesn't seem to make a difference with the profs though. Not with dragonlady around, but a whole post needs to be dedicated to this unique individual.

Have been moping around because everyones leaving. Dumb sister left for dumb New York last week, and yes even though we mail each other 20 times a day, I'm still mad at her for going away. Am hoping to see her in London this December, but that depends upon my benevolent Dad(he reads this blog you know)

Read the last harry potter book twice. Stood in line at 5:30 in the morning, something that is not outrageous if you are a true fan.

Made my own breakfast today, but oo thats too good a story to be given away as a tidbit.

Coming soon, "The attack of the springy omelette"

My favourite thing

2007-07-17T20:55:00.000+05:30

The rain kisses my lips and all at once, time becomes inconsequential. The leaves are greener, the earth smells fresh, the steady patter and the gushing winds form that delicious melody that makes my heart skip and my feet tingle, as I throw open windows and sing rainy day songs, and I forget. About non waterproof watches and umbrellas in my bag. Of dripping on the carpet or ruining good shoes. It is simply me, and my glorious rain.

So much that is done, so much to do

2007-06-23T21:12:00.000+05:30

The trip was awesome. What trip do you ask? I got back only in the beginning of this week after a vacation that lasted almost a month. And it was, in very unintellectual terms, "kickass".

I don't want to delve into details now because I hope to put up my travel notes online, a resolution I declare in public so that my butt feels too guilty to just sit around doing nothing. Speaking of travel notes, I shall also strive to put up my European vacation entries, something I am quite proud of. They are long overdue, but I did misplace that beautiful diary, which remained lost for a considerable amount of time, but I have found it, and I solemnly promise to hope to be optimistic enough that I will not lose interest like I did with my Bharatnatyam classes, yoga, and the violin, and will put it up.

Otherwise this week has been a mishmash of warm days on the beach playing football, plenty of movies I've forced friends to watch twice, bowling, go karting and pool. Obviously, I now request those with a benevolent heart to hand out money for...well...poor little me, and I'm being completely literal.

I have read quite a few good books this summer. "Ignorance" by Milan Kundera, "Dispatches from the edge" by Anderson Cooper, "The bookseller of Kabul" by Asne Seierstad, and almost but not quite "Longitudes and attitudes" by Thomas Friedman. Am currently devouring "The kite runner" by Khaled Hosseini. Very excited about my gift vouchers from Landmark!

I cant end this without mentioning the gorgeous weather, and even if you feel inclined to disagree thanks to your undoubted pigheadedness, I'm quite positive it is due to my arrival.

The Gods are not crazy.

A wee bit o celebration

2007-05-03T17:36:00.000+05:30

It has been a whole year since I started this blog, and I pat myself on the back for frequently making a fool of myself so that I have something to write about(That is the ONLY reason I sometimes look like a goofball, ye ignorant curs).

I would like to thank my ardent fans(yes, both of you), my old laptop that taught me to try again and again, no matter how many times it would conk, my mother who is my constant source of tea, without which hyperness would be impossible, and my sister, for teaching me that no matter how crazy I appear to be, there is someone in the world more insane than I am.

Thank you Amsterdam, goodnight!

Update on life

2007-04-17T11:52:00.000+05:30

Sister becomes slightly crazy and kicks phone from table while in the middle of a tribal dance of sorts.
Mom's temporarily borrowed phone has aggravating smiley screensaver.
People stare weirdly at a cuckoo 18 year old in the neighbourhood talking to herself as she is walking and threatening to pour water on phone if it doesnt stop leering.
Phone is fixed and all things are bright and beautiful once again.
Downed three cups of tea and proceeded to sing opera songs to friend calling long distance.
Choreographed new "plumbing" dance after being the only person in my batch to get it for the university practical exam.
Classmates threaten to pour water on my smiling face if I dont stop "acting like a baboon", and I sadly realise the irony of life.

Verse

2007-04-14T14:23:00.000+05:30

I seek no shelter from grey clouds that carpet skies above
I ask for no compassion from eyes filled with tears and love
I am not afraid of terrific rain that threatens to pour
I will cherish each blessed ray, and then search for more
Till I soar, bleak lands below, above the heavy cloud
And the space I begged for, is everywhere around
Will I then forget the tough sacrifices made
Perhaps I will, perhaps, I'll give it all away

My "pome"

2007-03-27T19:10:00.000+05:30

I traversed a great distance to be here today
So it hurt tremendously to hear the voice say
All that I thought will be, will not
My hopes, my plans, to the ground have been brought

You needn't have asked me to believe and trust
Only to turn all my dreams to dust
I sit here imprisoned, without any chains
So much I could say, but I'm forced to refrain

Bitter and angry, I hope not to become
Or drown my sorrows in a bottle of rum
Perhaps it was written above in the stars
That it would be cancelled, my chem practicals class.

