Mowing Grass

A after a long spell of interminable prose now we have worse- verse.(Heh heh, I couldn't resist).

Iron Blades flatten
Life
Into rows of unrelieved
Flatness.
The Fruits of a struggle:
Of weeks, of months,
Of Eternities-
Cut down in an act
Of Brutal Order.

The scent of fresh, green
Blood
Wafted in the golden morning breeze.
Over the roar of the barbaric beast,
Came the cry of dying dreams;
Answered by hollow echoes
As life was sliced,
Ripped,torn-
Ground into a dull,briny mash.

The Others watch unmoved.
Doing nothing to stop the ruin.
"This must done."
"Order must be maintained"
What does it matter,
If all is Crushed and Killed.

The heartless blades continue
To rip and chew and spit out
Verdant carcasses
With burping satisfaction.
The soft tender stalks
Buckle and snap
Under the weight
Of cold oppression-
The beacon of Order.

Now all that remains
Is a field of flat sameness
Of broken spirits,
Lost ideals,squashed creativity...
Congratulations!
Order has been achieved!
The cost?
Only a few lives,
A few hopes
A few dreams...
The Greater Good has been achieved!
And after all,
Don't we all serve order?

Beauty-fool

Back in the days when my mother had hopes for turning me into a beauty, we used to have lovely back-and-forths on the virtues of slathering the face with a variety of unidentified gooey objects. The major contention was gettin it applied. Seriously, how can you expect a healthy..er..hyperactive twelve year old to sit still for something as silly as a face pack? Of course once it was done, my brother and I had great times enacting monster attacks( no points for guessing who the monster was.)
Perhaps it's because of this traiing that face paint never bothered me. Niether did having to go on stage as a monster. Hmm...

Ah well, moving on- my mother's efforts slackened in between the school years, probably because she couldn't get her hands on me long enough. I thought I'd seen the end of it.But I was much mistaken. I left home to college with two containers of beauty powders pressed into a nook in my stuffed box. I admit I did apply them for a few days. I didn't have much of a choice- I used to be "reminded" to do it everyday. When the phone bills intervened, the reminding stopped, but then there was the guilt factor. So i kept at it for a while. Human nature saved me from falling into the clutches of beauty- plain laziness put an end to my beauty treatments.

The days turned to months, the months into years. The skin tanned, the hair mussed, but I continued uninterested. That is until the NoseRing Girl intervened. NRG is a babe of the first order. And she takes it as a personal offence to find someone not interested in personal grooming. Pretty soon I had to listen to blistering set downs for standing in the sun, not using cream, bla bla bla (Sorry NRG). And it's not just NRG. The aunties and uncles, not to mention cousins (traitors!), joined in. Every college break was punctuated with comments on the lines of- "Oh you used to be so fair! What happened?" or "Your hair!!..(shocked, tactful silence)". Still the human spirit in all it's resillience refused to be converted. I remained a slob. After a while the "advice" began to die down. They had finally given up at the sight of my unrepentantly unpretty face.

Or so I thought.

I return home for the brief space before the race restarts-A few weeks of relaxation while the rest of the family slogs (hah hah hah!). I get woken up in the morning by a mother who in the middle of rushing to work remembers to tell me- "Oh and put that thing on your face alright, it's good for your skin."

And here I sit in front of the computer looking like something from some B grade alien movie. Life has a distinctly ironic way of saying things never change.

The Phantom limb

It's only when your friends start talking about their families that you realise how much you miss yours. You'll be talking about your mothers amazing food, your brothers sense of humor, about how your father keeps maintaining he isn't artistic at all and then makes terracotta sculptures just because he got started;and then it'll happen. Dishkyawn! Like a sledgehammer out of the blue. Of course you'll cover it up immediately. Crack a mokkai joke to get you through. But the bruise still remains there- you don't even know where, but it's there.

People who undergo amputations talk about phantom limbs- the ghost of the limb that used to be there. The limb aches, itches, twitches and never sleeps.

Here I am. Away from them all. In an environment which,logically,should distract me and help me get over the distance. But,defying logic,the phantom limb stretching over an ocean twinges and winces. And a tear falls down onto the family photo(the only one we took after months of nagging) still pristine and unbent among all the tattered notes and files. I curse myself and call myself a baby, and succumb to it-

"Hello Ma? Yeah I just called for no reason. How's everyone?..."

Sing...Sing sing..

A tingling at the back of your throat, a sudden rush of air into your lungs, a lightness in your head, a feeling like you are going to rise gently on your toes and soar upwards. And then, the sound.

The mechanics of singing is simply a burst of air shooting out through the larynx, creating a vibration of the vocal chords which is commonly known as voice/bellow/screech...whatever is appropriate. What goes unsaid is the absolute high that one gets when that rush of air flies euphorically out of your lungs.
Nothing but a silence or a song can express pure emotion. Which is probably why Tagore wrote "I would speak but words do not break into song." The laughter of love flowing out in the chords of a sublime sweetness,undefined. The cry of anguish crashing onto the ear straight from the heart- these ions and charges race across the universe, caught only in the golden threads of song or silence. And in todays noisome world, silences are lost in the din. The only hope is song.

When one sings full-throated with the sole intention of singing,there is a rush of adrenaline, the heart throbs like a river in full flood. And as each note rises into the air, bursting the glass orbs of silences, your spirit rises too higher and higher. Until, as the song closes, you are left breathless and flushed, streams of sweat beading down your face and a great sense of liberation. The feeling a child has after running at break neck speed down a meadow. It is pure, it is sweet and it is peace. It is an inexplicable happiness that comes fro release.

Every being on earth was meant to sing, to give voice. It was the Original Expression. The Note of connection. The ultimate expression where nothing is not understood and everybody is heard.

So sing.

Dr.Ames' Inventory of New Age Diseases-1

Diabetes Smellitus: Most individuals with an acute mania of the gastronomical variety generally suffer from this merciless menace. Symptoms include immediate sensation of weight gain following an inhalation of fragrances arising from any food item. Several patients suffering from this ailment express a feeling of "..growing fatter just by smelling it[the food]". This sensation is especially acute in the case of
a)the horizontally prolific in the company of permanently horizontally challenged individuals.
b)Individuals on a restrictive intake of sustenance-also called a 'diet' by some.
c)Foodies.

There is no cure.


Exama:This ailment is exclusive to the learning-class. It generally comprises of the rash of unstudied portions that erupt the day before the exams. Ancient Sha-moms advocate the absolutely improbable cure of prevention. Present day scenarios reveal an impossibility for the success of this option. the easiest way to tackle this problem is to scratch as much as you can and then place your faith in the higher powers. Several individuals have tried to tackle post-exama problems with chits of paper and communal chanting and sharing.Bribing the in-charge might help.

Free-mentia: This is a burgeoning epidemic today. The disease is mostly caused by the viruses sale-monella and offerillia- the breeding place of which is any area with retail tendencies.The general feature of this disease is the tendency to buy something for the simple reason that something else comes free with it. The utility and the necessity of the of the freebie is disregarded. This results in not only loss of the Green Financial Cells (GFC) but also in over crowding of living space. OR worse still, the giving and receiving of the freebies to unsuspecting masses.

Cure is a severe reduction of the supply of GFCs. Wearing blinders at shopping arenas would be an effective preventive measure.

Foot-in-Mouth Disease: Generally found in people with tongues longer than their thought processes, this disease is known to have wrecked several endeavors. It is difficult to ascertain exactly in what case this disease is most devastating. The un-complimenting compliment, the brash statement, the offensive joke are all just minor manifestations of this terrible menace. . The impact of this disease is generally pulse like- it ripples outward from the source.The curtailing of this is difficult as the occurrence is completely unpredictable (excepting in the case of known foot-in-mouthers). There is no definite prevention except keeping shut.

No-shoe-a: This ailment attacks at the worst of times and usually when there is no time. The characteristics of this disease involve the absconding of a single shoe from the pair or the pair itself. This results in mild hysteria and general rise in blood pressure; especially since-as mentioned before- this condition strikes when there is no time to spend searching. Scenarios include an important meeting, a movie etc. Causes of this include
a)"kicked off" footware.
b)clean up processes unknown to the owner of the footware.
c)sneaky room-mates/siblings.

