So long, so very long

Yesterday was like a mini 2009. 2009 has been excruciatingly long, with too many people and too many changes. Yesterday was long. I divided myself into many people - I did not particularly like one part of me during the night, but it doesn't really matter.
I went to visit an old friend. I walked a bit. It's brilliant in Cal now. It's a proper winter after ages. There's this lazy, wonderful sun winking at you through the dusty trees - there's a smell of oranges and cold cream - everything that makes winter in Calcutta a proper winter. I was trying to de-romanticize it as much as I could while walking down this lane - but I really am not frillying it. It was pretty damn it. Like this old, persistent lover, reminding you that, she's still got that certain something that no other boob job floosey can ever have.
But then there came a time in the evening where I was reminded why I left Cal in the first place. It's bloody small, and everyone knows everyone. Everyone goes to fucking Park Street in the evening when they want to go out for a drink. With talks of same and same and same.
I want my room in Pune, I want my frog pond, the hills. I want my flat in Bangalore, beer in coffee cups and shivering smokes in the verandah. I want my Delights Dosa and green benches and guitar in Xavier's. My Yeats classes, my Look Back in Anger classes. My Sudoku in Mirza's classes. My metro ride home. My auto rides to my many homes. Screenings. Editing at night. My millions of afternoons at Esplanade Mansions. My room in S1. The kitchen. The TV. My fucking life in a million fucking pieces. Cannot be. Is not. In Park Street. Drinking. Stupidly. With talks of same.
Fuck, I feel old. And I fill full. Stuffed. And I'm trying too hard to be profound. It's just one of the days. I can't articulate. I can't be simple and unpretentious. I'm vague and horrible.

Home?

So here's the deal. I'm back in Cal, I have a job in Bombay and it feels like I've left my entire life behind in Bangalore. Home is okay. I don't have my room to myself, but I surprisingly don't care. Right now, everyone's at work or something. There's the comfort of familiarity. Smells of frying fish, cold cream, aftershave. But this could be anywhere - because I'm not here in my head.
I guess an independent life spoils you. This is not the feeling I had when I came back home from hostel. Then I'd be irritable, I'd be dying for a smoke, I'd be bored without my friends around me all the time. It's not like that now. I know it's only been a day, but I miss the simple things, just the simple rituals of a simple day. I miss boiling the milk in the morning. Having my coffee my way. Kellog's Oat bites. Watching the news and VH1 while chomping on cereal. Cooking dinner. A smoke after dinner. Desultory, but still independent. It's not like that at home.
But, I'm at peace. I don't feel particularly irritable or restless or anything. Yes, I get mollycoddled a bit, and there are way too many questions first thing in the morning - but it's okay. These are my people and they love me. Why be a sourpuss about that?
Life goes on. I know Bombay won't be like Bangalore. It's unfair to expect that from Bombay. It's a different city, with different people - just like Cal is different. It's not better or worse. It's just different. And you get used to anything. So yeah. Note to self: Stop getting so goddamn sentimental.
Note to S1: Cook, clean, wash dishes, watch Glee, Grey's and HIMYM (you can order from Chung's then), go out for brunch, talk, C don't smoke alone too much, switch off the gas, do random dances, and stop spending so bloody much! :)

Govinda rules

Keifer Sutherland, superhit. That's how old I am today.
I have never been crazy about birthdays. I mean, I like them, but it always seems like a day filled with the pressure of being happy. It's a birthday, but why does it HAVE to be happy?
When I was a kid, I used to love birthdays. Not just mine, everyone's. I'd love to wake up on a cold morning (those days, it would be cold in Cal in December), and watch my parents put up streamers in the living room. Then there'd be loads of hugs and kisses, a card, a gift, the cake for later on in the evening. 21st would be the last day of school, so everyone would be superhappy, pushing all the desks to the corner of the classroom, putting up Christmas decorations and just doing all the crazy after exam before holiday things. We'd sing carols, stage silly plays, then dance on top of the desks. Some cool kid would bring her "deck" and that's it. Even the head mistress couldn't do a thing about it. D would get alu kabli and samosas, and I'd probably get Pepsi in a flask, someone would get something or the other, and we'd have a feast. If we got some pocket money, we'd buy orange sticks.
Back home, we'd have a party - which was fun, but even then, I was always a little stressed out. Everyone would be there. Right from Didu Mashi and Mesho Dadu to my dance teacher and best friend from the neighbourhood. I'd be bratty and nyaka and stress out about my "new dress" which I had to wear no matter what. The funnest part was when everyone finally left, the lights were dimmed, and Dada and I would sit and open my presents. Before I knew it, the day would be over - but I wouldn't mind terribly because Christmas and Baba's birthday would just be 4 days away.
Over the years, the wonder of happy birthdays did fade - but then again, you're not six forever. Presents make me nervous, too many wishes make me depressed, I feel old, I feel restless - I don't know - I just want the day to finish fast so that everyone can bloody relax. I guess I never know what to do with too much attention, even if it is all real, and born out of love. I'm always scared that my gratitude will not be enough - that I might seem ungrateful or unhappy. I'm not - I'm happy - I really, really am. And I am grateful for all that I have in my life. Okay, enough.
So I decided to celebrate Keifer in Bangalore and I am so, so glad. We had the funnest time last night - which had water pistols, champagne, fake bands, a Christmas tree (so so pretty), Chiniss bulbs, delish food and delish friends. We ALL got presents, and no-one got drunk or stupid, which you will realise after a while, is a GOOD thing. I was genuinly, completely happy.
I love this home, and it breaks my heart to leave. But, none of that now. For today though, thanks man.

Wake up, 'cause they said so

I was just thinking the other day while flipping through news channels that, if I were a journalist - I'd be very very tired of the world. And very very cynical. It has got to be one of the toughest times being a journalist now. In fact, it's a pretty tough time being an Indian as well. We're a democracy - we decide our own fates - or do we?
With all our idealistic youthfulness, we decide voting helps. Voting for the right people helps. But pray, who are these right people? And more importantly, how many of us know them? It's not just a lack of education that deceives us. Sometimes too much of it does. We are stirred into action by Arnab Goswami's in-your-face "journalism" on television. We are thrilled by Rahul Gandhi's deep dimples and well, serious insights. We are wowed by Sashi Tharoor and P. Chidambaram's eloquence. We light candles and we sing songs like it's Woodstock. We blog, we campaign. We become "responsible citizens". We hate the bad guys, we cheer on the good guys. We are, in a word, "jagoing". Because a big daddy of the corporate world told us so. The same big daddy who abandoned a small district in Bengal the moment he smelled trouble. See what I mean?
I don't mean to be cynical. I would like to believe that the words of Mahatma - "Be the change you want to see" - are not just words. That brand Mahatma is not just for the benefit of a pen company. Or that there's nothing beyond Mahatma that made India.
What is this country we are living in now? A country where it's okay to parade women naked, beat them at will, keep them uneducated? A country where a Dalit MP builds statues worth millions of herself instead of building schools or hospitals? A country where to become a doctor, you have to "donate" money to so that the principal can enjoy a nice bottle of Chianti or a rendezvous in Switzerland? A country that has ceased to have a mind of its own?
If we allow it - we're indifferent - we're just a bunch of complaining fools. If we don't allow it - well, we run the risk of being killed sometimes. Catch 22. I'm plain depressed.

I hate all this talk. I hate it. Fuck it. Just do things. Blog about it later. Make witty ads about it later. Send edgy emailers about it later. Clean the mess you're in first. Then you can take care of the world.

I hate deciding. I feel like a chump now. But oh well. I did decide eventually, and the ball is no longer in my court.
I saw Rocket Singh Salesman of the year yesterday and I loved it. I think people who have been in shitty jobs like Rocket's (15000 a month, without PF or Gratuity or dignity....ring a bell?) will appreciate it the most.
I need a BRAND NEW thing to look forward to. Like a snowing city. Or bagel and cream cheese. Or riding a bike (not cycle, motor). Or a fun boyfriend. Or a new TV series. Or singing on stage. You know what I mean? I'm beginning to feel a little jaded. Sigh.