WORLD THEATRE DAY CELEBRATIONS

2007-03-21T16:48:00.000+05:30

MASQUERADE
presents

THUS SPAKE SHOORPANAKHA SO SAID SHAKUNI
by Poile Sengupta

a play the delves into the past....
to connect to the present...

What have Shoorpanakha and Shakuni got to do with love and global terrorism?
Should we hate a woman because she wants love?
Should we isolate a man because he wants revenge?
ALL this and more... intense but humorous

FIND OUT...
March 23 (7pm), 24 (7.30 pm), 25 (4.00 & 7.30 pm) & 27, 2007
at TOP STOREY, Alliance Francaise

Directed by Krishna Kumar
in the cast - Amit Singh, Gayathri Sreedharan, Shyam Rajagopalan, Prateeksha C & Neeraja

Boarding Passes - Rs. 100/-
available at all Landmark outlets, Alliance Francaise (2827 9803)
or call 93802 86129 / 98411 17773 for direct booking

====================================
As our ancestors said, Tathaastu - So Be It !!!
=====================================

Peace. Please!

2007-03-12T20:55:00.000+05:30

Nature, it is said, is supposed to fill our hearts with joy. It echoes the rhythm of our heartbeat and the music in our souls. It also gives you a throbbing headache, at 7 on a Sunday, especially when you study in a college which is 40 kms away and have to get up at 6 on weekdays, when this soon-to-be-extinct bird comes and sits in the AC vent and begins making the following noise - mmmmmm. mmmmm mmmmm mmmmmmm. To elaborate, it isn't a hum and it isn't a coo. It is a combination of a sharp nail scraping a blackboard and a man trying to say "sarcophagus" in his dying breath.

But yes, i respect nature, so I decide to adjust, and sleep instead in the late evening, hoping to catch an hours rest. Now my watchman has decided, that being our trusty guardian, he needs to prove his worth to us. And to show us that he is not sleeping, he will hit anything he sees with this nice long stout soon-to-be-broken-in-half wooden stick. Again. And again. And yet again. He hits pillars and floors, babies and dogs, but with all due respect to his ear for melody, he does it all in the same monotonous brain crunching note.

And so I decide, being the flexible creature I am, to sleep in the bus. I normally rest my head on the shoulder of my obliging and comfortably short friend, and am just dozing off when she decides to hum. And the humming, thanks to the hollowness of her bones, echoes loudly in my ear, and I am forced to wake up, and growl till she swears never to sing again.

I am now going to lock myself in my room. I am going to stuff cotton in my ears, switch off my phone, close all the windows, switch on the AC and lie in bed. Dare you disturb me, and you shall be renamed soon-to-be-killed-by-a-raging-red-eyed-minor.

It better be, a good night.

If.

2007-03-02T22:10:00.000+05:30

“You see each of us as a brain, an athlete, a basketcase, a princess and a criminal
But you see, each of us is a brain, an athlete, a basketcase, a princess and a criminal”
-The Breakfast club

How long do you need to be with someone before you can truly say that you know them? A few weeks? Perhaps a few months? And what if fifty years later, you realize that there is a side of them you never knew. Do you feel deceived? Or intrigued?

Letting someone into your beautiful world isn’t easy. It isn’t just about sharing your dreams, and your taste in music. It is about allowing them to discover you, and wanting to know more. Memories that they cherish, ideas that they nurture in the dusty corners of their minds, the few little quirks that make them human, the few traits that make them unique, the passion that drives them, the inhibitions that deter them.

If you knew that the word “gooseberries” can kindle the strongest and sweetest memories of my childhood, if you knew that I sniff around for the smell of the musty old chair and soon as I enter my grandmothers’ home, because it reminds me of the house I grew up in, if you knew that I don’t mind having anything on my desk, as long as it is arranged in neat piles, if you knew that I go berserk if anyone brushes their teeth in front of me, if you knew that Moonface and Silky still hold a magical place in my heart, if you knew that I will always cherish the world “Little Men” lent me, if you knew all this, could you say you know me?

