A journey back to what I thought I left behind. Almost dawn. Cold. Dark. Unfamiliar station. Yet, the comfort of being close. Trust, that you will be home. And then a familiar voice, concerned, caring. Familiar face. Then that familiar hug. And the warm feeling inside.
The same old jokes, the same old feeling...of knowing, of being a part of a whole. Squeals of delight at the sight of old friends, old past in the new present. My comfort zone.
There is something about smells...you can never forget them. You may not remember, not consciously at least. But they are always lurking in some dark corner of your memory. You take one unconscious turn, and they spring up in front you. You smile in recognition, and at the happy realisation that memories will soon follow.
Places. Sights. People. Smiles. Touch. Warmth. Joy. Exhilaration that nothing has changed. Nothing can possibly change in just two months, after all. Was is just two months?
It is nice to know that you belong. Someplace. To someone. Just as they belong to you.
A journey back. After a night spent shivering in the train, I step into the pleasantly warm morning to auto wallas who do not try fleece you. Still, trust is just not there. Relief, yes. But trust? Places, sights, roads, that are only distant acquaintances. Gates, that were not waiting, open for me.
Voices. Smiles. And a hug...not familiar, but still warm. I step into my room. On my messy bed, that sags so much that it's almost a hammock, is my brand new university tee-shirt. My roomie tells me that all of them have got it too. We are official tee-wearing part of this small cozy community.
As I listen to my roomie's happy chatter about the weekend's fun, of now familiar quirks of the now familiar friends, and the you-should-have-been-there-you-missed-so-muchs...I smile. Circles may not be too much fun, but they are a part of life.
This will be home too. Yet.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Return of the Original Chauvinist
Chupulu. Stares. When I first read this poem as a part of the prescribed texts for my paper on Indian Writing, it didn't sound spectacular or even forceful. Among the more illustrius names like Kamala Suriya (erstwhile Das) and A.K Ramanujam, this comparitively little known Telugu poet talking about the offensive stares she fights every day, seemed just ordinary.
Not now. It's been a month that I moved to Hyderabad (Secunderabad, if you are a sucker for details). I now understand, perfectly, what that poem was all about. Now that I've walked on the streets, and travelled on the buses of Hyderabad, I know what it is to be stared at, rather, stared down at. "Being stripped with your eyes" is not a hyperbole anymore.
Hyderabad is considered one of the safest cities in India. It really is. My seniors tell me that they can go out partying, can return drunk at insane hours in the night, and not fear a thing. I've not heard horror stories of molestation, of people trying to feel you up in a crowded bus. They just stare. A stare that is much more than just lecherous. Girls here, need to learn to be demure. Or be just the responsible working homemaker types-who wake up at crack of the dawn, prepare breakfast and lunch for the entire household, runs to office, finishes her respectable 9-6 job, comes back to cook and clean some more. And at the end of the month, dutifully give their salary to their husband/father.
A bunch of girls going for a movie, in a non-multiplex: not good. A bunch of girls going out for lunch, and actually ORDERING their food, even with guys sitting with them: bad. Two girls going alone to pick up another at Secunderabad railway station, and THEN refusing a coolie, and carrying the luggage between them instead: BLASPHEMY.
It's not criminal. To stare. It's annoying, to be stared at. And it makes your blood boil. Chauvinism at its best. "Women are better of two steps away from the stove" attitude. The worst is, there is little you can do to fight, except stare back. Afterall, you cannot put a person in jail for just looking.
And it is not just the men. Women are equally bad. No their stares are not lecherous, but more accusatory, "the don't-you-know-your-proper-place" kind of look. I have not made up my mind about which is worse.
Me and Vidi were on our way to Hi-tech city. I had no change with me for the bus, so at the Secunderabad bus station we walked into the magazine shop. There was a lady at the counter, and a man who I presumed was her husband, standing on the other side of the counter. I asked for Reader's Digest, she looked at the man, who shakes his head. "Reader's Digest nahi hai ma" she says. "The Week"? Look, head shakes, a negetive. "India Today?" Same drill. Exasperated, I looked at the man directly and asked, "Outlook hai kya?" He offers Outlook Money, which I didn't want. So our enterprising business woman offers, "Femina, Women's Era, Graha Shobha saab hai, woh kuch lejao!"