The case becomes critical when the patient has only one pair of shoes.
Cure would require a substitute pair or handy fellow beings to borrow from.
A similar ailment is No-sock-ea. Substitute shoe with sock. This is a more virulent and common disease. The ailment is doubly painful in he case since the missing items are smaller and often, never turn up.

Further developments in the New Age medical field will be updated as and when the venerable doctor feels like it. Until then, good health and happiness to all!

In Defense of Informal / 'Bad' dressing

I have often been accused of having an... eccentric sense of dressing. Peers and parents find my apparel lacking in panache at an alarmingly regular basis. And this when-all modesty aside- I am not your average slob. In fact I'm often depressingly neat. Why then this constant antipathy towards my vetements? Faced with continuous persecution, hounding even, I have taken a decision. I'm the self appointed defense attorney trying to make a case for the much prosecuted Bad dressers and Bad dressing as a unit.

What is the general criteria for "good" dressing? And how can that criteria be general? Especially when what is great dressing for Aishwarya Rai is plain disaster for the normal. Good dressing is too volatile a concept to be a convention. Why,fur and bones are the epitome of good dressing among some tribals. What is good dressing but a pandering to reigning stereotypes of society and accepted norms. But I forget myself. This is a defense, not an offense.

The simplest synonym of 'well-dressed' is 'presentable'. And that usually means the individual is well covered, tastefully attired and the apparel carried off well.We are agreed. Then why, I ask, do people have a problem with others wearing something simple, practical and trend setting even, as your father's shirt?? It is large and roomy- therefore no questions on the covering issue. It has a panache of it's own that comes from complete comfort. And as for tasteful- I think we've already established that tastes differ. It's tasteful to the wearer, then what's the big deal.

Several esteemed members of the opposition mention the situation of interviews and important occasions. First the interview. As Pride And Prejudice (whose working title was 'First Impressions') tells us in no uncertain terms of the unreliability of first impressions I feel there is no need foe me to go on about that. I would like to add to the inimitable lady's thesis, though. Prospective employers must actually insist that their prospective employees appear in their most informal clothes. To use a general maxim of 'well-dressed'- Clothes reflect the personality of the wearer. In which case,companies-who perennially harp on personnel counseling and what not- could save several cheques by observing the employee at her/his most casual and 'worst' dressed(humph!). Next we come to the cousin issue of the same misconception. If the occasions are special themselves, there is no need for the individual to be pinned into something s/he doesn't and will not usually wear. The opposition brings out family clause at this juncture. Family special occasions, in my view, are the perfect example of the special occasion theory.And besides, your family would have seen you at your worst at several occasions. Who are the parents trying to fool by 'neatening' you up. A related topic is the finery and straight-jacketing expected from those attending marriages. First of all the attending of these functions itself gives rise to a gargantuan "WHY?". But that is beside the point. My contention is, when it isn't you who are getting married, then why in the world must you force yourself into uncomfortable silks and whatnots. In fact even it was you who were getting married, why the dress up? The greatest argument for the cause of 'bad dressing' is the comfort clause. As long as you are comfortable what does it matter whether you are well-dressed or "badly'-dressed? And it is a known fact that the latter definitely has an edge over the former on the comfort count.

In conclusion to this minor rant, I declare that 'bad' dressing is an assertion of self:to squash it would be to curtail a fundamental right.I declare that all those who bother about the 'bad dressing' of others, should take a crash course on "Minding your own business". I declare that 'bad dressing' is not bad at all. In fact being badly dressed is better than being well dressed.

Dear God(!)

Aged five I prayed that I'd have those wonderfully 'grown-up' glasses and look the consummate intellectual. Aged fifteen I cursed the day I got my glasses and screamed heavenwards, railing at God for placing me in this predicament.This is what God has to go through everyday! It's like that Cycle agarbathi ad, where the mum prays for one thing and her son for the binary opposite. Either way God ends up being the Villain.

Picture a day in the existence of God. There is no question of waking up, since there's no sleep.The droning prayers, more irritating than the most tenacious mosquito,remove any hopes for that. All you have to do is ensure the smooth running of the universe and all, no big deal. Oh and perform a few miracles here save a few souls there,act as guidance counselor to some X million people. Please note that this is excluding the animal and plant kingdom. And while all this is happening you'll also have to spend time answering prayers,getting cursed for answering them negatively, sometimes even when you answer postively. Oh and by the way half the world doesn't really believe in you and the other half is scared stiff of you. And practically no one tries to understand you. Hell,Nietzsche says you're dead.

It's a sad fate to be God.

And it's not just the work, it's the prayers themselves. They're just whines which sound even worse because the whiners are always in such a hurry to get it over with. Every time I hear the rosary being chanted, I feel sorry for Mary who has to listen to it all the time. Same goes for the mantras that are chanted in the temples or the muezzin's call. Half the time we don't even know what we are saying,but that doesn't make any difference.

And then there are the modes of praying . At some point of time, Swami Chinmayananda had said "Don't be a beggar in front of God". Hence,we- being masters of the fine print-demand. "I deserve to get this. Therefore you will give it to me!" And then there is the challenge mode. You bully God into answering your prayers."I did these,these,these good deeds," And then you cock a contemptuous eyebrow and ask, "What did You do?" The fuzzy logic is that God will feel defensive and answer your prayers. And of course there is the 'simple want' mode. "I'm very reasonable.All I want is half the world and everything of value in the other." The word 'reasonable' is supposed to lull God into answering the prayer positively without looking at it.

The truth is, man has created God in his image. And he(a pronoun of convenience) doesn't even get the little respect that we accord to a wily human.

At this point, I would like to send up a prayer for God to... whatever Other Power that we can create. Please help the Poor Dude. Life, the universe and everything are a thankless lot. And Dear God, I think you're doing an ok job, considering the circumstances. You do have one supporter;even if the supporter is only a diminutive thing with a big mouth. I'm rooting for You. :)

Tag along

So this is what a tag is? You have to write stuff about yourself which were already evident in your blog itself. Ah well,it is not for me to question the conventions of blogging. I bow my head in meek acquiescence.

First, the rules:
- Post the rules on your blog.
- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.(only?????!!!)
- Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

Ok here goes-
1.I LOVE, LUHHUHHUVE rain! Umberellas are for losers!

2.I hate tomatoes. (brack! Awful stuff)

3.I can't hit the broad side of a barn- absolutely no aim in life.

4.I know all the dialogues of Shrek 1, most of Shrek 2, and the only reason i don't know those of Shrek 3 is because I watched it in a hurry.

5.I have freakily small hands.

6.I squirt mayo/sauce/jam in smiley face patterns onto the bread.

With great difficulty I shall restrain myself at this juncture. I trust this satisfies?
:)

At the receiving End

It is always disconcerting to find out you've won something. Especially so when you don't really know what to make of it.

I found myself in this unfamiliar predicament this year.

I always thought receiving a prize was a simple enough thing. You go up to the sad,jobless soul who was entrapped into prize-distribution, shoot her/him a sympathetic smile, wave a bit at your parents if they made it and skidaddle off.

I couldn't have been more off the mark.

No sooner did i find myself in the alien position of receiver, than I was summoned to the NCC grouns and given brisk instructions and training. A several hundred of us were herded together into organised ranks. Stern visages scowled if we even sneezed. All that was missing was the crew cuts and the bugle call.
An intimidating lecturer of a military aspect inspected our regiments, and issued the following orders.

"Tomorrow you WILL assemble here during the fifth hour. You WILL NOT be late. You WILL stand in precise lines according to your roll call and you WILL not steer from the herd!You WILL take precisely ten minutes to walk on and off the stage. You WILL NOT trip. You WILL pose for a photo with the distributor. You WILL NOT speak.You WILL wear a sari for the program. You WILL NOT object. IS THAT CLEAR! "

Clicking heels-
"MA'AM YES MA'AM!"

And thus began The Rehearsal.

Unnerved by the harsh, clinical method of this madness, I turned to the learned Pyne- veteran Prize winner.
"Oh venerable Pyne! What is this? Why are we made to stand in this sweltering heat, moving like automatons to the words of unknown superiors? What wrong did we do? "

Pyne looked down at my sweat streaked,sun-burnt face and smiled with understanding wise eyes. "It is simple Ames," said Pyne, "you won."