On the Road - again.

So I'm officially a post graduate, beer bottle breaker, chronic train traveller and violent insect killer now.

We lived in a small hotel room in Pune, where all these boys came, drank and left beer bottles in the verandah and then I accidentally dropped one, which made the hotel owner think we were a bunch of rowdies. We were, but not that much also. Pune is dusty, indifferent and kind of depressing.I still like FTII though, much much more than my own college.

I was supposed to go back to my new crispy city after our sham convocation, but then Bombay called me again. Bombay has been totally fucking with my head. It just can't decide whether to like me or not. I honestly do not care. I just want to go back home and watch How I Met Your Mother. But while I was here, I spoke to some people, made epic journeys from Harbour Lines to Western Lines, ate Apple Chicken once again and bought a hat from Colaba.

I have a slight cold now, from all the pollution and travel and too much smoking. I always end up smoking way too much in Pune, and I don't like it.

Among other things, my old boss bitched about me, I wrote an emotional letter to a professor and I have a crush on this guy on my FB list, when I really, really shouldn't. I should sleep now. I'm still in Bombay and am wearing S's clothes. Goodnight.

It's done folks. I have QUIT!

Do you realiiiiiiiize?

....That I'm basically one big whiner? So, it's time. To stop. And move on with with whatever needs to be moved on with. End of the day, I plan to submit my resignation letter (the proper one) and go home jobless, penniless et cetera. Which is okay - I am going to do what a recent acquaintance calls "smelling the flowers".

I never thought I'd be a copywriter, but I was one for almost 6 months - and they haven't been altogether wasted. I have learnt a few things, and also reached level 35 of Mafia Wars (woohoo).

2009 has been a year of endless waiting. Nothing much happened, apart from the usual KLPD, but yes, I did shift to a new city with great friends, a lovely home and awesome weather - and for that I'm grateful. I never got to see Rahul Dravid though, and for that, I am sorely disappointed.
I could say I want something utterly fabulous to happen by the end of this year, but I don't. I want it to be status quo, and very very still, so that I can hear myself think. Right now, I must finish whatever work's left, so that they don't eat my head up about how "unprofessional" I am.

Today is Grey

I had a dream last night that my parents, my brother and I went on a road trip of some kind. We stopped by some dhabaesque place, tubelit in the evening, eating a thali (I'd never eat a thali at a dhaba, fyi - only tandoori roti, kaali daalish stuff) and my father walked out for some work outside. I followed him out and saw him at a paan dokan buying either paan or cigarettes. My father doesn't smoke or chew paan, so it was a little weird seeing him there. But I thought I saw something akin to a cigarette in his hands. So I took one out myself and lit up in front of him. But when I went closer, it wasn't a cigarette at all, but one of those Charlie Chaplin cigarette candy thingies. And here I am, in front of my father, smoking away to glory. So he's like, "Wtf! You're smoking?" and I'm like, "Yeah, I thought you were smoking", and he's shocked, devastated even, but I keep smoking, because I don't know what else to do. And then I say, making matters worse, "Look, I smoke okay? Just one a day. Maybe two. Maximum three. And those two months I was in Cal, I barely smoked" - and of course, he's still in shock - and I'm almost done with the smoke, but still not stubbing it. Then I finally do, and he puts his arm around me and says, "Look, I'm not stupid. You lived in hostel, went to college - you get exposed to all kinds of things - but this is terrible for you. This is not how we brought you up". And I'm just glad he's talking to me, so I'm still a little arrogant. We go in, and I sit next to my mother and she scrunches up her nose and says "You smoked or what? Smelling of cigarettes...". By now, I have nothing to lose, because my father knows, and I'm like "Yeah, yeah, I smoked. I do smoke, so get over it already". And my parents are suddenly looking at me like I'm another person altogether, and I feel like I'm no longer their daughter and my brother is just shaking his head in disappointment.

So yeah. Some road trip.

I'm pretty sure though, this is how the turn of events would be in real life as well, were it to happen. Maybe I'd get a whack on the head, additionally and be called something akin to "paka", which is a delicious little Bengali word with no appropriate translation. Over-ripe? Ahead of oneself? Meh.

December 6th, is my convocation. It's not in America or UK, it's not snowing, and none of my parents or family members will be there, but I will get a hat and a robe and a lame ass degree. So yay. I'm in love with the underdog myth, which is an indirect way of saying I'm in love with myself, but oh well - it's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it.

It really is a small world sometimes. Like our small school world. College world. Post Grad world. Work world. In these little worlds of ours, we really are separated by six degrees. Everyone, knows every fucking one. It is bloody scary.
I wish I could give an example (in fact I tried, but deleted it), but everyone would know who I was talking about, because you guessed it - Everyone knows everyone.

Anyway, I'm supposed to be working on some really boring stuff today, so of course I'm playing mafia wars. I discovered the joys of photolibrary.com, and I love it. I've been designing random things of late, like party invites, wedding invites etc, and I think I should just sell them (see Nic, I'd do it for money. I lurve money).

December is drawing nearer. I can't help but think of Delhi, the trip to Rajasthan, my pretty room with a mouldy verandah and cold sunshine, the sharp stars in Ranthambore. I think I vaguely miss it. But I've said this before, so yeah. Last year, this time, we were glued to Uttam's computer watching the news, and feeling some strange unidentifiable feeling. The world has not changed at all.

I miss Cal in winter too. Park Street, chinese bulbs, monkey tupi, impending Christmas. I miss college and choir and looking out of room 19 into the college courtyard at a big bright star when I wanted to zone out from the lectures. This one, below. I miss it.

Anyway, I am SO maudlin. I have an uncertain December ahead of me. I'd like to go someplace with snow, I really do.

Okay, anyway, it's been 2 hours since I've come to work and not done a thing. Time to get back.

I have lost a telephone
with your smell in it

I am living beside the radio
all the stations at once
but I pick out a Polish lullaby
I pick it out of the static
it fades I wait I keep the beat
it comes back almost alseep

Did you take the telephone
knowing I'd sniff it immoderately
maybe heat up the plastic
to get all the crumbs of your breath

and if you won't come back
how will you phone to say
you won't come back
so that I could at least argue

- Leonard Cohen, Waiting for Marianne

Bird on the wire

It's strange weather. It get's cold, then hot and then it rains and gets cold again.

Right now, I'm supposed to "reposition" an ad. Maybe I wouldn't have to if they just let me "position" it in the first place. But like many things, this too followed the general brief of - "Dumb it down" - and hence.

I needed a little bit of a change a few days ago, so I went out by myself to buy some books and generally strolled around the city. I bought way too many books, which I know I probably even won't have time to read, but still, it felt nice just to have them. I went to the Magazine store to check out the Persian cat, but he wasn't there. I quite like that cat. Then I went to another store to buy some face scrub and kajaal, because I needed it. There is no point to this really.

I wish sometimes, I didn't have any of the post adoloscent existential angst. I wish I could be as happy as it seems on paper without having to dig and analyse and mutilate. Or maybe, I wish that I could just channel it differently. Yes, I think that's what I would like very, very much. I don't like this vegetable at all.

On Saturday, same day as my solitary excursion, I spent the afternoon pleasantly stoned, as gloomy Saturday afternoons are meant to be spent. I had my yellow table lamp on, and the room was clean and toasty. I had a sudden urge to read Eliot - I hadn't for months now.

So I read The Selected Poems, the one with my mother's pencilled scrawls, and I felt all, "Aha, yes"ish. I read the last stanza of Prufrock and thought of Marcello, from La Dolce Vita, and how he couldn't hear the girl at the beach. And then of course, because we all think we're poets, I thought about myself. It was a pleasant stoning.