I just blinked. And shook my head in exasperation and walked away with Vidi giving me cheeky "why-are-you-surprised" look. And their stares followed us all the way.
Not now. It's been a month that I moved to Hyderabad (Secunderabad, if you are a sucker for details). I now understand, perfectly, what that poem was all about. Now that I've walked on the streets, and travelled on the buses of Hyderabad, I know what it is to be stared at, rather, stared down at. "Being stripped with your eyes" is not a hyperbole anymore.
Hyderabad is considered one of the safest cities in India. It really is. My seniors tell me that they can go out partying, can return drunk at insane hours in the night, and not fear a thing. I've not heard horror stories of molestation, of people trying to feel you up in a crowded bus. They just stare. A stare that is much more than just lecherous. Girls here, need to learn to be demure. Or be just the responsible working homemaker types-who wake up at crack of the dawn, prepare breakfast and lunch for the entire household, runs to office, finishes her respectable 9-6 job, comes back to cook and clean some more. And at the end of the month, dutifully give their salary to their husband/father.
A bunch of girls going for a movie, in a non-multiplex: not good. A bunch of girls going out for lunch, and actually ORDERING their food, even with guys sitting with them: bad. Two girls going alone to pick up another at Secunderabad railway station, and THEN refusing a coolie, and carrying the luggage between them instead: BLASPHEMY.
It's not criminal. To stare. It's annoying, to be stared at. And it makes your blood boil. Chauvinism at its best. "Women are better of two steps away from the stove" attitude. The worst is, there is little you can do to fight, except stare back. Afterall, you cannot put a person in jail for just looking.
And it is not just the men. Women are equally bad. No their stares are not lecherous, but more accusatory, "the don't-you-know-your-proper-place" kind of look. I have not made up my mind about which is worse.
Me and Vidi were on our way to Hi-tech city. I had no change with me for the bus, so at the Secunderabad bus station we walked into the magazine shop. There was a lady at the counter, and a man who I presumed was her husband, standing on the other side of the counter. I asked for Reader's Digest, she looked at the man, who shakes his head. "Reader's Digest nahi hai ma" she says. "The Week"? Look, head shakes, a negetive. "India Today?" Same drill. Exasperated, I looked at the man directly and asked, "Outlook hai kya?" He offers Outlook Money, which I didn't want. So our enterprising business woman offers, "Femina, Women's Era, Graha Shobha saab hai, woh kuch lejao!"
I just blinked. And shook my head in exasperation and walked away with Vidi giving me cheeky "why-are-you-surprised" look. And their stares followed us all the way.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Only A Surviour
I have been staring at the monitor for a while now, wondering what to write. No where to begin. There's so much that I'm itching to say. So much that's been happening. MT would have perhaps labelled this as Random Crap and be done with it. I can't somehow agree with that title, even though at the end of the it does seem an exercise in futility. Sign. It's one of those days.
More than 30 people died in the twin blasts in Hyderabad. One of the sites, Koti, is where we go to buy second hand books for cheap. We were there last week. And yes, we went to Gokul Chat too. A week ago.
I read this news report, about a victim. A man, who had taken a deture to get a snack for his wife, who had been fasting. He lost his life in that blast. I wonder how his wife will ever get over the incident. The last line of the story, quoted her saying that their son, just in the first year of his college, will now have to take up a job to support the family.
More than the man, more than the wife, I felt angry for that boy. He'd have had plans. He'd have had dreams for his life, which he now has to put on hold, probably forget about altogether. Why?
Whenever there is a blast, an act of terror, everyone harps about the victims. The pain of the survivours. And the compensation given by the government. But what are a few thousands going to do to help this boy? Unexpected death. That term makes no sense to me. When do we really ever expect to die? His father would not have planned to die that day. He'd have had obligations, liabilities. Promises made, and meant to be kept. All that now on that young boy's head. He'll learn to cope you'd say. Yes, we always do. Probably a few years from now, his proud tearful mother will say that her son grew up, and took the family's responsibility after his father unexpected death. And he'd probably smile. But will he ever forget the dreams that he buried along with his father's body? He could have been great, but now he'll only be a survivour.