Is this what we win when we win? We get an award- what does that give us? More rules to follow, more expectations to live up to. We get promoted- what do we gain? More superiors, harsher commands, a slow erosion of normalcy.

Wining is euphoric- it is a rush of blood to the head. It gives you a high like no opium does, it makes your heart swell with happiness. It is only when the high fades and you see the responsibilities that come with each victory, that you wonder why you asked for this. Wouldn't being a non-entity be easier?

Perhaps...

But I've always loved the rocky roads. They're more fun- especially when you yell "AAAAAAAA" over the extra bumpy parts. Right Gunther?:D

An Appetite For Desire

When was the last time she'd felt this way? July,2000? September 1998? No, those were nothing compared to this . She'd never felt this way before. This terrible need that coursed through her entire body. This all consuming urge that ached in the pit of her stomach. she clenched her hands into hard fists to keep from reaching out.

"No!" she shuddered.

"You know you want it.." He whispered into her ear, his voice was velvet temptation."It's all for you," He breathed. "All you have to do is reach out and..."

She clasped her arms around herself and groaned inwardly as she felt her will bending. No! She mustn't! She desperately hung on to the edge of control.

"I can't-"
"Of course you can."
"It's wrong-"
"Of course not."
No! She shouldn't! But even as these thoughts careened accross her inflamed brain, she felt herself let go of the last vestiges of restraint.

"I'll never forgive you for this!" She said thickly, and heard his dark chuckle.Hungrily, she reached out and took a bite into the forbidden.

...

Several minutes later-

"Damn you, you stupid ass!That diet was actually working and you had to come with chocolate mousse!!"

Auto-rocious!

Recently,a friend of the Author was talking of the driver-drivee rapport that existed- or didn't exist, whichever be the case- between commuters and auto-drivers in Chennai. Which inspired the author to pen this post.

The vehicularly handicapped,in the absence of kindly transporting friends, have their sad lots cast with either the straight-from-hell buses or the ruthless auto-drivers who seem to share the same origins as the aforementioned buses. Considering the erratic and chakravyuh-ish nature of buses, especially during the rush hours, poor wheel-less citizens like the author are left to the tender mercies of the latter. The survivors of the Auto-Encounters can relate tragic and terrible tales of extortion,embezzlement, sadism and exploitation. Veterans have learned several tactics to counter the strategies of the sly critters.

Rule one is to never, never speak in English. That is the cue for a typical specimen to hike the price by a hundred bucks. No matter how bad your accent is, don't stray into the E-word. The only exception is of course when you are shouting at the dude. Then throw in as many as you want.Beep Beep Beep sounds the same in any language. Another useful tip would be to always carry big change. Auto-drivers are known to pull the 'no-change' gag time and again ensnaring a novice auto user into paying more just to get rid of them. Similarly always know landmarks and state the the destination at least three times s l o w l y. Auto-drivers love to take you for a ride (no pun intended). The last thing you want is a tour of the city when you have to get somewhere in a hurry. And then be forced to pay extra because you apparently said the wrong place and landmark.

Rule two,which should have been rule one, is: Always bargain. It is an idiot, a very desperate person or a rich lunatic that pays exactly what is asked for.The tips for bargaining are the guidelines for auto-security. Always lower the price by a minimum 10-20 bucks. That'll probably be nearer the actual price. The traditional method of loud haranguing, though very entertaining and often effective, is very time consuming. Also,there is no guarantee of success even after the investment of time. The League of Auto- Users (LOAU)have come up with some bargaining maneuvers. An easy method of arm-twisting is to walk off with a scornful smile when the adversary poses the outrageous price. The auto-driver will be pricked by the doubt that the commuter actually knows how far and how much to give-thus making recalculations and reassessments. Hence, a more reasonable price. The author has had almost 90% success rate with this ploy. Another similar method practiced by the authors compatriot Longlegs, is the "thanks,but no thanks" approach. When faced with a sky high fare, humbly fold your hands and bid the auto-driver with a saintly smile. The autodriver is not only nonplussed by the cultured behaviour, but also pricked by conscience. 'Such a nice person," they think "how can I trick them like this... I'm a disgusting thief!" at this point they will be determined to reduce the fare to make themselves feel better. Of course this works only with those auto-drivers who actually possess a conscience. Hence the success rate is not very high. on some sparse occasions,charm and courtesy have seen to bring surprising effects. The LOAU recommend the application C&C at the commencement of the negotiations, reducing the flow as they continue. It also helps to make the adversary believe that s/he has the upper hand even if you've got a sweeter deal. Deft usage of reverse psychology is the sign of a true veteran. Despite all these subtle strategies,if all else fails- start yelling. And always work on the principle of "there are more autos on the road".

At this juncture the author wishes to make a disclaimer. Not all auto-drivers are sly tricksters as portrayed in the preceding paragraphs. Some, admittedly very few, actually show signs of humanism. Once the Author, suffering from an uncharacteristic illness, was stumbling down the pavement in search of transport. The auto that the author waved down unfortunately had to go else where. As the author turned away shakily, the auto-driver volunteered to drive her to the nearest bus stop for no charge whatsoever. The author confesses to complete shock. Apparently,the world is not totally black.

The Arabic Connection

To continue on the subject of foreign language teachers on the timely suggestion of my blogger comrade MaterialMom, the author moves on to the Middle Eastern Crisis.

An Indian school in an Arabian set up has a few set backs. One of them being the compulsory Arabic. From the tender age of six, clueless toddlers were thrown into the terrifying jungle of 'alef, baa, ta, tha, jeem...'. Actually, the langue itself wasn't too bad. It was the teachers.

The three witches from Macbeth were cherubic angels in comparison to the dear darlings who taught us. Their screams would've made banshees cringe and if only they'd talked a little slower- our arabic bad word vocabulary would have made Saddam Hussein blink. But they helped us in many ways. Especially during exams. But first- acquaint yourself with the studying methods.Students prepared in a simple,scientific procedure- if the first letter of the question was this, then the answer would be that. A similar method was followed in the case of match the following, true or false.. pretty much everything,actually. And then we'd learn exactly ten words with the different maathras and attachments. The meaning is meaningless to us, just mug. On second thought, mugging isn't even necessary. The students would simply copy words which happened to appear in the question paper as examples of usages. If even that fails, we can always transliterate names and stuff. A certain classmate transliterated mallu place names in arabic. This streak of brilliance was sadly lost because (a) they didn't get it. And (b) He used it in Give the Opposites, the stupid fool. And now we come to the teachers' help. While attempting (very important word)to write the paper, once in a while the sure fire methods would fail. But then the teachers come to the rescue. They subtly sidle their large forms and mutter a muted (read, normal speech)"This wrong. This and this right." If the student is still at sea, they'd very obligingly point out the right one. So if you actually fail in Arabic- either you are reaaally DUMB. Or the teachers don't like you.

Consequently, we students were able to read and write arabic quite well. Sadly the understanding and comprehension was nil. Rather a waste of eight years,you think? Not quite. We have a lovely store of bad words, and a knack for impressing people by spelling their names in Arabic( I don't know why, but it does) Also, most of us emerge good caligraphists(with notable exceptions such as the author). After all the arabic class was more like drawing letters you really didn't understand. We learn exactly how to charm our way through, our palms are strong and callussed from the canings... so it wasn't a total waste, right?

The author has always maintained that Education is the progressive method through which everything we need to know is replaced by everything we don't. Our Arabic validates this statement na-am?

French connection.

The teachers who lead us through the first stumbling steps of francais were alternately howlarious or pitiable- unintentionally of course.Specimen A,fondly known as Kow, was a cure for insomnia. No matter how many Red Bulls you might drink before class- within five seconds of Kow's big toe touching the classrom threshold your eyelids will succumb to gravity. During the long ago days when the author believed in the possibilities of education, the zealous author would actually sit in the first row hoping the fear factor would help against the Great Sleepiness.The experiment was a resounding failure. Undeterred, the author got reinforcements- her buddies: one on either side to poke her awake. She was reduced to poking them awake whenever she was awake. Pretty soon we just gave up. We'd sit in the front row and play hangman or X&0 or soemthing keep us from falling flat on the desk because the others had smartly usurped the last row. Picture this- the Author and Co. playing papergames wide open at the first row. Logically, we're caught. But real life is rarely logical. Kow lows her way to the last row where two unsuspecting souls had been catching up with their 40 winks! C'est la vie.