After reading his recent post, I wonder why I'm really stalling this quitting process. Maybe, because my Dad asked me to hold on for a few more days. Till I get something new. Maybe. Or like many things, I'm too afraid to take a chance. I'm too happy being miserable. Is that it? I don't know. I think I just like to not do anything. That's that really. I just like to sit on a wire, bobbing up and down, and watch as the world passes me by. And I'm quite excellent at it, if I may say so myself.

Look, look

Today, I just felt like showing off a friend's fantastic work. A real inspiration - a very cooky, hands on photographer. Got me used to the fact that Photoshop can be used not only to correct a photograph, but to enhance it - make it absolutely funky. And I've seen her grow as a photographer - develop different styles and a visual language of her own - so it feels great to share this link with you guys and let you in on what I know. Presenting the very talented Suenno's photostream.
Check out her sets and collections for more organised viewing.

Everybody Wants To Be Found

But nobody's looking. So after watching what I can easily say is an almost perfectly scripted film, I feel strangely liberated. It's almost relavant as well, but I feel more like Bill Murray than Scarlett Johansson. Bill Murray looks like a big sigh. Even when he's smiling. No? I absolutely love him.
I would like to write more, but right now my brain feels like fuzz. I am STILL working here, and I'm tired of being a whiny, irritatable/ting person with a sigh-like face. Maybe, I will update this later.

The letter that wasn't

This is what I'd LOVE to say:
Dear X and Y,
While it's been wonderful working at your organisation, where I downloaded hours worth of music, videos, played Mafia Wars and Facebooked like crazy, I think it's time for me to quit. I think this arrangement would suit both you and me, because you see, no wait, what am I saying? You DON'T see. You don't see ANYTHING. You're like 2 blind mice, trying to take my eyes out as well like some crazy Saw movie. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I cannot continue to romanticize my flaking wallflower existence anymore, because turns out, someone else beat me to it. The entire point of working in a small organisation is to learn more and do more - and stick to it despite a poor salary, no PF, no conveyance and no insurance of any kind. It would have been FINE. But you know, it's NOT, when your bosses treat you like shit despite working hard and making an effort to be, well, friendly. Yes, yes, I know, I'm making it sound like I'm some sort of a poor victim here (which incidentally, I AM), but let's forget the whining for a bit. I am concerned X and Y. I am concerned because your organisation is small, and barely staying afloat and you still faff around like you're in college. You send an inexperienced newbie like me, to go and deal with a client, because you stormed out of a meeting, because you felt insulted. You almost lost a client and sent ME, to salvage things? Like, seriously? It's been almost a year since you got this office, and you've still not done it up. Your generator doesn't work beyond an hour. You forget to pay your bills. You lie all the time on the phone and you're always making fun of clients. And the jokes aren't even funny.
And let's get to the work bit. I get it agencies can sometimes be slow. Sometimes there's a lot of work, sometimes none for days. But when there IS work, and you're making me do it, kindly acknowledge the fact that you have received my emails and actually READ what I have written. Because there have been times you know, when you haven't even opened an attachment and forwarded it to the clients. And it's not like you unquestionably trust my abilities - you're just frikking lazy man. Next time, I'll just write about Debbie doing Dallas and....oh wait, there won't BE a next time.
Anyhoo. Thanks for all the free internet and...yeah, that's about it.
Toodles.
Engee.

This is a blind kind of love

How else would you explain it? When you don't see what other's see so clearly, so evidently. How you'd just freefall into something so obviously dubious (obvious to others, not to you). How you'd just give up your most deeply guarded thoughts and possessions for that single ounce of love in return. My mom was right (moms always are). The only reason why blind love sucks is because, eventually, it hurts. Like fucking much. Not her exact words, of course, but you know what I mean.
In my defence, and perhaps in the defence of others, this is the only way I know how to love or live. I freefall into jobs, major decisions, relationships, crises, comforts - everything. I never think things through. I may give it a semblence of logic when I'm arguing my case, but seriously, who am I kidding? I'm never really thinking. Which is why, blind love is stupid, you lovestruck puppy you. Which is why, when you gain a little vision, you realise (sometimes much too late), that you are up the shit creek without a paddle. Life stinks. So get real. Get yourself checked. And yes, maybe get a little miserable before, so that you don't get miserable after.
So yeah, Tennyson would say a lot of flouncy little words to argue with my mom (en garde!) - "Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." - et cetera, and well, I agree. You all need a little bit of pain to get real - but 'get real' it eventually does. It'll be stripped of all its poetry and wonder, and be a hot little sore on your ass. Can you deal with it? If you can, go ahead, love and lose. FYI, people with sob stories about ex-es are painfully boring. It's okay a couple of times, but after sometime, it's like, "Meh. Here we go again."
Now, if for some reason, your blind love is luckily a bullseye (don't we all wish that?), then woohoo. You're the one everyone will compare themselves to and follow your lead, and end up really hurt and miserable because they weren't that lucky. But seriously, woohoo. So happy for you.

Sigh. I realise this sounds rather cynical, but really, I'm seeing much too much of it. Take care of your gooshy little hearts amigos, because, well...my mom said so.

Update: (Thanks Nic) -
See these -
http://luca.wordpress.com/2009/05/19/un-voices-campaign/
http://www.digitalbuzzblog.com/best-job-in-the-world-case-study/

Complain, complain

Today for a change, I was early for work. As always, there was no-one there. A little later the cleaning lady joined me on the steps and spoke to me in Kannada. I kept smiling like an idiot and saying "gothilla", and she kept playing dumb charades. After a while we both got bored. I went back to my i-pod, and she stared into space. About 40 minutes later the office was opened and here I am.
I don't really care much, but man, they are kind of piling on the rubbish, no?
Anyway, of late, I've been having more auto problems than ever before. So yesterday, after standing forever at this place, waiting for an auto to agree to take me, I felt this overwhelming rage towards the system (yeah yawn, I know). I wanted to write to the CM, the PM - the great god atop this bureaucratic mess! See - this is what -

• I spend 70 rupees everyday to get to work (which I don't even enjoy, but thassnotthepoint). I have to take an auto to get here, because there is no direct bus - and if I were to take the longer route, it would take me around 2 hours to get to work (yes that's right - I've done it). And believe me, it's not out of laziness that I don't leave my house at 8 (seriously, would you like to go to a workplace that makes you wait for 40 mins before opening its gates?).
• Now since I spend 70 rupees in going, I try and compensate by taking the bus back home. But what do you know? I have to wait for over half an hour sometimes (sometimes more) for the bus to show up. If I'm lucky, I get to sit.
• Next, I have to take a second bus or an auto to go back home. If I take a bus, I'll have to walk another kilometer upto home - which is okay, but I never know which bus to take because the destinations are all written in Kannada. Besides, they are horrendously crowded and one bus journey down, I just don't feel upto it. So I think, fine man, I earn - I can take an auto back - 30 Rs. But wait - these auto guys want to charge you 20 Rs more, or just click their tongues irritably and zip away. Did you know, an auto driver, cannot refuse to take you ANYWHERE - even if it is minimum fare? But who's stopping them? There's an auto stand nearby, but don't you dare go near those. They don't bargain. Flat 50 bucks, take it or leave it. They have a huge political flag waving over this pole near the stand. So it doesn't matter if a traffic police guy's standing there - you just don't mess with these guys.

So yeah, these are my woes. The roads are bad, the signages are not tourist friendly, and people will refuse to speak in Hindi or English and judge you for being an outsider. And language is a problem when an auto guy pretends not to understand you and take you down a longer, shadier route and let the meter run havoc. Oh and more often than not, the meters are rigged.