And if you didn’t, could you say it made a difference?

Presenting FOOLS , a rib-tickling comedy play!

2007-02-08T23:10:00.000+05:30

The spelling is Soumya :)

Come and watch!

A thanksgiving of sorts.

2007-01-26T23:32:00.000+05:30

To old friends, for always remaining the same, and being there whenever you need them.

To new friends, for listening, and for wanting to know.

To pink post-its, for giving me a natural high.

To my sister, for always being honest.

To hutch, for teaching me the concept of economising.

To tandoori wala, for the best chicken tikka in the world.

A (re)view to remember

2007-01-05T21:50:00.000+05:30

I asked my friend Paddy for a review on "The Guardian", which he watched a few days ago. Now I've read lots of intensely analytical reviews, sharp critical reviews, and yet, this one, for some reason, seems to top them all.

"It was about US guards jumping out of helicopters saving people and stuff. And then there is this dude who is like semma range coast guard who retires and goes to a military school to teach other budding coast guards. And then there are more ships sinking and people jumping from helicopters and stuff. Lots of water also, and waves. And rain too. Wet movie in other words."

Dress codes-the bad and the ugly

2006-12-25T16:16:00.000+05:30

Read this

Incoherence

2006-12-04T21:02:00.000+05:30

I prefer golden green apples to red ones. I'm not sure why, they both taste pretty much the same. Its not an important enough thought to kindle my curiousity, so I leave it as it is. An unanswered question.

Quite a few of my questions end up that way. Sometime someone I know will voice a question that I once dismissed, and I'll think that it's heartening to know there are others like me, feeling perhaps a sense of comradeship. But we aren't really the same are we? She asked, I didn't.

I saw my baby nephew a few days back. He's turning out to be a very cute kid, and I'm not going to see him growing up, because he's leaving for Australia in less than a week. I've never really been in close proximity with a baby for a long duration of time. I wonder sometimes how I'd have been as an elder sister. Considering the fact that most people around me act like 2 year olds, I'm confident enough that I'd have done a pretty decent job. But I wouldn't be the same as I am now would I? Ah well, another unanswered question.

I feel like I've changed in the past three months. I promised myself in the beginning of college that I wouldn't. Now I see, change isn't really a bad thing. I've been promising myself that I won't change since I was 8. I think I meant I won't forget. That I wouldn't open my diary one day and not be able to understand the person I was then.

I like perusing old diaries. Initially, I used to write about the menu for the day, and why exactly "lime rice" is my most unfavourite dish in the world. And then in the middle somwehere, I used to religiously write down the happenings of the day. A pretty boring read, I assure you. Nowadays, its hardly a diary. More like a collection of thoughts, incoherent to anyone but me.

As is this post.

Need for speed

2006-10-20T20:42:00.001+05:30

It has been two months since I started college. And believe me, each morning is a new adventure. Literally. Our bus driver is Schumis cousin twice removed, and even though the man doesn’t have the blonde hair or the charming smile, he more than makes up for it when it comes to pushing the pedal.

A man with a mission, to get us to college on time. And so dedicated is he, that it is quite understandable that he forgets the mild requirement of actually picking us up once in a while. Our college cultural committee ought to applaud him for teaching us the Mexican hat dance, which is the only thing he will stop for, if it is enthusiastically performed in the middle of the road by a minimum of five people.

No diets or gym memberships are required when this man is around. The sight of atleast four people chasing the bus in the evenings gets him into a good mood for the rest of the trip. If he’s really happy, we are thrown up to the ceiling by 5 speed-breakers. If he’s in a horrible mood, its 15. It’s just an added bonus if someone is drinking Miranda at that point.

But mind you, his talents are not limited simply to the mundane task of driving. It is sad indeed, that the Mozart of this century hasn’t been discovered. Even with the barest minimum number of instruments at his side, he still manages to create a glorious..um…admirable…er…loud symphony with his beautiful horn.( I assure you, several plans were hatched to remove it during the first two weeks, but we weren’t too sure if the red wire was for the horn or the brake)

And who doesn’t love that personal touch that makes the world seem so much cozier? I do so enjoy the attention I get as I approach the bus, and he announces to all the other drivers, ”Oy kozhandhapaapa varaa, thalliko thalliko”.