Where terror wins is that it leaves a void where there was a person. It leaves a blank noice where there was laughter. Tears will dry. And people will move on. But lives will be altered. Forever. They don't take lives, they take dreams. And no Mr. Minister, you cannot compensate that with money.
More than 30 people died in the twin blasts in Hyderabad. One of the sites, Koti, is where we go to buy second hand books for cheap. We were there last week. And yes, we went to Gokul Chat too. A week ago.
I read this news report, about a victim. A man, who had taken a deture to get a snack for his wife, who had been fasting. He lost his life in that blast. I wonder how his wife will ever get over the incident. The last line of the story, quoted her saying that their son, just in the first year of his college, will now have to take up a job to support the family.
More than the man, more than the wife, I felt angry for that boy. He'd have had plans. He'd have had dreams for his life, which he now has to put on hold, probably forget about altogether. Why?
Whenever there is a blast, an act of terror, everyone harps about the victims. The pain of the survivours. And the compensation given by the government. But what are a few thousands going to do to help this boy? Unexpected death. That term makes no sense to me. When do we really ever expect to die? His father would not have planned to die that day. He'd have had obligations, liabilities. Promises made, and meant to be kept. All that now on that young boy's head. He'll learn to cope you'd say. Yes, we always do. Probably a few years from now, his proud tearful mother will say that her son grew up, and took the family's responsibility after his father unexpected death. And he'd probably smile. But will he ever forget the dreams that he buried along with his father's body? He could have been great, but now he'll only be a survivour.
Where terror wins is that it leaves a void where there was a person. It leaves a blank noice where there was laughter. Tears will dry. And people will move on. But lives will be altered. Forever. They don't take lives, they take dreams. And no Mr. Minister, you cannot compensate that with money.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Just
I want to be a kid again
To pout my lips and wail
To be lifted up and consoled with reassuring promises of candy and a hug
I want to lie with my arms wide open on the grass
Feel the rain splattering on my face
I want to go jump and splash in a muddy poodle
And feel the water soak into my skin
I want to stare at the night time sky
And see the orion again
I want to stand by the shore
Waves crashing at my feet
And look for that seashell again
I want to talk the night away
And still have more to say
I want to bury my face
And feel safe again
I want to laugh at a sad joke
And cry for it again
Feel free and bound
And then free again
I want to sit by that sidewalk
And watch life passing by
I want my free fall
And I want my security blanket
I want to hold on to everything
And still not cling on to the past
I want to start each day
As though it is the first
And live each day
As though it is the last
I want to grab so much from life
That I feel I can't hold
I want to feel...
Lack of sleep and alcohol makes some people tired. In others, it induces illusions of untapped poetic potential.
To pout my lips and wail
To be lifted up and consoled with reassuring promises of candy and a hug
I want to lie with my arms wide open on the grass
Feel the rain splattering on my face
I want to go jump and splash in a muddy poodle
And feel the water soak into my skin
I want to stare at the night time sky
And see the orion again
I want to stand by the shore
Waves crashing at my feet
And look for that seashell again
I want to talk the night away
And still have more to say
I want to bury my face
And feel safe again
I want to laugh at a sad joke
And cry for it again
Feel free and bound
And then free again
I want to sit by that sidewalk
And watch life passing by
I want my free fall
And I want my security blanket
I want to hold on to everything
And still not cling on to the past
I want to start each day
As though it is the first
And live each day
As though it is the last
I want to grab so much from life
That I feel I can't hold
I want to feel...
Lack of sleep and alcohol makes some people tired. In others, it induces illusions of untapped poetic potential.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
I'm alive. Just in case anyone wondered :)
Like Uncle Osama leaks videos of himself to prove USA has not nailed him yet, this is just to say that I'am not dead, terminally ill, or kidnapped by aliens.
Just on a wonderful break from online civilisation, and plain old lazy.
See ya soon.
Be Good.
Actually, be bad, it's more fun that way ;)
Cheers
Just on a wonderful break from online civilisation, and plain old lazy.
See ya soon.
Be Good.