And I can almost hear the people say - if you hate it so much, why don't you just go back to where you came from? Calcutta. Hmm. Yeah, I remember having a fairly long list of grievances for my city as well. Dude, cities can be just plain rude. And human beings never stop complaining. Don't mind me if I roll one, and sit and vegetate for a bit. At least I won't be complaining.

Growing up

After a long and shivering phone conversation (I was shivering, because it was cold outside at 2.30 a.m.) my good bud K and I decided that we are finally adults now and that, it totally sucks sometimes.

We also decided that we like to make films the best, and that, the high of making one is so addictive that you cannot help but crave for it on days of nothing.

I decided that he is still a bit of a poet and needs to say bye to Cal, at least for now, because it is time.

Last year, in Delhi, when it was about this cold, or a little colder, I had a superbly lonely epiphany. And I'm so glad that it happened. And in Cal, for my two unemployed months, it happened again. Can you keep having them epiphanies? I don't know. Must check the Abrahm's Literary Terms book. Either way, K had his own coming-of-age story, which was kind of waiting to happen anyway. Good, good.

I have left this job mentally and emotionally, but the final act is pending. Once I do, it's going to be quite random again. There's only that much lipstick you can put on a pig.

Here There and Everywhere

This Bombay I tell you. I've been seeing too much of it of late. I don't mind it too much, but I'm starting to realise that travel, can sometimes be plain TIRING. I faked laryngitis for an interview in Bombay. But whenever I lie about some illness it usually comes true. Shifting back and forth from the sooty Bombay weather to the sudden crisp chill of Bangalore....hmm, it could happen.

I have a funky new haircut. I'm not saying it looks good on me or anything, but it's a funky haircut never the less. The funkiest I've ever gotten. I feel like a mix of that Do Co Mo chick (who goes Do co mooooo into a guy's ear) and short haired Izzy from Grey's. Inarguably, a wonderful well spent rainy Sunday. Walking down Cunningham Road, post haircut, in the rain, C spots this pasted randomly on a Canara Bank wall. Obviously, it warrants a click. Haha. I love it.

Post walk in the rain, there was some super lunch with all the flatmates at Fresco's and we all felt quite rich by the end of it, although our bank balances wouldn't necessarily agree.

Bombay was fun. Hot and horrid and traffic jammy, but for now, whatever. I have no expectations. It's just okay to float from one blissful existence to another without really committing to anything. I don't want to think about the future at all, so shush.

P.S. - try the Apple Chicken at Cafe Leopold's. Truly yum.

I have been nanowrimo-ed thanks to my room-mate. Since I am on a major positivity drive, I have decided to spend my baseless office hours into writing a novel. An anything kind of novel. And so far, it's been fun, albeit a little slow. Become a novelist here - http://www.nanowrimo.org. This is so trend-whorish.

P.S. I have an interview in Bombay, which I'm funnily not looking forward to.

Is fast becoming legen - wait for it - DARY!
I love. HIMYM is my new Friends.
I also love this. Oh click it already.

S- how hungover could they have been?
Jesushottie - about 367 thousand or so
- courtesy S, via Gtalk. Haha.

Nix

The answer to everything is zero. This, I have figured out. Everything without exception.

So, I have a fantastic beginning to the week. A powercut at work, a thanks-but-no-thanks letter from an organisation I wanted to work in (charming two liner, I mussay), a window which shows that MS Word has expired, and an assignment which inspires vomit. Brilliant. All Mondays should be like this.

My daily horoscope by Rick Levine is frighteningly accurate all the time. I mean, I know it's a lot of rubbish, because I used to write these fake horoscope thingies all the time when I was freelancing. But still, it's remarkable, how the bullshit someone writes can be so precisely congruent with the bullshit in your life. Oh well.

I really need a break from this blah-dee-dah life. Like a fantastic trip to Paris or something. Maybe, I should finally start working on the documentary with my cousin and stop obsessing about finances and stuff.

What I feel like doing MOST right now, is sitting in a veranda, peeling oranges, popping them in, while reading comic books. In some nice winter sun. In my shorts. And humongous t-shirts. And if anyone disturbs me, shoot them down with a gun.

Sigh. Batteries running out. Back to old pen and paper.

A day in the life

There's probably a ghost in the house, but never mind that.
I've realised (as have millions and millions and millions have already, I'm sure), I have a Beatles song for every mood, every occassion. Today feels like 'A Day in the Life'.

Woke up, fell out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,
And looking up I noticed I was late.
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
and Somebody spoke and I went into a dream

Aaaaaaaaaa. Sigh. Yesterday, I watched a movie sitting at my desk. Hitchcock's 'Spellbound'. I've seen better Hitchcock films, but this one had it's moments. It was full of these motifs, typical of Hitchcock films, and these super cool shots (I was in love with this one where Gregory Peck drinks milk - you see the shot from the perspective of the glass' bottom, while the milk flows towards the camera as the glass is being tilted. It's quite brilliant). And of course, the Dali dream sequence. I know a lot people think Dali is over-rated. I personally think, if Dali had been alive he'd be doing things you'd never imagine. He'd use the internet, the TV, the outer frikking space to express his surreal art. He was way ahead of his times, and the fact that he still makes you go, 'wow, who would have thought' even today, is proof enough of his brilliance. Anyway, getting back to Spellbound, Hitchcock himself referred to the film as "just another manhunt wrapped up in pseudo-psychoanalysis". Haha. I love Hitchcock. I was just going through some of his interviews, where he speaks about the American obsession with content. He believed that his main duty as a film-maker was to keep the viewer rivetted to the screen - and the only way he could do that was through his visuals. Let talk be a part of the background, the ambience as it were, was his theory. And you will of course, see that in all his films. Which is why the most ordinary plot, with pretty ordinary acting almost always ends up being an extraordinary film as a whole! I think we're so caught up in trying to sound cool, look cool, be cool, that we forget that we have to actually DO something to be perceived as cool. Like, work for instance. Hitchcock's films are anything but simplistic, though he'd love to fool you into believing that. He wants you to watch his film, be glued to the screen, get scared, get excited - even if you are responding to it at the most superficial level. But there's something in it for the most neurotic nitcpicker as well. He makes everyone happy. What a filmy Santa Claus.
Anyway. As always, I have no work at office today. It's exhausting, this no-work business. But, I've found a solution to this problem. This is, my gap year. For which I get paid, which is kind of cool. But it kind of takes the pressure of. So, I'm doing what I like doing - I'm watching films, TV, reading, wiki-ing, travelling and listening to a whole lot of music. Maybe I should start playing the guitar once again, and record some music. See, I AM trying to be positive about it all.

I'm irritated. I'm sitting here in office, blogging. I would work, IF there was any work to do. I can't sugercoat this. My. Job. Sucks.
This Airtel chick just called up about bills and stuff (the office bills - and our neighbouring office, not even ours) and obviously, I just didn't feel like explaining all that much, so I said no-one's here (which is true) and that I don't work here (which I wish was true). So this bitch (I mean, really, she was one), was like, "So, why you pick up the phone Miss? Huh?" And all this while, I've been polite (because hey, she's just doing her job and shit, right?), but when she says that, I want to totally unleash my inner demon and annihilate her, chop her up into ten thousand pieces and feed her to the sharks. Okay, maybe that's too much, but you know - I just feel this searing rage and I really need to give it back to her. So I do. And I'm actually a little kicked about how calm I sounded, and how much more polite I got. Controlled rage totally rocks.
So, anyway, she's back to her robotic customer service jargon, after I tell her in a sad polite hush, "There's really no need to be so rude" and I kind of semi-slam the phone (hey, I'm only human) because I cannot hear people say things, just because they have to say things.
Anyway, this was much more exciting 10 minutes ago.
Last night, I went to this pub with ear deafening music with a girlfriend, and considering my get up (T-shirt, jeans, floaters and a very old purple hoodie) and my short hair, and my petite little friend, next to whom I felt like Andre the Giant - they MUST have concluded that, we're a lesbian couple. We were trying to decide which one was worse - being mistaken for a lesbian or being mistaken for a pair of single women trying to pick up men. We decided the latter was worse, because being lesbian is totally alright, whereas being desperate isn't. It's like someone saying, Oh you're Punjabi? (no-one has though) when I am Bengali. It's no big deal. Not that Punjabis are lesbians. Okay, this is just getting weird. I shall just stop.