We are lucky indeed to have found someone so dedicated to his cause and so enthusiastic in carrying out his duties. Raise your glasses, and let us toast. To our beloved driver of route 14, may he race in peace.

Of travels and travails

2006-10-04T19:50:00.000+05:30

The last time I flew on a plane alone, I was in the 9th grade, returning from my Uncles place in Dubai, and had an air-hostess looking after me throughout. This time, I was on my way to meet my sister in Ahmedabad, and actually had to find my OWN way around the airport. And would you believe it, I didn’t lose my luggage, didn’t land up in Timbuktu, and didn’t even trip or fall despite an extremely slippery floor at the airport. Little Soumya is all grown up, sniff!

Well…not quite. (In my defense, I had finished my book, I was hyper, and under no adult supervision) My neighbour on the plane was a nice polite blue eyed German, who was talking animatedly with his wife about Indian cuisine, and the attention to detail with respect to the flight food on Jet Airways. The tray had some brown mucky stuff, some yellow mucky stuff, and a vadai. Mister Blue Eyes was raving about the brown mucky stuff, just as I pushed it away from my plate. From the corner of my eye, I saw him doing the same thing. I took the yellow mucky stuff and mixed it with chutney. He, I realized, was doing precisely the same. Fascinated, I sliced my vadai like a bun, spread tomato chutney on it with a knife, threw some brown muck, some yellow muck, and some butter on it, and in a delightfully choreographed maneuver, ate it with a spoon and a fork. He beamed at me, I smiled encouragingly, and he proceeded to slice, spread, throw and eat. Now before you judge me, let me remind you of all those times you’ve sat in a Chinese restaurant with your chopsticks on the floor for the third time, while the Chinese couple sitting adjacent to you have expertly finished ther noodles and are giving you haughty stares. In fact, the more I think about it, I am increasingly sure that when I finally do travel in China, I’ll find them all using forks and grinning guiltily at me. I just wanted to know what kind of sadistic pleasure they derive with their chopsticks. So consider what I did as an analysis of human nature, and not a cuckoo-ish nuthead clowning around.

I did tell my sister the story, as soon as I reached. I think she began to think of excuses to lock me up in the hostel room when she wasn’t around. But I got the support of her friends soon enough. I realized quickly that the secret to bonding with them was to generously peddle embarrassing childhood stories about my beloved sibling. Worked like a charm.

The first thing we all did was go to a Garbha. And I loved it. It feels good to know that I can finally dance an Indian dance without looking like a drunken gorilla. You can have two left feet, but you still manage to look graceful as long as you twirl and clap every 30 seconds. Plus, it is highly probable that you aren’t the worst dancer there, simply because of the humongous number of people present, and hey, who doesn’t love the occasional ego boost right?

I was also given an official tour of the campus. Which is gorgeous. I was completely taken in by the huge open spaces, the lawns, the trees, and the red brick buildings that made the entire place seem like a palace.

I had the mess ka breakfast, and mess ka dinner a few times, and it wasn’t bad at all (Due to lack of proficiency in Hindi and the necessity to prove that 5 days in Ahmedabad has had SOME effect on me, you will henceforth find a few kas, kis, kays and thows scattered here and there) We went out for kay a Gujarati thali lunch thow on one of the days, and it was marvelous. We had “kanvi” and “passey” and kithow “dokla” and lots of other yum kikow dishes, the names kaki of which I can’t kaykay remember, but it was all delicious. I think I’ve displayed enough of my Hindi speaking skills to last quite a while, so I’ll stop now.

I also witnessed their traditional birthday celebrations, which involves smearing hot pink cake on the birthday boy, throwing him up to the ceiling, and almost but not quite bashing him against a wall. Sophisticated I know, and hilarious to watch too.

So far, I think hostel life is awesome fun. But then again, I got to enjoy all the perks without having to open a book throughout, so that MIGHT have influenced my opinion in a teeny tiny way.

I have learnt

1. If you are a boy about to be engaged to a very pretty girl, stay away from other girls who WILL want to pinch your cheeks every three and a half minutes.
2. A hostelite will have to accept Maggi as a staple food sooner or later
3. Sleeping before 4:30 in the morning WILL be frowned upon

I really had a fantastic time. I loved being able to spend so much time with my sister, I loved the LAN (bid a tearful farewell to it), I liked her friends a lot, and now the next time she mentions “Cole” or “Sebi” or “Nautanki” or “Kaushik”(his nick cannot be used as this is a PG rated blog), a solid face will pop into my head, and not just some hazy description.