Actually, be bad, it's more fun that way ;)
Cheers
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Confused Encounters of the Worst Kind
Why is my country in such a state of confused mess these days? No, honestly! I’ve often been called confused and lost by more enlightened amongst my friends, but I pale in comparison to the venerable men and women who are in charge of running the mammoth (and the metaphor is for size, not extinct value) that is Indian democracy.
Let’s take a look at the events that have been making headlines in the past month.
Kaun Banega Rashtrapathi (oh I love lame lines)
All segments in the political streets must be collectively berating the day they came up with the brilliant idea of pushing Kalam for the President. The man who showed the promise of being the poster boy for the secular happy family of Indian politics, turned out to the Prodigal son who never returned. He made himself shamelessly popular as the People’s President, won everyone’s heart (except for the politicians, who dragged him to The Big Bhavan in the first place) with his ready smile and wannabe curly locks. He poked his nose in their decisions, brought the much forgotten, and “eminently avoidable” (that’s what some news paper called it) issue of the Office of Profit debacle to the forefront, generally cared to be a little more than the proverbial “rubberstamp”, while forcing them to pull their acts together.
So when the talk can of re-election started, the political brotherhood forgot their differences and said a unanimous “Nought!”. That did in a common bee in their collective bonnets, but it posed the next problem—choosing the next candidate. Everybody who was somebody had his name being thrown in for the race—from The Big Bee Bachchan to Big Mentor Murthy. Bachchan mercifully saw the ridiculousness in the situation and refused even before they could offer. The county turned to Mr. Narayan Murthy to be Bharath’s First Bacha. But just as things were looking promising, he went and proclaimed in full media view that he found singing the national anthem embarrassing. (this of course is the classic example of media misquoting the innocent celebrity—what he actually said that they played the instrumental version of the anthem, instead of singing it in Infy in a ceremony that welcomed President Kalam because they “had a number of foreign delegates in the gathering, and it might have embarrassed them while we sing the anthem”. Of course this statement makes no sense whatsoever, so I guess the media’s twist at least made for juicy news watch).
Anyways, just about a week after the current Mr. President proclaimed that Mr. Murthy would make a wonderful Next Mr. President, the “corporate leader with a good heart and a golden vision” had his fall from grace, as the media gleefully pumped holes into his hitherto impeccable image. Suddenly he became the man who “shows his ignorance of India's caste struggle and its background” for his views on reservation, his views on Indian languages “lacked self-respect and pride” and “his corporate philosophy allowed no space for healthy cultural pride”. Having burnt their fingers once with a non-politician, the county’s elected rulers decided to play it safe—they could hardly go after a man who had such prideless views, when all we Indians collectively puff up our chest at the sound of the national anthem. So after some star struck followers of Murthy indignantly proclaimed that the whole “national anthem” issue was blown out of proportion, we just decided to put that chapter behind us, and move on.
It was then the mad race to choose the Next Indian Political Idol (to be sure, the President is really just expected to stay put and be worshipped as the democratic God). And all parties left no stoned unturned to look at all the ageing candidates who were in the trishakhu stage of pretty much not doing anything (okay, so if we agree to make you the President, will you please get off our face?) Karan Singh? AB Vajpayee? Bhairon Singh Shekhawat? Sushil Kumar Shinde? Or can we just quickly check if Pranab Mukherjee will like being the President better than being External Affaires Man? Or if Somnath Chatterjee got bored of being the Speaker? The Left considered name dropping to be beneath themselves so they came up with “job requirements” for the profile: the candidate should have “secular credentials, experience in public life and Parliament and one who could ensure balance between the judiciary, Parliament and the executive.” Just add water, and your President is now ready to be served!
The Presidential elections are less than a week away, and it seems it’s our very own Home Minister, who has agreed to be disposed off. It has been a tough battle folks. The super intelligent posh IT guy from Bangalore wanted His Mentor to be P, and Paaji from Patiyala and Munnu from Mumbai along with Amar Singh and Anil Ambani, wanted Bachchansaahab to be P, BJP wanted the VP to be P, Congress wanted EFM or HM to be P, Left wanted a miracle to be P, and my friendly neighbourhood doodhwala wanted his angreji speaking son-in-law to be P. If you have a candidate to be the first servant of India, don’t be disheartened, one week is seven days. As Udhay Chopra famously proclaimed in a very forgettable movie, “Saath din mein yeh duniya saath baar ghoom jati hai”, you never know.