Postcards from Dilli

Today, for some reason, I was reminded of Delhi. Maybe, it was the weather. It's almost been a year. Anyway, so I sifted through some old writing and photographs from that time, and decided to put something together. It seems a little childish, a little contrived - but it's okay. I see it a lot in my old writing - this kid who's kind of stumbling through the big bad world and can't help but romanticize it. Okay, so maybe I still do it, but I get it. I get the superficiality of it. I find it tiresome to read through an endless stream of descriptions which don't really mean anything. They create a mood, and that's where it ends. It's so easy to be a critic, but it's super tough to actually do the right thing. Which is why, I say, it's okay. Even if the writing is a little too romantic, a little too dramatic. I'm learning.

It's funny - a friend of mine (who reads this sometimes) asked me if I have any writing that is "happy". And I was like, sure, I must - I'm a happy person. But wow. There was nothing that wasn't angsty. Everything else was fluffy rot. Either fluff or angst. There was some old stuff - like way back in college, but they were too, I don't know, English lit. Extremely influenced by whatever we were reading at that point of time. My own voice was kind of missing. And I'm still getting there - but I like it. I like going through old stuff. Sometimes I'm genuinly surprised by a piece of writing - and sometimes (most of the time) I'm so, so embarrassed. But it's fun nevertheless.

Everyone should write. Just write whatever. Writing rocks.

Here

Pic: Diya Lall, Kolkata 2009.

Happily, trips are still cool things to do. Fortunately, 19 hours pass without event or desperation when you know there is a plan waiting for you. The grim toilets on highways, the dug-out non-roads, the knot on your back – all of it, is a part of a grand surprise, and a story for later.
Unfortunately, the romance of this trip is pretty only on paper. The surprise is wonderful – but not yet solved in my head. It’s a sweet I’ll have on a lonely day. For now, it’s an event that came and went, rushed and splendid, like a wet dream – but not quite understood.
Today, I imagined myself making a video. I imagined adjusting the focal length, the shutter speed and the aperture, and changing the focus as my subject came closer to the camera. It was a pretty awesome shot of a kid running towards the edge of a small cliff into a dark pool of water. Many angles till the final leap, and then the splash caught in brilliant slow motion, the drops of water crystal clear and almost tangible.
Then I imagined scolding someone at a job - not firing him, but punishing him by making him stay. And then I fired a girl who was like me. A little slow, and in need of a shock - a very obvious, certain rejection.
Right now, there’s a power cut at work. I’m sitting in my corner, using my laptop, pretending like I don’t exist, and everyone else is also pretending the same. But funnily, I’m writing to tell myself, you are real, and this is happening – and it matters to just punch keys and freewheel. I’m here. Just don’t walk through me yet.

Don't say it, because as soon as you do, you want to take it back. Or if you say it, don't mean it too much, so it's still not really, really said. Maun vrat.

Dylan still rocks, and so does Cal.

Firstly, I am at home. And this has been one of the best holidays ever. Right now, sitting in front of our 6 year old Toshiba (I LOVE this old fellow), listening to Orbit rock, and I feel a general sense of bliss. I just finished watching an episode Beverly Hills 90210 on TV - and surprise, surprise - Dylan McKay still rocks. Haha. I forgot how much I used to like him!

This Diwali, has been a total blast from the past (I know, terrible - but all this ugly punning comes from writing radio spots and the like). I met family, friends (for once, the world seemed to have returned to Cal), went to old my neighbourhood, felt like I was 13 again (stole shy glances at the "brother you could never be"), lit tubris, chorkis and did my bit to add to global warming. My brother had a pre-birthday dinner, since we'd all be leaving by then, at one of my favourite restaurants, where I had first learnt to use chopsticks. It's been delicious, this visit, it really has.

I love it when Cal is all lit up and happy and we're all together as a family.

I miss my 90s. I miss Bev. Hills, denim, my cycle, Nirvana, playing guitar on my badminton racket and my grandparents. It was a seriously cool time.

Logo Love

As promised, I have links. Cool links. And I shall keep updating these links. So check them out everytime you need a bit of inspiration.
My Art Guy (who keeps getting these really cool Ad mags, illustration books), Platform magazine, Brandstack.com, and a general lack of work got me thinking. I made some logos for fun - and it IS a lot of fun. Check them out. Would love feedback!




















P.S.> Do NOT miss the worst music video EVER in the Vautch section

It starts with alarms. It ends with alarms. Your life is an unending commercial. The concept of a house, a home, a perfect one - all of it, is a commercial. The perfect floor cleaner, the freshest eggs, the strongest coffee, the best frikkin detergent powder for all those tough stains. The hum of the fridge, the beep of the microwave, the whirr of the mixer, the splashing of the washing machine, the blare of the TV – SFX baby. And you. You are at the centre of it all. The moronic model. The sampler. The example. The user of things.

Once you step out of the house/home, you are in a film. Or a music video at best. Life is hurled at you and you forge through the bloody deluge. You have to. You’re a hero. In a frikkin epic. The streets are difficult. Monsters, everywhere. Jungle beasts. But you hold your own. You’re programmed to. Like a zombie. Because this. Is. A. Horror movie.

There’s no time for niceties. Only at home. With tea and biscuits and yakkity yak. When you’re a Stepford wife. Then you’re nice. You’re very, very nice.

At work, the horror continues. Continues. Continues. Continues. Like a stuck reel. It just frikkin continues. Like your scariest movie moment. Mine’s a moment from ‘The Exorcist’. It’s green and disgusting and mind-blowingly twisted.

When you get back, when you do eventually, you are sick. Spotted, rotten, diseased. Your mind and your body are adjusting to your expendable, clout-less existence. Give it time. Once you’re in Stage-4 Zombiehood, you’ll be ABSOLUTELY FINE.

When you go to sleep...do you hear the alarms ring? Anyway, there’s always morning.

The Brother and Sister you could never be

I grew up in a little neighbourhood where everyone knew everyone, and sometimes knew each other a tad too well. I mean, you could hear people brushing their teeth, flushing toilets and fighting and fucking and all of that. Okay, maybe not fucking – but you know – nothing ever remained hidden. And while everyone had their flaws and deficiencies, there was universal acceptance and love for all. That’s a lot of bullshit, but you know, generally we all got along more or less alright. But there was this one family – particularly this brother and sister duo - who weren’t a part of this self assured middle class ring of acceptance. The sister was obese, had a failed marriage and was rarely seen. The brother had flunked several times in school, got kicked out of college, rode fast cars and bikes, had many girlfriends, drank a lot of alcohol and probably did drugs. Oh and listened to “English music” really loud.

Our buildings were connected, and our verandas were diagonally opposite to each other. Which meant I could always get a whiff of this guy’s cologne every time he stood there, and get to listen to all his loud English music and all of that. What’s more, we shared a common garage, so he often came to over to our apartment to ask for the car keys whenever he had to move our car in order to take his one out. He was always courteous, very charming and extremely respectful to my parents.

My family is not particularly judgemental, but for some reason or the other, we were warned constantly about not becoming like “them”. I was a fat kid. Every time I took an extra helping of dessert or something, my folk would be like – “You’ll become like her!” referring to the sister. When my brother and I would crank up the volume and listen to “hard rock” (read Bryan Adams), they’d be like, “You’re behaving just like that boy!” obviously referring to our neighbourhood bad boy, the brother.