Heres to WIMWI!

Bulletin board

2006-09-23T09:45:00.000+05:30

1. Am going to Ahmedabad on Wednesday and back on Monday. YIPPEE!! Am going to try dancing there, so I warn anyone with a sensitive heart condition or high blood pressure to stay at home. Staying with my sister, the first time both of us are away from home, together, and in the same place all alone, so fire stations ought to be on alert.

2. A month of college is officially over. Yes I've been ragged, and all those who rejoice will have their toes cut off. I got up at 5:30 the first week, 5:45 the second, and am now used to waking up at 6:00 and getting to the bus stop with my shoes half undone. It is an achievement that i haven't made the bus wait for me yet(prompt-appluause)

3. I have done a few collegey things so far, mass bunked a class, had a spoon of the canteen biryani, had the lime juice there too (which I had to "serve with a smile". For the confused, look up point no 2), and have bravely walked all the way to the MCA block and had mango ice cream.

4. I have also cut my hair, though unfortunately noone seems to have noticed so far(HINT)

Hardly realise the weeks going by, hardly any time to think, hardly time to write full sentences, or think up other ways to say "hardly". Oo rarely! Mind, gibberish, flowing, crankiness, will stop, now.

A sole vacation

2006-08-28T21:49:00.000+05:30

Have you ever started something, and watched it take you over so completely that you can't understand where it ends and you begin? I started this blog on a funny note, hoping to showcase the comedy in my life. Now my life has become a regular slapstick routine, just so that I'll have something to write about.

I never really experiment with shoes. I keep one pair of floaters for years together, until one can hardly recognise that the threads constitute a shoe. I don't really wear heels either, not because I find the idea repulsive, but simply because I'm too much of a klutz to be allowed 10 feet near them, let alone two(hyuk hyuk get it?)

Yet once in a while, you simply HAVE to experiment. After all, the biggest risk in life is not to take any risks. Filled with inspiration, and the powerful urge to cross boundaries never attempted by...um...myself, I did it ladies and gentlemen. I wore shoes during my European vacation.

They were really marvellous that first week. I smiled benevolently at my blue striped black Adidas shoes, taking pride in its squeak, weeping tears of joy when it did a successful "kreeech" on the marble floor. This of course earned them, and through those dear shoes, me, admiring gazes from my neighbours, who I assure you didn't find the noise the least bit grating on their nerves. That was the first week.
Towards the second, the shoelaces decided to rebel against my authority. No amount of chiding, scolding, or bribery with squelchy mud patches did any good. They simply refused to cooperate, and I trudged along unhappily, waiting for peace. And suddenly, one day, there was silence. Not a lace twitched, or tried to trip me over. Blissfully, I walked along, and it began to rain. My romantic mind assumed the sky was shedding tears of joy at the idyllic state of affairs below, and I really did expect flowers to fall any minute. Thats when I heard "flap, flap, flap". Wondering if the sanctity of the situation really required white doves to grace the heavens above, I looked up eagerly, only to realise that the sound was in fact coming from quite the opposite direction. The sole of my right shoe had decided to perform independently, and while it constituted a rich musical sound, it was completely and permanently distracted from its original purpose. I flapped dismally all the way to the shoe store nearby, and a sneaky voice nudged me softly, showing the silver lining of my dark cloud. I was going to get nice new sneakers, probably Nike by the looks of the store. A smile lit up my face, and I pranced in joyfully. We found brown shoes, black shoes, grey shoes, a great many shoes that would fill any soul(pun unintended) with glee. Yet, as my life always seems to be more than happy to point out, for every balloon there are 8745678 needles. Thanks to the abnormal tininess of my feet(which in no way reflects the size of my brain, so any jokes WILL be resented) there were no shoes my size. It was either one that was two sizes too big, or my flap shoes, which had decided to progress and now alternated between a thud and a flap.

I miserably bought the giant shoes, and stuffed them with tissue paper to keep them out of trouble, for the last day of my vacation.

Coming back home, I kissed me dear floaters in joy. The next day was a play, the last show of the theatre festival. For those of you who have lived in hotels and trains for two and a half weeks, wearing the same old clothes, rushing out every single morning after barely combing your hair, you will understand the need to grab any opportunity to "dress up" that presents itself. Feeling that the occasion was special indeed, I decided to move on undeterred in my fight to make my life more interesting, and wore a pair of strappy beautiful heels.