The Indian Idol, Part 2, Meets The Great Indian Comedy Show
I’m referring, of course to the long drawn, nail biting, extra large bucket of butter popcorn demanding selection of the great Indian Scapegoat, a.k.a, The Indian Cricket Coach. The BCCI had decided that it had enough with the players getting so much attention for being Gods, and they feeling all left out like the 12th player. It also had enough with coaches who made presentation on their laptops on how BCCI sucked and decided that the next coach should be the epitome of cricketing brilliance, someone who can handle tantrums of players, and politics of selectors, and be the darling of the media, drop charmingly funny, and brilliantly lickass soundbites about how the boys tried real hard, and how it was just bad weather and lack of addidas shoes that lost the match, and how the BCCI was the best thing that happened to him. Of course he should be able to handle the occasional slap that came hurtling out of the bubbling blue billion.
After going around the world in little more than eighty days, the BCCI cracked the difficult task of finding Bharath ka Cricketing Dronacharya, who would make the Aussies cut their little finger and present him as Gurudakshina, so that his Indian Arjuns face no real competition. Ladies and Gentlemen, please make way fooooorrrrrr…Graham Ford. And in walks the suave and soft-spoken Ford to replace the nasty Chap.
But what do we hear now? Soft spoken Ford, turns sneaky little Ford, and delivers one tight slap right across the BCCI’s face, and says, he’s really happy with his cosy little job with the Kent, thank you very much. Ladies and Gentlemen, at this juncture, we pause for the shocked silence reaction…………………………………….
And the pandemonium breaks loose again! How will be the next? Ford said no. Embury said no. Ravi Shastri said no. Sunil Gavaskar said no. Er…can we just pretend to throw out Dada again, and then offer him a comeback as Coach? Or now that Sehwag is not playing, he can step in?
Our cricket team has been getting more than its due of flak after the dismal performance since the World Cup (the 1983 one I mean). Yeah so they didn’t do all that well in the World Cup (again), in fact they were quite bad, in fact they lost to Bangladesh (haawwwww!), but then they did beat Bangladesh in their own soil you know (serves them right too! I mean, that will teach them not to mess with the bestesht Westside clothed, Pepsi drinking, Sahara flying, Videocon watching, Nike sporting team in the whoooo-oo-ool world, ha!). Does not mean that they be treated like kids who were denied TV because they flunked in their high school exam! Good that bad bad BCCI got its due of tight slaps to. But question still remains, who will be the next slapgoat?
So there. The next person who calls me confused in life will get a sixer hit right on his/her face. Hrrrummmpph!
Let’s take a look at the events that have been making headlines in the past month.
Kaun Banega Rashtrapathi (oh I love lame lines)
All segments in the political streets must be collectively berating the day they came up with the brilliant idea of pushing Kalam for the President. The man who showed the promise of being the poster boy for the secular happy family of Indian politics, turned out to the Prodigal son who never returned. He made himself shamelessly popular as the People’s President, won everyone’s heart (except for the politicians, who dragged him to The Big Bhavan in the first place) with his ready smile and wannabe curly locks. He poked his nose in their decisions, brought the much forgotten, and “eminently avoidable” (that’s what some news paper called it) issue of the Office of Profit debacle to the forefront, generally cared to be a little more than the proverbial “rubberstamp”, while forcing them to pull their acts together.
So when the talk can of re-election started, the political brotherhood forgot their differences and said a unanimous “Nought!”. That did in a common bee in their collective bonnets, but it posed the next problem—choosing the next candidate. Everybody who was somebody had his name being thrown in for the race—from The Big Bee Bachchan to Big Mentor Murthy. Bachchan mercifully saw the ridiculousness in the situation and refused even before they could offer. The county turned to Mr. Narayan Murthy to be Bharath’s First Bacha. But just as things were looking promising, he went and proclaimed in full media view that he found singing the national anthem embarrassing. (this of course is the classic example of media misquoting the innocent celebrity—what he actually said that they played the instrumental version of the anthem, instead of singing it in Infy in a ceremony that welcomed President Kalam because they “had a number of foreign delegates in the gathering, and it might have embarrassed them while we sing the anthem”. Of course this statement makes no sense whatsoever, so I guess the media’s twist at least made for juicy news watch).