Specimen B, respectfully known as Mademoiselle, was from france. She managed to teach us something- a great achievement.Her english was... not good...but she plodded through the harsh consonants and confusing vowels of l'anglais. Well, once it so happened that she had the ladt hour with us. A bad fate for any teacher. A worse one if you've already had a bad day. She didn't have the courage or thenergy to tackle us, she gave us a free hour. Very bad idea. For the uninitiated, our class makes the parliament in uproar seem like a Church service. Five minutes into the class and the scene unfolds...

Mademoiselle(decibel level, normal) : Plizz kip qui-ett I 'ave a 'ead ache.

[Half a second of silence and the buzz restarts]

10 minutes.

Mademoiselle (decibel leve, slightly higher than normal): Clazz, I sed kip qui-ett!

[Quarter of a second of silence]

5 minutes.

Mademoiselle(decibel level, upper half of loud): Silence!

[1/8th of a second of silence]

A minute

Mademoiselle(decibel level, high enough to blow a few eardrums):

BVJJDBFBJHAGBLGBKGHLJGMBGHNKGMNGGFOHLKGNJHNGIHGNBGBGHFGHBAGRFGBFHVLKFSB!!!!!!

[A full minute of silence]

Class: HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Mademoiselle(desperate whisper): Mon dieu!

Yes, we were rather evil. Mademoiselle survived with us for two years before she ran for her sanity. But i owe her for what little french i know. Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.

Happy New Year

Dear The World According To Me,

Congratulations! You have survived two whole years without too many months in hibernation.

You have been a constant reminder of the possibility of creativity and imagination even in individuals such as the author. You have endowed the author- a mortal being of miniscule stature- with the status of CREATOR. And for this you have the Creator's undying gratitude.
You have made the Creator scream with anguish when posts vanished into thin cyberspace. You have been a painful super-ego, constantly reminding the Creator of the Creator's laziness. Yet, you have made the Creator brim with pride.

Oh blog! You are the child of my fingers, the product of my ruminations. And may all those who see you find something in you that makes them feel better.

The World has been born again, carrying the trace memories of 365 days. So are you, oh worthy blog. Carry on the torch. Blot out the inadequacies. And live.

The Creator,
Atomic Gitten

Happy New Year to All!

You know you are old when

1.You go for co-ed culturals and all the sight-able guys are younger than you.

2.You listen to a speech and start snickering at double meaning quips and all the kids around you give puzzled looks.

3.You go back to school and more than five kids call you "Ma'am".

4.You wear a sari and people ask you for how many years you've been working.

5. When some young squirt asks you how things were "when you were young..."

6.You start saying "when I was young..."

Messy Tactics

Here are a few Hostel Mess tactics to make your Mess experince less messy.

Our hostel mess is a good one.Their sambar does not resemble a dirty swimming pool. The rice does not stink. And- wonder of wonders!- their non-veg fare, though limited, does not leave the eater with stomach cramps!

The food is simple but good and shows some thought to nutrition, the addition of a fruit is evidence of this. However this fruit is a point of contention between the serving staff and the hostelites. Th fruit in question is a banana. Or something that looks very much like a banana- you can't really say, it's size and shape give rise to doubt. And Muthu anna's distribution runs along the motto of ascending squashiness. Give a squashed one and then,if some audacious soul requested; a squashier one.It's generally a squashy mess.Be sure to carry some tissue. And then there are the Appalam/Pappadam Treaties. In the goody starved world of the hostelite the crunch of a pappadam is like the music of the orbs. Acquisitions of these wondrous items are of utmost value:a pappadam in hand is worth a cup of curds in the bush. Of course the fact that these prized pappadams are more like handkerchiefs is irrelevant. They are pappadams. The non-pappadamers,who generally give their's away, are greatly valued at the table for this reason and must take precautions to not get mobbed. And it's not just pappadams that create a mad rush. Curds is next in the list. In the barter system ruling the Mess world the ownership of pickles or similar delicacies is excellent leverage. So bring on the vadumaanga.

An item that one must never miss in the mess is the Special Meals. These are occassions are momentous in the monotony of sambarsadam and poriyal. Watchout for the Sunday special chicken curry, and be sure to be around some pretty girl. Ah yes the Pretty Girl Tactic.It is always advisable to keep one or two of these specimens near you at the table. The wonderful thng about these species is that they generally get what they ask for. And the service staff, being men, are highly...susceptible. And being near the beauteous belles casts yourself in the glow of benevolence. Of course you must be fast and demand while the gla-effect is still in the system. Strike at the right moment and the number of extra ice-creams, bigger pieces of chicken and less squashy bananas coming your way will surprise to say the least. The author is an old hand at this.The Pretty Girl Tactic is applicable in any scenario.

A never-fail method for a better mess experience is to pattao the warden an mess in charge- this helps for easy acquisition of coupons, extra goodies etc. Always get the authorities in your pocket.

Please remember that Messes are messy businesses. It is necessary to exercise discretion.If the gourmet hostelite ever peeked into the Mess kitchen,it would be the end of her appetite for all time. Hence- never venture there. Why invite trauma? Just eat and don't ask questions. If you find a hair in the sambar- throw it out and continue shovelling it down. If the oil dripping off the evening "snack" has definite overtones of the fried onions that featured in yesterday's menu- keep munching. The best way to enjoy the creations of a hostel Mess is with blind faith. And plain blindness most of the time.

Always carry a ready strip of gelusil or the like. A stock of bread and jam is also advisable for the hard days.

These are some off-the-cuff tips for a happy Mess. The author hopes that it will serve the reader well in times of need. However,the author is not responsible for mishaps arising from following these guidelines. Happy hogging.

Parental Harrassment

Wordsworth said,'the child is the father of man'. Little did he know how prohetic he was.Child abuse is a terrible problem. But kids are not angelic cherubins either. In todays age of children's rights and "proper child rearing", poor parents have their lives wrung out by brats.

Take the case of Sad-Teacher(ST) and her daughter Evil-Incarnate(let's call her Evie, for short). We students used to wonder how ST could bear our class. But a short excursion with Evie in the same train cleared our doubts. The worst batch of 20yr olds are nothing next to one full-fledged 8yr old brat. We were all running away when we saw her coming. A similar incident during a flight will clear all doubts. A family of four were travelling in the aisle seat just before ours. This family comprised of two very interesting specimens of parent-abusers. Specimen A- let's call him Drone Boy- seemed less harmful in comparison to his younger brother,Terror. While the tired family of the author tried vainly to catch some precious sleep- Terror was happily slapping his absolutely spineless,useless pater who was cowering in fear and busy making vague threats to return the favor. If only he'd turned around and breathed a syllable to any one of us- we'd have gladly slapped the kid. Ten times. Each one of us. Between the sounds of the thwacking slaps and the gleeful laughter of Terror, any sleep was a dream. Thankfully, all that slapping was tiring and the terrible Terror fell into unwilling sleep. The entire aisle area breathed a sigh of relief and closed their red-rimmed, sleep-ridden eyes. NOT FOR LONG. That's when Drone Boy kicked in. Ever been bothered by a humming mosquito, just as you were falling asleep? Well... mutiply that feeling to 100 raised to infinite! Half an hour or more of listening to that dismal,toneless,aggravating drone made us realise that Terror and Drone were weapons of mass destruction in the making. One is physical torture and the other is mental. Either way you end up dead.And then,there are the supermarket brats. We are all familiar with this parent harrassing menace. The piercing orders on the lines of "MUMMY I WANT THAT,MUMMY!" or better still the simple ear-shattering screams that make by standers look accusingly at the blameless parent.

Parents are a burdended race. (a) They have the kid/brat. (b) They are responsible for the child- Read: whatever the child does, it's the parents' fault. They are a maligned race and require representation. Someone has to speak up against the heartless attrocities committed against parents. Just because they bore doesn't mean they must bear. So the next time you see a brat abusing a poor defenceless parent, run to their rescue. After all it might be you tomorrow...