Three guesses to what happened right before the play.

1. Did Soumya go through the evening in an uneventful manner with no mishaps whatsoever?
2. Did Soumya receive many compliments on her exceptional grace and carriage?
3. Did Soumyas' heel tear off so that she limped with one shoe with a heel, and one that just managed to keep her foot from direct contact with the ground, so that she begged the world around her to inform ant curious onlookers that she fractured her big toe while saving a lame puppy from a lorry?

You better have missed me

2006-08-16T13:46:00.000+05:30

Bring out the confetti cos I'm back I'm back!

To those ignorant things who did not realise I was missing, I've been in Europe for the past two and a half weeks and to those who are interested, I had a BLAST. This blog will soon be graced with posts about everything I did, but for now, I will respond to a tag, just to keep this blog from dying.

Once you've been tagged, you have to write a blog entry with five complete lies about yourself. That is, five things about you that are completely not true. Not even slightly. THEN hide in the entry a 6th line, something that is absolutely TRUE and the first person to guess which one is true wins

Six things about me that are completely untrue

1. Never get angry
2. Am very coordinated and graceful and never trip, fall, or wear my clothes inside out
3. My nose does not wiggle when I'm upset
4. Hardly smile
5. Hate bananas
6. Addicted to coffee

And now for something completely different

2006-07-17T12:10:00.000+05:30

Evam performed its latest play, "Python Hysteria 2- The Sequel", this sunday. And it was a smash hit. We rolled about in out seats, watching the best of Monty Python performed by an enthusiastic cast, that managed to keep the audience in fits of laughter from start to finish.

Its hard to decide which sketch I enjoyed the most.Was it the blancmanje UFO sighting, where the poor witness had to describe what he saw in a high pitch to the first attendant, a deep low voice to the second, and finally, a high speed ramble to the third. Or was it "The Producer", where six young writers struggle to keep up with a crackpot producer(Karthik Srinivasan), whose entire script revolves around a tree. Sunil as the chartered accountant who dreams of being a lion tamer for ant eaters was hilarious, and KK in a pink toga as Michelangelo produced the traditional slapping of the thighs in riotous laughter.

The only thing I could find wrong with the entire production, was that it ended too soon. Caps off.

Baby blues

2006-07-03T10:53:00.000+05:30

I was woken up yesterday by a three foot thing, jumping up and down on my tummy, and politely informed that I was a boat, the bed the sea, and the sole purpose of my creation, to throw my passenger off.

Six year olds can be quite a handful, with a few exceptions of course. Me, I was an angel in disguise, simply indulging in the occasional breaking of the mixie and throwing idlis under the table to make sure I didn't blow my cover. Born toilet trained too, in case you were wondering. And no, O cynical readers who roll their eyes, I didn't start discussing the pros and cons of a capitalistic society at the age of one. It took me a few more months to grasp the entire concept.

Now, with cut throat competition, the survival of the fittest, and all that jazz, babies these days find themselves under tremendous pressure, and so, obiously, they're a little jealous of my accomplishments. Which is why they poop as soon as I pick them up(And if you are one of those annoying people who goo goo them, they'll promptly drool all over your favourite shirt). Having learnt my valuable lesson, I am now goo goo reformed. Though to be honest, intellectual conversation doesn't really work. It doesn't even put them to sleep, like it would for any normal adult. They just look at you like you belong on a diaper, until you feel awfully insecure and begin reevaluating your entire life goals.

Funny faces do the trick though. You can make fish faces, act like an angry bear, and in drastic conditions, resort to pulling your lips apart in an attempt to be a platypus. Though as they grow up, you have to reinforce the fact that under no circumstances are you to be referred to as "platypoo"

In fact, while we are on the subject, you should never let two or more hang out with each other for more than an hour, because after exchanging the general how do you dos and the weather is a little peaky today, they are more often than not plotting the destruction of humanity, or twenty ways to make platypoos' face turn purple.

Yet, inspite of all of that, you tend to forget the injustice meted out to you when they gurgle their gurgles, and squish themselves on you, and you can smell that baby smell, and cuddle them and watch them laugh and clap their hands, and go awww...googooo.

Oh shoot!