Anyways, just about a week after the current Mr. President proclaimed that Mr. Murthy would make a wonderful Next Mr. President, the “corporate leader with a good heart and a golden vision” had his fall from grace, as the media gleefully pumped holes into his hitherto impeccable image. Suddenly he became the man who “shows his ignorance of India's caste struggle and its background” for his views on reservation, his views on Indian languages “lacked self-respect and pride” and “his corporate philosophy allowed no space for healthy cultural pride”. Having burnt their fingers once with a non-politician, the county’s elected rulers decided to play it safe—they could hardly go after a man who had such prideless views, when all we Indians collectively puff up our chest at the sound of the national anthem. So after some star struck followers of Murthy indignantly proclaimed that the whole “national anthem” issue was blown out of proportion, we just decided to put that chapter behind us, and move on.
It was then the mad race to choose the Next Indian Political Idol (to be sure, the President is really just expected to stay put and be worshipped as the democratic God). And all parties left no stoned unturned to look at all the ageing candidates who were in the trishakhu stage of pretty much not doing anything (okay, so if we agree to make you the President, will you please get off our face?) Karan Singh? AB Vajpayee? Bhairon Singh Shekhawat? Sushil Kumar Shinde? Or can we just quickly check if Pranab Mukherjee will like being the President better than being External Affaires Man? Or if Somnath Chatterjee got bored of being the Speaker? The Left considered name dropping to be beneath themselves so they came up with “job requirements” for the profile: the candidate should have “secular credentials, experience in public life and Parliament and one who could ensure balance between the judiciary, Parliament and the executive.” Just add water, and your President is now ready to be served!
The Presidential elections are less than a week away, and it seems it’s our very own Home Minister, who has agreed to be disposed off. It has been a tough battle folks. The super intelligent posh IT guy from Bangalore wanted His Mentor to be P, and Paaji from Patiyala and Munnu from Mumbai along with Amar Singh and Anil Ambani, wanted Bachchansaahab to be P, BJP wanted the VP to be P, Congress wanted EFM or HM to be P, Left wanted a miracle to be P, and my friendly neighbourhood doodhwala wanted his angreji speaking son-in-law to be P. If you have a candidate to be the first servant of India, don’t be disheartened, one week is seven days. As Udhay Chopra famously proclaimed in a very forgettable movie, “Saath din mein yeh duniya saath baar ghoom jati hai”, you never know.
The Indian Idol, Part 2, Meets The Great Indian Comedy Show
I’m referring, of course to the long drawn, nail biting, extra large bucket of butter popcorn demanding selection of the great Indian Scapegoat, a.k.a, The Indian Cricket Coach. The BCCI had decided that it had enough with the players getting so much attention for being Gods, and they feeling all left out like the 12th player. It also had enough with coaches who made presentation on their laptops on how BCCI sucked and decided that the next coach should be the epitome of cricketing brilliance, someone who can handle tantrums of players, and politics of selectors, and be the darling of the media, drop charmingly funny, and brilliantly lickass soundbites about how the boys tried real hard, and how it was just bad weather and lack of addidas shoes that lost the match, and how the BCCI was the best thing that happened to him. Of course he should be able to handle the occasional slap that came hurtling out of the bubbling blue billion.
After going around the world in little more than eighty days, the BCCI cracked the difficult task of finding Bharath ka Cricketing Dronacharya, who would make the Aussies cut their little finger and present him as Gurudakshina, so that his Indian Arjuns face no real competition. Ladies and Gentlemen, please make way fooooorrrrrr…Graham Ford. And in walks the suave and soft-spoken Ford to replace the nasty Chap.
But what do we hear now? Soft spoken Ford, turns sneaky little Ford, and delivers one tight slap right across the BCCI’s face, and says, he’s really happy with his cosy little job with the Kent, thank you very much. Ladies and Gentlemen, at this juncture, we pause for the shocked silence reaction…………………………………….