Softly fell the rain that day,
Like kitten's fur and satin.
It stroked and brushed but never touched.
It was there, but not really.

She loved the Rain,
She'd always loved him.
He was the one she connected with
The soul she saw hers in.

The Rain loved her too,
But his words were mere sounds to her.
The patter of raindrops the rumble of thunder-
A language she couldn't comprehend.

The creeper of life needs a solid post.
Fluid torrents flowed away.
She pined for the Rain,
But he couldn't be there.Not really.

Harsh as the crack of a whip
It rained that day.
Like stones and needles.
Piercing and hurting- tangible distress.

She stood on the edge and welcomed Him
And the Rain shot out a silver finger
And carried her away with him.

Flighty Fancy

Take my love, take my land
Take me where I can't stand
I don't care, I'm still free
You can't take the sky from me.

- Firefly, title track.

Birds are lucky creatures.
Sure they are pretty much at the bottom rungs of the food chain, they are attributed less sense than what would fit in a teaspoon,and if they're are not eaten they are generally shot at and stuffed for no logical reason. Often they are cursed and pelted with expletives just for relieving themselves when they feel like it. And in recent history, their personal air space has been invaded by huge silver machines or idiotic human beings with a death wish jumping off these same machines (ungainly graceless things)with balloons furling out of their back.

But still, Birds are lucky creatures.
They can fly.

They don't need stupid parachutes,they don't have sit in stuffy,smelly,claustrophobic air planes or hang on to gliders like that tortoise in that folk story.They can experience the extreme freedom of breaking FREE.

The wind whips through their plumage, they have power that is purely theirs- not obtained through any transaction of pieces of paper. Even the crow, the ever irritating marauder of the canteen, in flight, is an admirable sight. There is more grace and abandon in the flight of a crow than in the rumbling,mechanical take off of a man made contraption. Man's effort is admirable yes, but he as in no way conquered flight.Because Man isn't really flying.There is no freedom in man's mechanical fliers. It is all control.There is none of that burst of euphoria as in the cheerful dip and rise of the sparrow. None of the soaring power of the eagles baiting with the wind. To watch a bird take flight is t watch a being break into harmonious freedom. They deliberately and successfully break the petty earthly bonds of gravity and leave behind inconsequential humanity for higher things. For the wind coursing over their bodies, for the power of total freedom, for the untamed abandon of full flight- which no human can ever truly have.

Birds are lucky creatures.

The Vagabond's Song

You sit near the milestone that marks the bend.
Your sore feet cry for the journey's end.
You get a cup of coffee for the open road,
Relaxing your hold on the memories stored.

The past sticks on like chewing gum.
The more you struggle,the messier it becomes.
Better by far to let it hang on.
Some extra baggage, like the rose's thorn.

You break and you form,like mercury drops.
Your feelings are only dispensable props
But all that's left when the play is cleared,
Are the discarded props- the feelings you feared.

Prayer consoles, but what is prayer?
Begging to something we don't know is there.
The litany drugs us into fevered sleep,
A dream of destiny in delirious deeps.

The core is suspended in eternal strife.
Existence or living on the edge of a knife?
Where do you go? Who waits for you there?
Is there a Destiny? Or just hot air?

The paper cup is tossed away,
You've drunk some life, and what's there to say.
The coffee was good the service was sad,
But altogether it wasn't so bad.

You stand near the milestone that marks the bend,
Your eyes seeking the journeys end.
But not just yet, there's more to go.
More bets to place, more oats to sow.

Invisible

I look down at my hands,
The are flesh and blood.
I look in the mirror,
Yes there is a reflection there.
I touch the wall-no I am not a ghost.

But something must be wrong..
Something unnatural with me.
How else can you not see
Even when I stand
Right in front of you?

Am I invisible?

The power of invisibility-
A good one I'd thought...
But now that I'm invisible
I don't know how I'll make you see.

Maybe I'm a leaf lost in the trees
But even when I fall into your hands
You don't see me.I'm tossed away crushed,
To float in the wind...

Am I a wraith? An empty space?
Dust blown away without a trace?
You see the wispy clouds, the lines in the sand
But you can't see me

The power of invisibility.
A good one I'd thought...
But now that I'm invisible,
I don't know how I can make you see....

An Apologie for Romance Novels

Universally declared "senseless" and grudgingly included in the literary family, the Romance Novel is a much maligned genre of popular fiction.Caught reading one is generally a signal for sheepish grins and a disposition to blush and denounce them with a hypocritical "it's only trash, just flipping through for a good laugh."

Though this reaction is not unwonted(there being a dizzying amount of drivel written in the name of Romance), it is ungenerous of the reading-writing community to simply write them off.Just because some... many romance novels are only a step away from pornography- lacking both a storyline and borderline sense, there are others that display admirable plot lines and quite commendable character weaving. Several Romance novels are criticized for their overly dramatic scenarios and contrived situations. But I ask you- ye sharp tongued critiques- what story doesn't use these same tools? more than anything else it is the dramatic content of the book-the sudden twists, the unexpected- that an average reader looks for in any work of fiction.I do acknowledge that these dramatic intrigues are often similar,leading to a 'read one, read them all' prejudice towards this genre. But then, the much admired murder mysteries are also culprit to the same fault. We know exactly what to expect- our interest lies in the unraveling.We are interested in finding out the whos and the hows. So also in the Romance novel.It is interesting to note how the author contrives to create scenarios,albeit often unintentionally comic, and how they various characters react to each other, and of course how they fall in love. And what can be a greater mystery than he workings of the human heart? Romance novels are further accused of being irrational. It is a truth universally acknowledged that human beings are the craziest creatures on the planet.And consider this- has anyone ever acted rationally when in love? My sources answer in negation. And besides, as Blaise Pascal rightly puts it, "The heart has reasons that reason knows nothing of."

And if all these arguments aren't enough to budge your prejudice, consider this-
The Feel Good Factor. No matter how terrible the situation, you can be assured f a happy ending. The ancient and the youthful are reminded that there are possibilities. Sure this may not happen to me, but it can to others- it DOES happen. And of course the perennial craving to be special to someone,the need to be needed- the very fact that these elements are tenets of the Romance novel speak in its favor.

In conclusion, I'd like to remind the discerning reader that the most important and immediate aim of literature is pleasure. And in one way or the other Romance novels do achieve that. Be it through the happy love stories or the (often ridiculous) plot lines, they are an enjoyable read. And writers of this genre are as good as any other.

Music and Lyrics.

Have you come across these songs which sound so amazing but have lyrics that don't make even a glimmer of sense?

Well,I have.

Take good old RHCP. Their music is great, but more often than not their lyrics sound like random words strung together for the fun of it. And for Lit. student (meaning someone who can find meaning even in the meaningless)to say that shows how completely unintelligible it is. And I'm not the only one- my good friend Ms Pouter also feels the same and she is a respected editor and critic! But why talk about firangee music when our very own Indian music shows this sad lack of meaning. Perhaps a better word to use would be comprehensiveness.Imagine a love song which addresses the object of affection as "Rakshasi"?????You actually expect the girl to fall for you if you call her demoness? How dumb are you? And this from the same industry that created songs like "Neelaponnmaane" and "Akale". If you consider malayalam too far south let's go to the north. Tell me, where's the beauty in something like "You are my Soniya"? It's like a nursery rhyme for Godsakes! But then Hindi songs are easy to make. Add a couple of "deewanas" and "pyars" with a good dash of adjectives(not necessarily appropriate) and a few punjabi phrases for the fun of it and - TADA!- there's your popular Hindi song.

The trouble is we are just way to busy nowadays to actually listen. So it's naturally imperative for the pressurized music director to create the catchiest tunes and to hell with words and all that. Which is why ad jingles are so satisfying. But consider this, when time flies off and all that is left of us is a few words on a page in a history book- will they remember us as the age of Jingle music?....

Ah well, what does it matter. After all

...It's only words
And words are all I have
To take your heart away...

The Stories they tell...