The first review

2006-06-26T20:10:00.000+05:30

Sniff...honnnkk...here comes the first ever serious post.(Those who whistle get a cookie)

I saw "The cut of Hamlet", an evam production this weekend. The first half had a cast loaded with potential, but the script by itself was a little strange. Sure, it had its funny moments, but after a while, all I was doing was waiting for the occasional joke so that I could guffaw in relief.

The second half was a spoof on Hamlet, and with the traditional Evam trio, started out looking quite promising. They definitely had our attention, and the script was clever. But it was like the comedian before Pink Floyd, only the band never turned up. They seemed to be heading in the pantomime direction, but after all the interaction with the audience during the first half, the magic didnt really work. I do remember laughing quite a bit, but repeating the same performance three(i think) times kinda wore the audience out.

All in all, it was a decent enough spoof, but nothing extraordinary about it. A far throw from their usual productions. Oh well, you gotta have variety right.

Say Cheese!

2006-06-07T12:37:00.000+05:30

After months of careful research, and preening in front of mirrors at one in the morning, I have finally come to the conclusion that anyone with a camera in their hand, detests me.

They're nice enough as long as the camera is 10 feet away, but the moment the equipment touches their fingers, evil spirits take over, and they find themselves, through no fault of their own, compelled to click JUST as you raise your hand to scratch your nose, JUST as you blink, and JUST in that fraction of a second when you change your smile, so that the result looks like you're trying to wink with your mouth.

As you can see, you're always at a disadvantage. But then again, there are those few blessed souls who never find the need to scratch themselves, or apparently, blink. These are the ones who write books like "How to say cheese in a way to please". And while I'm sure they keep your best interests at heart, their recommendations in fact, aren't worth tuppence.

For example, they ask you to count to 3 and open your eyes, flashing a dazzling smile at the cameraman. The probability of you opening your eyes exactly at the moment the photographer clicks is 0.00151. The probability that he hasnt changed the position of the camera while you were closing your eyes dreaming about the wonderful picture you were going to have taken, is 0.00154. Basically, the probability of this rule working is equal to the probability of a one eyed rhino named Stevie being able to dance.

You CAN practice in front of a mirror, which SEEMS to be a very good idea. But the problem here is that when you're finally having your picture taken, you DONT have a mirror in front of you. So you're actually smiling what you ASSUME is a heart melter, when you might actually look like the newest addition to the Adams family.

I'm not one to sight problems without giving solutions. No siree that simply isn't my style. So here it is, all you unphotogenic people out there. The next time someone brings a camera near you...

DUCK.

Beep

2006-05-20T22:09:00.000+05:30

People can piss you off sometimes. Like if they make a really bad joke, and then explain it to you, assuming that you’re not doubled up in laughter simply because you’re too stupid to GET the joke. Or if they pick fights with you just because they're bored, or irritate you to watch your face turn purple in rage.

At times like these, you have this incredible urge to lash out, to pour out a string of words that aren’t normally used in civilised conversation. And yes, it’s a wonderful technique to calm yourself down, because by this time, your opponent has turned violet and is getting geared up to fire back.

Yet more often that not, you land up in trouble, probably because of the appalling nature of the words you have carefully chosen to initiate the endless fight. Due to my desire to maintain a family rating on this blog, I shall refrain from mentioning the words you normally use. Instead, I present to you the perfect solution to all your problems.

Monkey bum.

No, a monkeys bum is not the solution. Perhaps I should be a tad more clear.

You have to admit that when you first saw “monkey bum” on the screen, you were inclined to go “pfft, who are you to talk porcupine nose!”. But in fact, I have a very nice nose. Its small, and proper, and...wait, I’m drifting. Where were we?

So, the trick with insults such as these is to make them really ridiculous. For those who don’t have the imagination to come up with anything particularly irritating, here is a simple method.

Take up a random animal, and add a funny body part to it.

Voila, you have..

Armadillo eyelashes
Anteaters nostril hair
Zebras toenails
Frogs belly

Of course, if you’re afraid that you might be considered a little too immature by your peers(bah! coward!) theres always the less radical translation approach. For this, you need to have some grasp of the Tamil language.

You can call a really tall person “coconut tree”. Or an idiot a “woodhead” or a “mangohead”. Basically, you’re translating common abusive phrases used in tamil into english, though if you’re going to call an idiot “woodhead”, you’ll probably have to explain the insult to him, which might spoil the entire purpose of insulting him in the first place.