Needless to say, I was fascinated by this forbidden fruit. The guy was exceptionally good looking, smelled like heaven, and had a way with words. All he’d say when he’d ring the bell to our house was “Chabi?” and I’d be weak kneed with shyness and infatuation. When I cycled past him in the evening, he’d smile, flashing those deep, gorgeous dimples and my heart would pound crazily and I’d do my best to hide my flushed cheeks. If he asked me a question, I’d stutter, or almost always never hear properly (who could hear over the boom-bitty-boom of my foolish heart?). But all the while, I’d be his biggest retractor. I’d gossip viciously about him, judge his every move and joke about his drunken escapades. The guy was unravelling, quite clearly in front of everyone’s eyes and we were all amused spectators. Everyone followed his every move, and proceeded to dismiss him...and of course, issued warnings to their kids – “Don’t become like him”. I smiled at him, with practised hypocrisy on days when I felt particularly confident, and he’d always smile back. Sometimes I’d even ask him something – trivial and unnecessary – and be completely drained by the effort at the end of it – but he’d always reply politely, graciously. I had converted him into some kind of demi-god inside my head, I knew that of course, and hated being such a hypocrite – but I had a feeling he knew anyway. He had no doubt, I’m sure, that this overweight, boy-girl, of all of fourteen was hopelessly in love with him. And he probably had a quiet chuckle about it.

I’m almost the same age as he was, now. I’m not exactly what you call a role model for younger kids. Sure, I’ve passed my school, college and have a master’s degree – but I live recklessly, stupidly and what do you know, I’m still overweight. I’ve achieved no great feats, and I’m sure if I were still living in that old neighbourhood of mine, I’d be gossiped about occasionally (God, we were a bored lot). I’ve met many guys like him since, and obviously, as you are wont to find out as you grow up, these so called “bad boys” are everywhere – unravelling, waiting for you to Florence Nightingale them at all their weakest moments. Also pathetically abundant are these shy fourteen year olds with whimsical attitudes and raging hormones, dying to “take care” of a bad boy.

The guy’s still on the same path. He still lives in the cloistered confines of our old neighbourhood. He got married, had a kid, got divorced, his family moved away and he bought a dog. He still rides a bike, still gets drunk, but unfortunately is not as good looking as he used to be. It’s his birthday today, and I remembered almost ten years ago, I dropped in a little chocolate éclair inside his letterbox anonymously as a birthday present. When I checked again later with tremendous trepidation, I found that the éclair wasn’t there. Either he picked it up, or threw it. I don’t know. But it wasn’t there. Which means, he found it. And I was so thrilled with that, that even today, I smile about it sometimes.

When I read Joyce’s “Araby”, I thought of him. And all the jazz about the quest for the Holy Grail, being in love with the idea of love etc, etc. I still look for him wherever I go. Forbidden fruit, dangerous love. Hehe. Happy Birthday Bad Boy. I never outgrew you, I think.

Discoveries

Here are some interesting discoveries vis-a-vis two oh oh nine.

Jerry Garcia.

I was introduced to Grateful Dead and CSNY in college thanks to Bertie (a kind of cult hero-English professor-singer-songwriter-musician from Cal). But I never followed it up much. But then, I started downloading stuff indiscriminately at work and stumbled upon a Garcia treasure trove. Oh wow. And wow.

Grey's Anatomy

I'm a Grey's newbie. I avoided it like the plague in college. Everyone was into Grey's - and I know how addicted I can get to T.V. series. So I didn't go the Grey way. But ever since I've shifted to this new city, life has taken a dark and sinister turn. Chungs' Chinese and Grey's Anatomy - addiction, addiction. I'm totally You-Tubing, Wiki-ing and gossip scavenging Grey's dirt. What can I say? It's become a part of life.

Lou Reed

I don't think you can call yourself a music lover if you haven't been initiated the Lou Reed way. I was a music virgin, yes. I begin my

Sunday mornings with Sunday Morning and follow it up with Perfect Day. Sweet.

Erik Satie's Gnossiennes No. 4

My dad had bought me this CD player back in the day and along with it a CD of some of the greatest classical piano pieces. And there was in it, a curious piece called Gymnopedie. Many years and google revolutions later, I stumbled upon Gnossiennes No. 4. It's so positively enchanting - yes, that's the word. Apparently it's called furniture music (google it - akin to elevator music), but what do I care? It takes me somewhere far, far away this piece. I love it.

Lady Gaga

Don't ask. It started with my room-mate's ringtone, and now I'm just, well, riding the disco stick.

Haruki Murakami

Again, a college hit, but never got down to reading it somehow. Then, quite accidentally, I came to possess "Kafka on the Shore", and so, it followed.

Surreal stuff.

Okay, I'm tired of formatting this now, so I'll do it some other time. Just a small mention of my newly discovered love for logos, Thomas Pynchon and Frederico Fellini.

Just

Unrequitted Love is Over-Rated

This probably belongs in my other, slightly hormonal blog - but I don't really care at the moment. It's a little self indulgent, but isn't the very concept of blogging that? Anyway, I can delete it later :)

Maudlin. Mawkish. That would be me. That would explain the sudden bursts of effusive love that I smother you with every once in a while. In my head. And the resultant is a phone call. A phone call that says nothing really, but I know why it was made.
In my head, I’d remember a simple evening. A solitary cigarette. A warm conversation. But when we had that conversation, it didn’t strike me as particularly remarkable. But then I recall it. I sniff around for a little magic. Like maybe, the colour of the sky at the time, and it becomes special, warm. I pretend that it meant something, and then, you hear your phone buzz.
Of course, over time, I have realised the superficiality of this strange love. It isn’t anything at all. It’s contrived and petty. But it’s my security blanket. And you never mention anything about taking it away. You almost, always answer the phone. And sometimes you promise to call back, but you never do. You play the part of the heartbreaking jerk to a tee. You become a type, even though we both know that, it’s a charade. It’s a little play we’ve rehearsed to perfection. And I get the blues, but they’re really not the blues, but a little play-act blues.
You know, when sometimes you lie awake at night, and happily pretend that, this is another life, and suddenly it snaps, and you get a horrid, uneasy feeling? Well, it happens to me a lot. And it becomes so horrible that, I tell myself, so what, pretending is easier, dreaming is easier, and it usually is.
Every once in a while, you speak in a language that is so clear and honest. And I hate that language. You behave like just about anybody. A vendor, a bus conductor, a businessman. I don’t like talking to you then. You’re too real. You’re not even being a jerk. You’re just being whoever you are – and that is just so, so alienating. It’s like a fascination just died softly and soundlessly in the recesses of my mind.
I don’t long for you really. I don’t long for anything, because there is nothing to long for. You and I will see that, stripped off all our mawkishness. All our desultory conversations will come to naught. Haven’t they already? Don’t we see that when a call means nothing, and all our talk loses its way to banality? When we repeat our dreams like parrots and synchronize our sighs and our futile attempts at ironic humour? We have nothing. We might as well be strangers with an inclination towards the fatal and the sentimental. Our warmth is artificial, our familiarity is a farce.
What does it feel like not to be special anymore? Not to be the only one who perches on all my thoughts and actions? To not have any effect, any influence, any say? All of a sudden, you’re nothing but a travesty - a little running joke. Your words, when analysed brutally, never meant anything. Either way, you wouldn’t have remembered what you had said. And that, is where it is easy to walk away from this dream gone wrong. It’s just my dream. It’s just my thoughts. It’s just my foolish little world, not yours.
I don’t hate you. I don’t love you either. You’re just somebody I’ve known who keeps doing these rabbit hat tricks, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing just as soon.
If ever you wanted the truth, this is it. This is the real story of the two of us.

I love album covers. Absolutely adore them. I collect them all the time. And then, I stumbled upon this goldmine. These are the absolute WORST album covers ever to be created. They are FASCINATING to the say the least. Pig out.