Like every child, I too used to bother my parents for stories. Since my father was a rather inaccessible entity- him working in another country and all- my mother got the brunt of it. Through some kind of innate sadism I'd want a story exactly when she can't keep her eyes open. And thus we had interesting versions of Krishna pulling the uruli betwen the trees while Narasimha Rao and Nehru were cooking upmav.(yes, evidently my mothers half asleep stage made her imagination even more fertile)My brother and I used to watch out for these gems so we could tease her when she was fully conscious and among others who knew not of her subconscious yarns. (yes, we were evil children- it's a wonder why she didn't sell us to gypsies)

From those toddler stages we moved on to the age where we wanted stories of our parents' youth. Amma spun splendid epics of hordes of marauding cousins and hot food on rainy days, of huge dogs that turned into lambs at the sight of the children. Achan would talk about how his toys consisted of coconut leaves turned into carts, of having to share the single oversized bicycle with two older brothers, one very strict father and a little sister who always got her way, of jumping into the pond just about anytime he felt like it,of dipping into the great jar of honey whenever he passed by... And my heart would cry out for those simple joys lacking in the dreary desert sands of Kuwait. It was probably why my brother and I became close- I had no one else.

The years passed and the stories changed. Now it was stories of how if you didn't study you'd end up like so and so . And glowing stories of how someone else was doing so well and subtle hints which weren't so subtle. They weren't happy stories anymore. They were serious and grown up and didn't have the spring of the old stories. Those happy stories seemed to have been left behind sometime before your adolescence. Sadly, we grew up. I began to avoid the stories- they only created more confusions. The black white world was turned into a static gray. And again time skipped by swinging his scythe and humming a tune.

College happened, and there was a sudden shift in the equation. I was the one who told the stories while they listened.It was... different. I was in several ways an exhilarating feeling to have your parents listen to you as an equal. And naturally the feeling gets to your head. And much like most highs, it is followed by an deep bone piercing low. You are self reliant now. You do everything yourself,you don't need anyone, everybody(even you)believes that you don't need any help...

And when you go back to your sterile,empty hostel room and stare at the walls you realise how alone that makes you.

The phone rings. It's my mother.

"What happened mole? You don't sound happy."
"I'm fine amma, how are you?"
"Everything is alright over here. Achan and I were just talking about the time when you..."

And time smiles at me. Stories change, people change, places change- but just as we think the milestones are zipping away too fast we look down and see we're traveling the same road, the people who started it with us are still with us. Nowadays, the stories we share are mixtures. Some of it is theirs and some of it is mine. We supply each others examples, add colour to each others tales. The plots are intricate and new characters keep coming in. The stories change, but never stop.

ARISE!!!

Oy!Wake up!!

That was to the blog.

Yes it has been awhile...but the sad lack of a comp and net connection demands that this sad lack of updates be overlooked.
This post talks about one of my favorite subjects- waking up.
I always feel it's a rather mean thing to put a being to bed when it doesn't want to[say, around 8pm( infernal I know)]-and just when it begins to fall asleep, wake it up with admonitions or the staccato rhythms of the detestable alarm clock. And all for what? A measly day in a class room where most of the lecturers simply encourage one to resume ones disturbed sleep.

A nocturnal animal, such as myself, gets the full brunt of such an evil system. I mean- we're supposed to work when we are most alert- not when our greatest inclination is to journey to la-la land. And just as we finally wake completely-alert and tingling with energy- the lights are turned off! The irony! My hostel employs a power saving system where the light in the rooms is cut at 10(which means 9 in most cases).Floundering in the dark, we night lovers are forced back into a stupor for lack of anything else to do- unless of course one braves the vampiring hordes of mosquitoes waiting in the tube light-lit corridors. And believe me- unless you are desperate or courting anemia, such a choice is BAD.

So you see- that's why we are so full of apathy. It's a conspiracy! The evil forces are plotting to keep us, the youth,shrouded in a dazed doze. We're just too sleepy to be bothered if the world is being destroyed by the higher-ups. Well, now that we have a excuse, let's go back to sleep?

Suicide

When purple clouds fill
The skies of life
And rainstorms flood
the ground with fear-
The thing we dread most
Has come to pass:
We are dead to those
We hold most dear.

The soul is gnawed off
The empty shell gapes.
Rotted boards fall off
Among ghostly shapes
A dark stillness haunts-
no heart strikes a beat-
The ashes of time
stick to our feet.

Wild cries turn us hoarse,
Bloody hands,broken doors..
Ripping skin,sinew, bone
Tearing at the human cores.

Silken tethers, burning brands
Curling talons, iron hands
Softly strangle flying hope
Twisting on a hanging rope.

.....

Permanance - A non-mushy love song.

POETS NOTE-It's been a long time since I wrote a non-prose post. And this is my first attempt at this kind.Please assist me in my unsteady fledgling steps.



Absence is Permanance:
For when you are away,
I am calm.
The moment you come back,
I am capsized!
Swerving like a mad pendulum,
To the rhythmless clicking
of that
which used to just pump blood.

I am afraid to move,
Lest this fragile thread
Holding me suspended
Snaps
Leaving me hurtling
Into a dark world...


Stay away from me!
My permanance is your absence
Leave me alone!
Why twist me like this?
Let me be
Let me return
To what I used to be.

Fashion Fracas

The neanderthals felt that animal-skin wraps were "Totally cool".The Cro-Magnon man was most happy in fur leggings. The homo-sapien, with a wide range of fabrics- natural and artificial- doesn't know what to wear.

Ironic? It doesn't cover the half of it.(much like todays fashions)

There are some who know every nuance of fashion in all its fickle glory. And there are others who can hardly make out the difference. I confess i belong to the latter category. If I were asked whether I prefer the A-line with a bolero jacket or the batiste with the bateau neckline- I would be found hiding in the cellar traumatised by the hurricane of fashion shrapnel!

Indeed, the greatest irony is fashion terminology. The logical use of this technical quagmire is probably to simplify ad classify the myriad forms of clothing. However it only serves to further confuse the already hopelessly floundering. Let's take the simple example of jeans. These highly utilitarian denim numbers were boons to the fashion-fumblers. And now even these have been turned against us!! Low waist, high waists, cut-offs,faded, non faded..this, that and the other! Similarly the question of brands. What does it matter if it is Versace or Vemicelli?! Flip over to Fashion T.V and we have Fall fashions and Spring collections etc..etc.. What is the real difference? All the clothes look similar draped on their similar rail thin human-hangers.

Ah but I suppose this sort of classification must exist.One might compare it to art, where there are so many different words for a technique or a type of paint, or a movement of the eyes or the rising of a note... Fashion too is an art- a much maligned one at that. We hypocritically disclaim it- we who have created cosmetics and plastic surgery. It is only fair I suppose that if we know what type of car or what kind of literature we prefer, that we also know what kind of fashion we like. Though it is rather difficult to keep track with what fashion we are wearing when it changes within the blink of an eye.

Why?

Why does it have to rain the one day you wear white?
Why does your handwriting seem the worst when you try to write neatly?
Why does your mind go blank only when you are expected to be smart and witty?
Why does it become third year just as we were getting used to college?
Why do your family leave just when you think you can never be happy without them?
Why is it so embarassing to cry?
Why can't I go home?
Why am I here?
Why do we do what we do?
Why is this important?
Why in hell am i writing this post????

Why? Why? Why? Why?

Why?

Why does the rain make the entire world seem so clean?
Why does your mother save things you wrote in third standard?
Why does silence sometimes seem wittier than words?
Why does wisdom creep up on you before you realise it?
Why does your little brother think you are wonderful when you're obviously not?
Why does everything seem shiny when you see through tear drops?
Why does life always pick you up just after it's kicked you in the gut?
Why does family always love you even when you don't?
Why does an alien city accept you with no qualms?
Why does purpose find you when you don't look for it?
Why does a little word mend a heart?
Why do i send this into cyberspace?

Why? Why? Why? Why?

what's Happiness?

For me it's babies laughing...

Dancing in the rain...

Running at break neck speed in a flowery meadow...

Getting a group hug from your family, your friends..

What's happiness to you?

Dusty stories-3

AUTHORS NOTE:- THOSE WHO HAVE NO IDEA WHAT DUSTY STORIES-3 IS ABOUT ARE REQUESTED TO READ DUSTY STORIES 1 AND 2.