But hey, you get the idea. And the possibilities are endless! So go on, get out there and do some serious beeping.

Money money money, must be funny

2006-05-11T22:04:00.000+05:30

I woke up yesterday with this incredible urge to change something. The problem was that I didn’t really know WHAT I wanted to change, but frivolous details like that couldn’t deter me as I went about trying to come up with a plan.

Biting my lip and looking around the room, careful to avoid the untidy pile of books in the corner in case my conscience felt like pricking me into cleaning it up, I saw my desk, and thats when inspiration struck.

I got my own room only a year back, and before that, being the younger kid, I never really had a say as far as decoration was concerned. Which basically means the only thing I got to decide was how the books would be arranged in my cupboard.

But now, I realised that even though I COULD do exactly as I pleased, I hadnt really exercised that option yet. A vase full of gorgeous flowers in a corner of the desk sounded quite appealing, so grabbing my wallet, I pranced happily to the florists.

Beaming at the man there, I asked for daisies, and orchids, and red roses. The initial smile that he had plastered on his face slowly washed off, as he tried to imagine the hideousness of my request. But I take pride in my ability to cheer people up, because that fake smile came right back on as he handed me the bill. This time, it was MY turn to carry out the wash off routine.

Me:A 100 bucks???! Isn’t that a little too much for a few flowers?

Fake Smiler: No, Paapa, it’s the orchids. They are very expensive

Me:(A little stiffly now, and trying to sound older) Um...ok. So leave 3 and take away the rest.

Fake smiler: Its Rs. 80 now. There are too many roses

Me:(Scowling visibly now)Sigh...fine. So give me as many as you can for 40.

I came back home with a sad little bunch of daisies, and a woebegone look on my face. The condescending world out there has no heart for a poor 17 year old.

Sigh..next time, I’m buying potpourri.

I remember, I remember

2006-05-04T23:37:00.000+05:30

Yes, I know its probably because I'm neither here nor there right now, that my mind is flooded with memories of school days. Perhaps its the fact that I am stepping into the unknown, and I'm trying desperately to hold on to something, anything, thats familiar.

Whatever it is, I hope a good healthy swig of reminiscence does the trick, so here goes.

We've had our share of clowns in our class. You know the type don't you? I'm referring to the ones who will insist that they are intrigued by that essay competition entitled "My Daddy is the Best", and will make you stand in front of the board for 15 minutes, screeching bloody murder if you try to rub it off.

They're also a part of the "hyuk hyuk" gang. This is a close knit group that comes up with jokes that make you want to rip off your hand just so that you'll have something to throw at them.

To quote a few memorable ones(courtesy of paddy)
Q. Why is steady current holy?
A. It is st. eddy current

Q. Why is a current carrying conductor expensive?
A. It comes with a BIL

The voice of our class was Bk, a guy who gets a thrill out of bellowing notes from Pradeeps, while the class politely requests that he please fall off a bulding, or have the book stuffed down his throat.

Timepass for our class? Hand tennis of course! Jumping over desks, and sometimes even people, as we rushed to the back, to fiercely fight for our turns, leaving a few poor souls the job of 'watchman'. Scrambling back to our places the minute a warning was shouted, and cursing and planning grotesque deaths for the sadistic smart alecs who'd give false alarms.

DumbC matches, feeding the other team names like "Shakespeare and Frankensteins High School reunion" and "Lactocalamine lotion", which to their credit they did successfully act out, even if they didn't realise that we made them up.

The Annual Day, the culturals, a lot of hard work, a lot of mishaps, but both turned out to be pretty darn good in the end.

I'm left wondering how the time flew by so quickly. It seems like I entered our 11th classroom for the first time just yesterday, and now its all over.

But hey, thanks for the memories.

And what do you know?! I do feel better now.

You've got me spinning

2006-05-02T12:07:00.000+05:30

Have you noticed how its only when you have something really important, that simply HAS to be done, that you come up with the most bizarre ways of wasting your time? But the bizarreness of your bizarre idea doesnt really strike you till you're midway through the task, and you suddenly find yourself in front of the stove melting wax, or on the floor spinning bangles, counting the seconds for which the heavier bangle spins. And thats just when someone walks into the room, and while u watch the bangle tinkle to a stop, feeling their eyes bore into your neck, you shake your head thoughtfully, and say "Sigh, it all ends one day".

No? You've never done that?

...

Um me neither! I was just checking thats all!