And the pandemonium breaks loose again! How will be the next? Ford said no. Embury said no. Ravi Shastri said no. Sunil Gavaskar said no. Er…can we just pretend to throw out Dada again, and then offer him a comeback as Coach? Or now that Sehwag is not playing, he can step in?
Our cricket team has been getting more than its due of flak after the dismal performance since the World Cup (the 1983 one I mean). Yeah so they didn’t do all that well in the World Cup (again), in fact they were quite bad, in fact they lost to Bangladesh (haawwwww!), but then they did beat Bangladesh in their own soil you know (serves them right too! I mean, that will teach them not to mess with the bestesht Westside clothed, Pepsi drinking, Sahara flying, Videocon watching, Nike sporting team in the whoooo-oo-ool world, ha!). Does not mean that they be treated like kids who were denied TV because they flunked in their high school exam! Good that bad bad BCCI got its due of tight slaps to. But question still remains, who will be the next slapgoat?
So there. The next person who calls me confused in life will get a sixer hit right on his/her face. Hrrrummmpph!
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Tag Thee Well
Gah! I have been tagged. That too by my well-meaning friend Tsu I no, I'm not going to pretend that I did not enjoy this, or try too hard to make it interesting. :P
Let's do this the old fashioned way of "ours is not to question why...."
Rules are (yeah there are rules and rulers and all that):
* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
So here it is:
1. "Weird" is my most abused word. I use it at least 347 times a day, for everything from the way my boss acts to the colour of that-guy-on-street-with-a-disapproving-look's face when I stuck out my tongue at him for staring. "Weird" is the new "cute" for me...while other gals use "cute" to describe their puppy dog's wagging tail, and their boy friend's antics, I use "weird" with just same the passion. And yes, I have different shades and grades of "Weird". I know...that's weird :P
2. I firmly believe that UFOs are NOT cover-up for the air force's secret mission leaking out, somewhere in this world, there HAS to be a Hogwarts, and that someday machines WILL take over the world. And Oh, I HATE the idea of AI.
3. I can believe in absolutely contradictory things, and not be freaked out by it. Like I believe in love and I believe in arranged marriages, I hate wannabes, but I feel sorry for them. There are times when my mind neatly divides itself into teams and tangents, and then dashes of in different directions, leaving the rest of me to figure out which direction it (the rest of me, that is) should follow, or whether it should follow at all.
4. I often use words that I heard someplace, but I really don't understand the exact meaning of, and get away with it. For example, I do not really know what tangent is doing in that sentence in the previous point, but I bet the life of the ant-running-through-my-desk that it did not seem out of place for you...till you read this that is.
5. I can read Mills and Boon to wash off the aftermath of reading two Ayn Rands in a span of 6 months.
6. I can tell you the color of your dress when I was introduced to you first (that is if I care for you enough) but miserably fail to recall where I left my cell after I attending the call, just five minutes ago.
7. If someone sings a song that I don't like in front of me, or I hear it on the radio, then it gets stuck in my head, and can refuse to leave. I will keep playing in my head, I will unconsciously start humming that song, and then get pissed with myself when I realize what I am doing.(I could NOT get Paris Hilton's Stars are Blind out of my head for THREE days. And I did NOT enjoy it)
8. I feel connections with random story that I read, random movie/soap that I watch when I'm confused. Its like I'm looking for an answer, and then God just slaps it right in front of my nose, because it is that obvious, and I still refuse to see it.
9. I can lose COMPLETE sense of time when I'm doing something I love, I can get throughly lost in a place I don't know, because my sense of direction is PATHETIC. But, BUUT, I will always always find the way too. So don't ask me why you should take a left here and a right there...I can't tell you why, but I can tell you that you need to...just.
And oh they asked only for 8...my blogger page just refused to have anything more to do with weirdness. For those who still wanna know about my weirdo-meter, you just have to want for a couple of decades when my complete and unabridged version of my autobiography is out.