STATUTORY WARNING-LOOK IT UP WHILE YOU LOOK AT DUSTY STORIES 2.
_______________________________________________________

From Dust to Dust.

The end approaches.Soon The Four will bid adieu to Ambattur.

Shouldn't the quartet be delirious with joy?
Shouldn't they reel with delight at the thought of dust-less days?

Then why do they feel depressed at thought of leaving?

Ah the irony!

The last few days had been some of the best. Ames, Pyne and Bentley had their names in print and Agent Gunther had several diplomatic assignments in the Reporting Arena. The dust no longer stung as much. They had met absolutely fascinating people like The Disciple and Ten-o-clocker. Even pestilences like the Burper, the Potato-Man and Bulb-Eye had become bearable.They had unforgetable experiences like Bentley's massaging travails, Ames' dizzy spell(NOT FAINT), Pyne's hitherto unknown fans asking for doubtlessly good-looking Pyne's details to supply their smitten friends with. And how can the author forget the dear Mother Goose who showed Pyne,Bentley and Ames the wonders of anna Nagar like Oddessey, besides others.

And of course the buses.

These Terrors of the road have turned into familiars. Though bus routes are still a coiled mystery and small change is permanently elusive- the Four are no longer the novices that hung on for dear life on the bars of an MTC. They are veterans of the road wars- nearly killed, almost hauled out, stepped on, prodded, squashed...they have survived. And now they will be no more surfing, no more long discussions on love, art and the universe of Ambattur.Ah the loss of those days full camaraderie- cursing the heat with good humored vehemence,swearing sweetly at the sweat, laughing like loons at jokes nobody else would find even remotely funny- How will they live without it?

Yet the Four Interns lift up their chins. They will not bend in despondency. The Dusty stories may have ended, but their stories will go on. They turn their faces to the burning sun and look to the road ahead.

After all..

Tomorrow is another day.

God's own country...

Rant-1

This is going to be one of those entries which seem to circle around something, which turns out to be nothing.Trying to write something purposeful now is a vain venture. For one thing it's TOO HOT! And for another-I've been supplied with a temperamental keyboard which needs to be rammed by a sledgehammer for a letter to manifest itself on the hallowed screen.(So please excuse any spelling errors- it's the keyboard's fault!)

It has been a week of sorts. The only thing that's been steady is the climbing heat. Highs include a published article each by both my comrades and me. Lows include excess body fat, failing electricity,bus travel and a drought in eye-candy.

While we're on that topic- where have all the good men gone???? Seriously, are all the groovy (or marginally groovy)men cloistered in some inaccessible copse away from us women?? The few that escape appear on movie screens,tantalise young women deprived of eye-sustenance;and leave in a cloud of stardust.We are abandoned again to walk in the desert.Men seem to have all the luck! There are lots of pretty girls. But what about us women? Are we all expected to be Desdemonas or Titanias? I should hope not!
All you good-looking guys out there better make yourself visible soon. If you don't, just remember: You can run, you can hide but can't escape! MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!*maniacal grin and thunder and lightning in the background*

I'm off to stalk prey.

A Little Chicken is a dangerous thing

When you see a chicken- you know how the phrase "dumb bird" came to being.The bird is a bird-brained, dumb-duck! I know it's a foul way to speak of the delicious fowl- but if you ask me, chickens are best on the dinner platter liberally garnished with gravy and other mouth watering delicacies or fried to a crisp with lots of spice. But if you see these dumb birds as subservient sufferers, you are much mistaken. They do get their revenge. The occasional bird flu back fires and ends up getting more chickens that humans being killed-but I repeat: They get their revenge.

The thought hit me like a monster MTC bus when a dish of roast chicken and mashed potatoes was placed before moi. My mouth watered, my stomach rumbled enthusiastically- but there was a small problem. I was expected to eat with a knife and fork. I was as alien to flatware etiquette as a bear to Einstein's Theory of Relativity! My friend rocked on her seat crying mirthful tears watching my struggles. And I ground my teeth and glared at the big, fat, haunch of meat sitting and blinking at me like some dumbass chicken! But no bird-dead or alive- was going to get the better of me! HAH!

I rammed the fork in and hacked away at the chicken like a maddened Ghenghis Khan only to be rewarded by a tiny sliver of meat. Not one to be disheartened I persevered- splattering my table-mat, my table-mate, the surrounding tables and myself liberally with gravy and mashed potatoes. We battled to and fro neither side relenting. The enemy was a deadly fighter- "dead" being the operative word. But I'm no chicken. The war was turning messier by the minute.And my friend was falling off her chair with laughter.

But at last human nature got the upper hand and most of the dead bird disappeared down the gullet. But there were losses on both sides. On my side it was mostly of dignity. And also a certain feeling that the spirit of that exasperating chicken had been watching and having a hearty laugh- damned bird!

Needless to say- I beat a hasty retreat.

An Evening with Hunk

>"...And so he roamed the land
To prove his spunk,
And for some weird reason
He was called Prince Hunk..."

- from The Prince, the Damsel and the Evil Drrragon


Prince Hunk is truly charming- chivalrous,kindly and forever ready with interesting conversation. These qualities made the Narrator, Bard and The Evil Drrragon pounce upon the oppurtunity for an evening of fun and frolic in the Prince's palace. Sadly the Skunk could not make it.

It was the Prince's feast day and there was a promise of great things. We were much honored when we were personally escorted by the great Prince to the palatial abode where we presented the great soul with a tribute of a DVD,a card and an edition of the Arabian Nights.

And then began the fun.

The Prince,though valorous ad brave, lacked confidence in the kitchen. The Bard, the Narrator and the Drrragon(let's settle on D because typing so many Rs is a problem)jumped to the task and summoning the powers of the Witches of Chocbeth prepared to brew the bhel puri mix and create cinammon toast. The Bhel puri was perfect (probably because it involved merely mixing up processed foods ) the cinnamon toast was...delicious and entertaining. We got to play jigsaw puzzles with it since it kept falling appart (we soaked it too much). But all said and done with laddles of cinammon (Prince Hunk) and dollops of honey (the Narrator) and well cooked toast (the Bard) it was an unforgettable evening. Highlights included when the bard "searched for the prince's eggs" and the D announced the two toasts bound in holy toastrimony. After the bold culinary adventure was completed the troops departed to savour the fruits of their labour and sip on cold coffee to the accompaniment of the ipod and conversation.

But the time came for us to part....

We bid a reluctant adieu from our beloved Hunk who had shown so much spunk in the kitchen, and trailed a sad trail away from Venus colony. As we looked back for the last time, the after taste of cinamon and honey playing upon our tongues- we knew this was one of the sweetest evenings we'll e'er have in our college life.

Walk in the Light Prince Hunk.

*ping*

Dusty Stories-2

AUTHOR'S NOTE:All those who have no idea what Dusty Stories-2 is about are requested to read Dusty Stories-1.

STATUTORY WARNING-These entries are purely non-fictional. Any resemblance to people living or dead are completely intentional. The reader undertakes reading this at her/his own risk. We will not be held responsible for future dust-phobia or any dust related disorders that may strike the reader post reading.

______________________________________________________

Dust is dangerous.

It does baaaaad things to you.
And that is besides the inevitable scratchiness.

The fellowship of Gunther,Ames,Pyne and Bentley have found, in a series of formidable battles with this sifty adversary, that prolonged exposure to dust causes a definite case of Cuckosia Mentalosa.

It begins with a vague feeling of light headed-ness. This can easily be mistaken for dehydration- but beware! Then come the bouts of hysterical senseless giggling.Finally the all out loss of sanity which may result in various complications and embarrassment to the person next to you. Some of the catalogued results are- singing loudly(understatement)in the middle of the road, shouting comments at unwary passerbys, trying to do pull ups on a bus bar when there isn't room enough for a squashed sardine and of course the general obstruction of peace.
Ames was the worst hit. Generally an effervecent and not too inhibited soul- Ames became an uncontrollable lunatic and did all the above mentioned activities and grinned apologetically at the chaos. Though Ames was the worst case- the other bold warriors also succumbed to the dreadful (but rather entertaining)disease.

And as if cuckosia wasn't bad enough, there was also the fact that the fellowship members began to resemble baked bricks and feel like grime pots.