Sure, because of the added protection in crowded places, right?

For all the Butches and Spikes who secretly want to be Fidos and Frou Frous. And I do not even want to THINK what the creepy man is doing with the poor dog behind the armchair. Blrgh.

Yes. I am shitting on this grand blue armchair commode.

A lot of requests, I'm sure.

Really. Leave the animals out!

And again!

It's such a pretty bathroom though.

Queen, they are NOT.

We-hell purty mama, I'm here to make your Christmas a little older, sadder and paunchier. You up for it?

But this, wins, bones, I mean, hands down. Wow.

Collectors

I have an eclectic group of friends. They come in all shapes, sizes and personality types. There’s this one type, I’ve always had ambiguous feelings for. The collectors. They collect things. Like books, films, music, images, ads, fonts, comics, gadgets ,lingos– and not just any shit - rare things, classic stuff – things that scream out individuality and intellectual snobbery. And sometimes, I hate to admit it, I’ve been friends with them just so that I could get a taste of all this culture they hoard. Of course, there’s more to them (although not always), but I find meeting them exciting, enlightening mostly because they’re collectors. You know, so that I can collect their stuff and be a cool kid for someone else or something.
There’s always this competition thing that’s going on between the collectors. Who’s got more. And for how less. Or with how much effort. These are things that make you stand apart. They elevate you from being a mere trivia whore to Star Wars Geekitude. And that’s something to be respected.
So anyway, since I have a lot of time to bum about at work, I decided to spend my time constructively. I decided to collect ads and images , the coolest (although not the rarest as a collector friend recently pointed out) and the funniest. So, I’ve decided to share some (only the ads for now)– and in case you know what I’m talking about – you’ll definitely copy these into your sacred little image folder. Go on, indulge.

Now this I love. It says ‘Pluto we will miss you’ and ‘We’re for underdogs too’ (in case you couldn’t make out the copy). It kind of warms you with its maudlin wit, doesn’t it? What a perfect ad for Pedigree.

Cheeky, eh?

Every image has a sound. This one won some award or something. Woohoo! Bubblewrap rocks. So do typewriters.

Ah the wonder of wonderbra. There were just so many – but I guess this is one of the more popular ones along with the “I never read the Economist” one.

Indeed.

Now I really don’t give a shit whether you think Jim Morrison is over-rated or not. But this is yum and you better think so, alright?

Haha. It’s a Fender ad. Long live Keith Richards. How does he do it though?!

It’s a little dated, but cute.

Acceptance

There was little to do that day. There could have been a lot to do, if I were given the due respect of a professional. But I was just an indecisive kid. I was just whiling away my time, and they knew it.
I was in a new city. I had few options. I had friends who were at work, getting their due respect. I couldn’t possibly impose on them to keep me company. I could explore the city on my own, but I was too lazy to. And I hate that getting lost feeling. I need to know exactly where I’m going, how I’m going and all of that. I used to think I was adventurous, but I wasn’t really. I was often forced into adventure, but really, I prefer being in control.
I sat in a coffee shop. That’s what I did that morning, when I went to work and realised there’s no work. It’s happened before, these things. I’ve turned up at school, when there was no school, or at a party when there was no party and things like that. There was a slight possibility that we may not have had work that day, so I even asked my Boss if we did or not. But he didn’t reply to my text message, and neither did he pick up his phone. If only I was good looking.
Anyway, this coffee shop was not one of those quaint coffee shops where you meet the love of your life or anything. You know - he’d be sitting at the next table reading W.B. Yeats or something. No such luck. It was one of those purply chains, with uniform furniture, robotic service, pop music and lovey dovey couples. Who are these people, who hang out in coffee shops and malls at this hour? Don’t they have jobs/school/college whatever? Were they all in for a surprise this morning and realised they don’t have work? Could that really be? Who are these people?
Anyway, I called up my other Boss who did pick up her phone and told her I’d be going home and not be sticking around till two or whenever they decided to reopen work. A part of me wanted her to refund the 67 bucks I spent in getting here. I wish she would suggest it. But no. She seemed disappointed that I wasn’t sticking around in a place where there’s nothing to do, other than sitting around aimlessly in the sole purple coffee shop in that area, digging my nose and spending more money. No Ma’am, I wasn’t coming to work today. I’d mail her my work later on. And after a few moments of contemplation I strolled right into the coffee shop. I wished there’d be wi-fi, so that I could check my mail and all of that. Of course, I do mean Facebook. Anyway, so they did not have wi-fi, and I could just leave, go home, do my work from home, as promised and be constructive in general. But who was I kidding? I sat there, with my computer and typed random things, not to be outdone by this sour looking IT dude who sat in a table near mine and did the same thing. Only he wore a shirt and a tie and his laptop was not plum in colour. He looked professional. He looked as people who work should look. He didn’t look indecisive and stupid. He didn’t think the most important decision that he made in the day was choosing his underwear. He was probably making some pretty important decisions right now. Buy! Sell! Hold that share! Or things like that, which just seem like words to me. I saw him eat a muffin while I was pretending to type. His face softened a bit when he ate. He chomped unprofessionally. I liked that.
After a while I stopped staring, slyly or otherwise, because sooner or later, he’d notice. I looked out to see whether my bus passed this route or not at this time of the day. If it didn’t, I’d have to take another auto, which meant eighty bucks or so down the drain again. For a day of no work. And I’d probably have to go to a cyber cafe or something to mail in my work – which would also take some time to do. I was developing a story for a comic book – and I had no inclination to do it all of a sudden. It sounds interesting, but it’s really crap. It’s one of those comics they give out free or something with pizza. A marketing gimmick to get kids to buy more pizza, get fat and die young. A part of me really wanted to fuck up the assignment, so that we’d lose the account and I wouldn’t have blood on my hands. I think I can be a tad fatalistic at times.
I could see this shaggy dog outside the coffee shop that I could identify from the bus stop nearby. It sleeps a lot, and runs after noisy cars. I remember it particularly because it reminds me of a dog I once used to know, and because he walked over my feet (this one, not the old one). I mean, even dogs trample upon me, so forget my bosses. Life sucks sometimes.
It should have been a lousy day. I should have been feeling stupid and suckered. I should have been craving for an ego boost or something, but funnily, none of that. I was okay, really. My entire mediocre and wasted existence was not pressing against my super sensitive conscience for the time being. I think it was a step of sorts. Acceptance. I accept that life sucks, and I don’t have my dream job, I’m underworked, underpaid, I look like shit, no guy hits on me – not even the roadside romeos, and here I was, bored and alone at a coffee shop that was trying too hard, a sour looking IT man and a pair of bovine lovers being its only inhabitants. The milk in my first cappuccino was curdled, and I had to have it changed, so I’m pretty sure the guy who served me thought I was high maintenance (which I insist I’m not...I’d probably drink it anyway, but I was having a shitty day already, so I decided to speak up). I was polite about it, and I even smiled at him later when he said he didn’t have this morning’s newspaper. I just hoped he didn’t charge me for the curdled coffee. I don’t think I was in the mood to fight. I’d probably pay up to avoid a scene.
I suddenly wish I was vacationing somewhere. One of those long vacations – like those Europeans do it. A decadent, languorous holiday, with loads of time and loads of money. Where I don’t feel like I’m holding back people when I want to take photographs, and its okay to just sit somewhere and breathe for a while. I hate rushed holidays. I tend to forget about them too fast. Every once in a while, I gift myself something to feel that vacationy feeling. I’ll buy me a book, or flowers, or take an auto instead of a bus... I’ll buy me a chocolate chip muffin, a nice sweater. It’s okay dear, I say to myself, go on, enjoy yourself. And I do. I really do.
A friend called me up while I was still sitting at the coffee shop (by now, I had finished my coffee, and I really couldn’t afford anything more and was freeloading off the ambience – or whatever there was of it). So yes, she was thinking of applying for this cool new job, which paid more and was more exciting and was located in a city of dreams. She couldn’t make up her mind. But of course. It is difficult isn’t it?
But a part of me understands. Mediocrity is comfortable. It allows you to dream and desire more. If you are living a dream, it’s too much work really, and me, I’d rather see my life fritter away than go after what I really want. Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? It’s a part of that acceptance thing. You know when you wake up, look at the mirror, and think, shit, I’ll never be a child prodigy or marry Brad Pitt - things you truly believed in a few years ago.
I’d like to make a film some day. That’s my dream. Or a part of it. I’ve wanted to make a film since I was thirteen only my reasons for making it have changed. Okay, maybe not for an Oscar, but a Grand Prix at Cannes perhaps? Golden Globe? Damn it, a National Award at least! Sigh. I suppose not. Not entirely anyway. I just want that rush I got when I made my first corny little feature film in college. That love I felt for it during every step of the way – from writing to editing. All of it. The mad schedules, the silly mistakes, the truant actors, the aching shoulders – I want it all again. And no matter how many times I tell myself to obey, accept and be practical about the life ahead of me, I feel like its just lip service. I fool my practical self into really believing that I’ve fallen in line. But sometimes I’d like to sit me down and tell me – look, this is not it. This is not stability, this is not respect. This is being lazy. This is giving up. Accept that.
Maybe, I will someday. And I hope it’s not too late.