Oh, I'm supposed to spread the joy and pass this to 8 more souls. So here goes nothing:
1. Lash...because he would JUST refuse to take this up, or even consider the offer. He would scoff at the futility of this exercise, and how it is beneath his dignity to even consider this. AND now he might just take it up to prove me wrong. (sits back with an accomplished evil grin to see how he reacts ;))
2. Er...Mathew. Because I stole his tag. Or well I said I would. (If you have done this before, too bad, you'll just have to figure 8 more weird facts bout thyself :P)
3. Vodka, because she "found me" and "she needs to spend more time on blogosphere" :P
4. Goldenash...because I just got reminded of her RIGHT now for some inexplicable reason
5. The first person who reads this (every likely he/she is bored too)
6. Anyone born on the 26th of October ( just for the heck of it)
7. Anyone who likes listening to Stars are blind
8. Anyone who uses cute more than twice on a daily basis :P
Let's do this the old fashioned way of "ours is not to question why...."
Rules are (yeah there are rules and rulers and all that):
* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
So here it is:
1. "Weird" is my most abused word. I use it at least 347 times a day, for everything from the way my boss acts to the colour of that-guy-on-street-with-a-disapproving-look's face when I stuck out my tongue at him for staring. "Weird" is the new "cute" for me...while other gals use "cute" to describe their puppy dog's wagging tail, and their boy friend's antics, I use "weird" with just same the passion. And yes, I have different shades and grades of "Weird". I know...that's weird :P
2. I firmly believe that UFOs are NOT cover-up for the air force's secret mission leaking out, somewhere in this world, there HAS to be a Hogwarts, and that someday machines WILL take over the world. And Oh, I HATE the idea of AI.
3. I can believe in absolutely contradictory things, and not be freaked out by it. Like I believe in love and I believe in arranged marriages, I hate wannabes, but I feel sorry for them. There are times when my mind neatly divides itself into teams and tangents, and then dashes of in different directions, leaving the rest of me to figure out which direction it (the rest of me, that is) should follow, or whether it should follow at all.
4. I often use words that I heard someplace, but I really don't understand the exact meaning of, and get away with it. For example, I do not really know what tangent is doing in that sentence in the previous point, but I bet the life of the ant-running-through-my-desk that it did not seem out of place for you...till you read this that is.
5. I can read Mills and Boon to wash off the aftermath of reading two Ayn Rands in a span of 6 months.
6. I can tell you the color of your dress when I was introduced to you first (that is if I care for you enough) but miserably fail to recall where I left my cell after I attending the call, just five minutes ago.
7. If someone sings a song that I don't like in front of me, or I hear it on the radio, then it gets stuck in my head, and can refuse to leave. I will keep playing in my head, I will unconsciously start humming that song, and then get pissed with myself when I realize what I am doing.(I could NOT get Paris Hilton's Stars are Blind out of my head for THREE days. And I did NOT enjoy it)
8. I feel connections with random story that I read, random movie/soap that I watch when I'm confused. Its like I'm looking for an answer, and then God just slaps it right in front of my nose, because it is that obvious, and I still refuse to see it.
9. I can lose COMPLETE sense of time when I'm doing something I love, I can get throughly lost in a place I don't know, because my sense of direction is PATHETIC. But, BUUT, I will always always find the way too. So don't ask me why you should take a left here and a right there...I can't tell you why, but I can tell you that you need to...just.
And oh they asked only for 8...my blogger page just refused to have anything more to do with weirdness. For those who still wanna know about my weirdo-meter, you just have to want for a couple of decades when my complete and unabridged version of my autobiography is out.
Oh, I'm supposed to spread the joy and pass this to 8 more souls. So here goes nothing:
1. Lash...because he would JUST refuse to take this up, or even consider the offer. He would scoff at the futility of this exercise, and how it is beneath his dignity to even consider this. AND now he might just take it up to prove me wrong. (sits back with an accomplished evil grin to see how he reacts ;))
2. Er...Mathew. Because I stole his tag. Or well I said I would. (If you have done this before, too bad, you'll just have to figure 8 more weird facts bout thyself :P)
3. Vodka, because she "found me" and "she needs to spend more time on blogosphere" :P
4. Goldenash...because I just got reminded of her RIGHT now for some inexplicable reason
5. The first person who reads this (every likely he/she is bored too)
6. Anyone born on the 26th of October ( just for the heck of it)
7. Anyone who likes listening to Stars are blind
8. Anyone who uses cute more than twice on a daily basis :P
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