After the stint in the Editorial, Ames,Bentley and Pyne were removed to Reporting. Gunther-still painfully separated- was posted in the Editorial. The Three reporterns gave Gunther valuable insight on the working of the said department; especially of the in charge- let's call him King-go-Milk - who had a penchant for telling long stories and interesting tid-bits:especially when we have to run and catch the bus.

The three interns at Reporting valiantly approached the Reporting department. Our fellow worker at the editorial [who,btw,never failed to point out that she was from Mumbai,with the familial background of the SIS college(probably affiliated to the BRO college,the DAD College and the MUM college...and so on and so forth){I use a lot of parentheses}]who had had some experience in the reporting dept filled our heads with images of having to travel to faraway lands and returning back to dustville merely to give in a measley report.

On entering the alien portals we were made to follow the general axiom of The Newspaper,remnicent of Gandalf,"And now we wait". When finally we met the great man-let's call him the Ten-o-Clocker - who headed the dept we arrived just in time to hear the head declare "Let them arrest me!I don't give a damn!" At which, this writer admits, we were much impressed. It's not everyday that a man proffesses to want to ride in the paddy-wagon! We were immediately given work. "Ah something to get our teeth into" Thought the three. The mission quickly accomplished, we returned to be given our first assignment only to be told to call at 10. " Such a great aura of mystery" thought Ames. "Did he really mean 10 at night?" pondered Pyne.

Dutifully we called and were sent bounding off to places we had never heard of before. In the following days we did all the things we were afraid of doing- namely getting lost in the middle of nowhere(Ames), being mistaken for a kid(Pyne), getting to the venue to find NOBODY around (Bentley), and generally being clueless( need I say- ALL).
Yet we shouldered our burdens and forged ahead despite heat,sweat and damn it all DUST!! We kept a smile on our face -maniacal though it may have been. for after all-
tomorrow is another day...

*To be continued*

Dusty Stories-1

Zealously cutting short our vacation in order to get a taste of "profession", four of us- let's call us Ames, Gunther, Bentley and Pyne- set out to the glowing portals of Indian Express.Please note- it was only while setting out that we were zealous. One look at the prospective travel lowered our zeal considerably.

Ah, forgive me. I'm being circuitous. Let's start at the very beginning- it's a pretty good place to start.

We four pioneers of the English stream, chose to do a course that requires an internship. Being the worthy students that we are we chose to go to a prestigious company- and therefore: The Newspaper. We were required to submit a letter to the editor warning him of our impending arrival. A noble thought. The place was located in Amabttur- and the light in our glowing faces dimmed. "Ah well, worth a try." said the enthusiastic four.

The scenic beauty of Ambattur exists wholly in the imagination.
Comprising mostly of dust,grime,hardware stores and unending heat- the Industrial Estate was a planet away from comfort. It would have helped if the place were accesible but... let's just say if the work didn't kill us the travel would.But forever the optimists we persevered.

The bus ride didn't help.
The sight of dust, dust and more dust also didn't help.
And being made to wait for 1 and a half hours and then being told that the editor was not even there definitely DID NOT HELP.

"What nonsense!" cried Gunther in rage. Ames was also not very amicable. However, Bentley and Pyne,forever the souls calmness, said, "It's alright we'll come again later."

Thus began a series of phone calls to ascertain when to come. (We have come up with a most excellent theory- they give internship applicants the ONE number that will NEVER be picked up.)Finally we were asked to meet the great man at a specified time.

And so, once again we undertook the ardorous journey. Saw dust dust and more dust. (not to mention garbage and plastic). Reached the destination. And was met by the Editor's secretary- let's call him Seven-Hills. Seven-Hills asked us to wait an hour(they seem to go by Milton's axiom- "...even those are served who stand and wait")After which-JOY OF JOYS- our letter was accepted and we were officially intern-ised!!

And thus began the great saga of The Internship!

On the appointed day(May 2)at the appointed time (12.30) we met the ever present Seven-Hills. He mercilessly separated the foursome and now Gunther walks alone in the world of Features while Ames, Bentley and Pyne were assigned to the editorial. Burying our sorrows, we enthusiastically set out revolutionise the editorial!!!- and were made to wait. Till 5. And finally were set free without having done anything. Oh the Humanity!!! More like oh the dust! But- tomorrow is another day...

*To Be Continued*

The Case of the Missing PAss book

Have you ever heard that story of the old miser who buried all his gold under a tree to return and find there so many similar trees around that he didn't know whaere his gold was? The word he was probably searching for at that moment was "GAAAAAH!!!"

Well that poor miser has my entire sympathies!

Yours truly is notorious for her carelessness. Therefore, when my family saw me off at the hostel doorway their last advice was "Take care of your stuff." Well...I DID take care of my stuff. I knew exactly where everything was(well atleast most of the time). But disaster struck when I went to Delhi.

My pass book was very important.It was that golden key to my bank and therefore my financial stability. So when I left Chennai, I made sure I kept it safe and sound.
Sadly, I kept it SO safe, that when I returned I couldn't find it!
I searched high and low and in between to no avail. The pass book was in the limbo of lost things.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the same thing hadn't happened again! I return from Kuwait without any fears and then realise i can't remember where the blessed thing is! Damn, blast and every other expletive!

It wouldn't hurt so much if I HAD been careless. The whole problem arose because i SO careful. The Irony! The Injustice! The sheer Idiocy!! Is there some conspiracy to make sure I'm pass book-less atleast once a year?!Ah well... c'est la vie Join me in prayer that the bank issues a new pass book for me without kicking up a truckload of dust, and that at least this one doesn't leave me in the lurch.

Grey hairs and wrinkles? Get the hair colour and creams!

I was just going through the previous entry and - MAN AM I SAD!
I mean, I'm just 19! what's the big deal anyway if the poor kid is writing a sad,mind bogglingly crazy and meaningless exam. If I'm feeling down, imagine how my mum must be feeling? This is the second kid she's sending off to walk the board. And sure the guy's gotta grow up, I mean imagine if stayed like some Peter Pan character- there'd be so much we'd have missed out. And Really- there is so much in this beautiful BEAUTIFUL world just WAITING to be done. I have to go rock climbing on the rainbow rocks of the Giant Canyon, hiking in the Himalayas,paragliding in Colarado, bungee jumping in Columbia,get laid up with Jaundice at least once, drink wine, smoke pot....- I don't have the time to mourn about the days gone by.
And the bottom line is- As long as you can look up into the sky and see how green the leaves look etched against the deep blue sky... life isn't that bad.

Wrinkles and grey hair...

My mother always told me-It is not you who grows older, it is the others who do.

The fact struck me like lightning this morning as I wished my kid brother luck for his first board exam. And it seems just yesterday I was teaching him two plus two! It's sad how things change. Sure it's inevitable and all.. but...You know now he's not going to wriggle around giggling when you tickle him. Instead he'll scowl and hiss "Chechi behave yourself! Stop irritating me." You know all those silly games you played and the ridiculous jokes you used to cackle to will now have turned truly redundant... All of a sudden you have to stand on your toes to knock him on the head, when earlier he used to look up at you...

It's true. We don't grow older.. it's those around us who do. And though I'm so incredibly proud of the young guy who stands a head above me, I'll still miss that little kid...

Photophobia

When
Are we going to
see?

                                   

                                        Not just look
                                        But
                                                                       SEE.
See how,
When the social workers
                                                 Run
                                                  To help victims in
                                                  far away lands,  
                                          The Victims in our own houses
                                     Cry mute tears and stuff gags into their spirit.
See how,
when the champion waves laurels
in the flourescent tubes
                                                               In the shadows stand,
                                          those beautful candles that burn unknown.
                                                         Carefully blank faces like
                                                                  stain glass windows

           But When will we 

           See?

When will they see
from behind the cool shades
That guard our eyes from seeing?

Sun Set Boulevard

My photography. What do you think?

Finis

Leaves are blowing.
Tinged with red
-sap or blood?-
Smelling of ash,
Incense and grief...

The Dark hole gapes-
The Black Hole:
Sucking into it's
Depths,
Closing the lid.

It is Done.

...From ashes to ashes
from dust to dust....