Two months and a week

2oth April - 27th June

The laptop speakers feebly warble out an Elliot Smith song. He whispers, drug addicted and suicidal, and the fan cuts across the wet, heavy air in a slow, hypnotic motion. The chat window flashes desperately. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” “R U der??????” Am I? No. Certainly not.
The shirt clings heavily to my body, slothful and fattened by a diet of refined flour, sugar, tandoori chicken and twelve hours of sleep. I lie under the fan, on my bed, on my back and contemplate a life elsewhere, on a bustling train, in cooler climes, in better health, with better luck. I wish for a life contrary to this. But the moment of angst passes quickly.
The phone lies next to me. No space for new messages. Because I refuse to delete the old ones. Even ones like – “I’ll be there in fifteen mins”. Eventually I must.

I pick up a book. I read a page. It’s good stuff. I read another. And then someone asks me if I need something. And then someone sweeps the floor. And then someone needs to use the bathroom in my room. And then there’s a doorbell that no-one will answer. I give up.

Under the blazing afternoon sun, I visit my favourite old tea shop. It’s ridiculously hot, but I drink tea and smoke a cigarette. The old chap still remembers me. “Purane dost bhi nahin aten” he says. “Kaam kar rahe hain sab” I say. Sab, but me. I am not working. I don’t exactly know why, because I did get a job. I had an interview and the man said, you’re with us. But I’m not so sure what it was really. One never knows with these things anymore. “Market kharaab hain”, is all they say. Mere liye toh hamesha hi tha, I think. I think in Hindi these days sometimes. It’s a new thing. I always thought in Bengali or English, rarely Hindi. But I do. I was initiated once I stepped out of this red state. “Tumi Bengali na non-Bengali?” Amar shaala identity crisis.

I sink into the decadent richness of an AC car. I have a chauffer driven car here. I don’t feel anything of the outside. I slip on my i-pod. I’m happy. I shoot a warning glance towards a beggar who raps my window at a signal. Go away, like really. Stop making me feel guilty while you cast me a practiced stare of devastation. Your life, really, really must be horrible. Whether that kid in your arms is yours or not. Whether you are making a complete ass of me or not. Your life has got to suck. I know. But please go away. I can’t make a difference, because I’m lazy, resigned and kind of cold.
The phone beeps. It’s another message. I deleted some earlier. Message memory almost full. “Hey aren’t you town? Let’s meet up!” Let’s not. Let’s not. But I can’t tell you that. Then you’ll think I’m too goddamn snobbish to meet an old friend. It’s not that. It really isn’t. I’m just not ready to face the world just yet. That’s all.


I watch an hour of mindless television at three in the morning. It’s a Bhojpuri film dubbed in Bengali. It’s the same story everyday, with different characters. The acting is so bad, so bad, that you wonder if it’s bad enough to achieve a cult status. The sets kill you, the costumes blind you, the wobbly bellies of the hero and heroine dancing around trees and having awkward sex, makes you want to reconsider eating all that food before you retired for the night. Yet, I keep watching, emotionlessly, credulously. These are members of our fraternity. Someone actually made this film. Fuck.

In the morning, I get a call from a guy I used to know since school. He became cool and popular from being geeky and hairy once upon a time. I’m generally proud of him. He’s a smug sonnofabitch though, and has too many opinions. But he’s cute. I’d never fuck him, but he’s cute. And engaging. I can talk to him. So I pick up the phone. And he does a little drama on the other end. Like he’s a pulling a rabbit out of the hat. He’s sorry that we couldn’t meet before. So, he says, this evening, would I come to a cool party with cool people who smoke cool weed and have cool jobs and are the last word of coolness in everything because you know, they’re so cool? Would I? Wouldn’t you rather come to my home, and I’ll cook you chicken and we’ll have some cold beer and talk about stuff? Er, I guess not. Sometimes I’m plain boring. But power to my friend who’s in truth quite intelligent and sensitive and affable. He’s not really trying to fit in anymore. He’s the one people are trying to fit into now. What a cool moment for a guy who used to get teased at school for having tits and long sideburns once upon a time. What a cool moment.

Later on, I feel like a smoke. But I don’t do much of that at home. I don’t really dig the thrill anymore. And anyway, I can live without a smoke. I’m not as hooked as I thought I was. I have this semi panic attack sometime later, where I feel like the world is rushing past me, and I can’t quite catch the bus. Everyone’s getting jobs, having sex, traveling places, getting famous and I’m sitting and watching Bhojpuri films dubbed in Bengali. I’m too goddamn lazy to call back my employer and I screw up another interview which would take me to Bombay (but that’s okay, because that man wasn’t really cream of the crop or anything). But the panic rises, and I take out the panic in the form of irritability on poor, unsuspecting home folk. NO, I do NOT care to put those clothes into my cupboard. Lunch is over-rated. I want a scooter. I won’t call the boss. I want to go to Himachal Pradesh. I won’t go to the bank. I won’t answer the door THIS time. I have nothing to do at home. Stop blackmailing me emotionally. Nobody loves me.

Well why the hell should they? I suck. I completely suck.

I want to dig a hole and hide in it and wait for this crumpled ball of confusion to pass.

And then I’m online taking Facebook quizzes. What sort of a kisser are you? A passionate one: You know exactly what to do and you do it oh so well…Where did you learn? Damn – you got me there. I see an endless barrage of nonsense and send random messages to random faces that pop up on my left hand side. Just. I could go to an interesting site and jumpstart my brain into some activity, but I don’t. I go through a mindless treasure trove of “Those were the best days of our lives”, “I miss you guyzzzz!” “We luk so friggin’ HOT in dis pic!” and some are even witty and fun. But like Bhojpuri-Bengali films, I leave them all be. Detachedly absorbing everything in.

Once in a while I meet a friend or two I genuinely like talking to online. We rant for a bit, and then drift off. Maybe, I watch a film. Or read a few pages. And then I’m back to sleeping. Nothing bothers me particularly, even as the world around me collapses slowly. I flick channels. I tune out voices. I skip the editorial. My heart doesn’t break, when I don’t get a call I’ve been expecting. I make up and break up and make up again with the folks at home. I read another page. I cook a little. I have a dream at night. I read through my old emails and sms-es. I feel idealistic. I feel hopeless. Then I feel neutral. I feel wise and then utterly idiotic.


Miss Misery… Do you miss me the way you say you do?